Frustration!

GEEEEEEZ-LEWEEEZ!

I'm frustrated today. I'm such a poor techy! Mostly I can get along quite well using my computer. . .if I proceed carefully. But today I got careless. A box popped up in the middle of an email I was writing. It suggested I take advantage of a new Firefox update. . .blahBLAHblah.

Soooo! I DID! Then sent my email and shut down.

Of course, the result was that I lost all my quick-links. And the next time I tried to get to my email, I couldn't get to it by my old route. Worse than that, I wasn't immediately smart enough to get to my email at all. Talk about frustration! When you need them, there's nothing like KNOWLEDGE and PROBLEM-SOLVING SKILLS. And PATIENCE. The older I get, the more set in my ways I become, the less of these three qualities I seem to have.

Just as my blood-pressure passed through 500-over-100 my daughter walked into my office and saved my life. . .or at least my sanity. She simply entered a new bookmark for me. So I now have a new short-route into my email. . .IF I can remember it. I will, of course. But OF COURSE, I'll resent the need to break old habits and do something old in a new way. Imagine the difficulties I'm having thinking new thoughts and doing new things.

Stuff like this not only makes me crazy, it alerts me to a truth I have difficulty accepting: I'm aging rapidly. I'm getting progressively more rigid in my habits. Far worse than that, this rigidity is developing long tentacles into my thinking processes. It's bad enough I'm having increasing difficulty disciplining and maintaining my aging body. But I'm becoming increasingly aware that my mind is also getting lazy. It discourages me to realize I don't wanna think beyond the old and familiar parameters of my mind. I don't wanna recognize and solve problems. A serious handicap when one realizes I'm old and continuously aging.

All is NOT lost. I haven't quite given up yet. What frightens me is the thought that I may soon give up entertaining new things and new ways entirely.

On the other hand, this growing rigidity is good for a number of reasons. For instance, for most of my life I've disciplined my body in what I think are good ways. I exercise vigorously every day. I stretch, do yoga and strengthening exercises every day. I use a weight machine and a Total Body machine. I work hard, fighting the deterioration that naturally comes as age progresses. I press 50 pounds at least 100 times a day. I do a wide variety of upper and lower body strengthening exercises. I take long walks at least five days a week. These walks are vigorous. . .as long as two hours out, two hours back, but rarely less than an hour out, an hour back. I often carry a small guide-book on local flora, so I can study the plants around my home as I walk. Spring is an especially interesting season, because I enjoy watching plants develop as the season progresses.

I read less than I once did. Instead of a steady diet of interesting nonfiction, I've lately returned to reading poetry -- an old love related to my long-ago career as an English teacher. I've always loved reading and reciting poetry. To discipline my mind, I've formed the habit of committing to memory at least one poem every two weeks. It's a time-consuming pass-time, because my trove of poems has increased. I have to sit down several times a week and quietly perform recitations, lest my many poems slip away. At some point, I suppose I'll discover that as I master a new poem, an old one may slip away. But that hasn't happened yet.

I suppose the worst part of aging is this disciplined personal struggle to manage my life in creative ways. I fight to maintain my body and mind through various forms of discipline. The more I do this, the more time it takes, the more isolated I become. And while a disciplined life is worthwhile, it's difficult and challenging. And frankly, it's not nearly as much fun as the life I so much enjoyed during my younger years.

I loved my old young life. I adored my wife. Since her death nearly five years ago, I've had to find new reasons to go on living a life I find much less satisfying. Still, we only live once. We only age once. We have only this one time to confront the challenges that test us.

I miss loving someone special. I love my children and grandchildren. But that sort of loving is not entirely fulfilling. I loved my work. But that too is gone. I need some form of new work that represents new and exciting challenges. Truthfully, what I miss most of all is loving my wife. Loving Nancy as I did, was clearly the most fulfilling aspect of my long life. And while it's easy enough to say I should find another woman to love, women within my age range are either attached or dead. Or they prefer to remain unattached. . .at least unattached from me. Every once in a great while I see an unattached and attractive woman. But she apparently does not see me. Don't think I mean by attractive merely a good-looking woman. Women are attractive for a host of legitimate reasons.

Unattached, attractive women aside, I think I'M the problem. The truth is I need to find new ways to grow. We either grow or expire. Simple as that.

Last week I ran across and mastered a poem that speaks to this issue. This Charles Kingsley poem is entitled "Young and Old." And it goes something like this:

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among;
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.

The eight-line second verse troubles me. I don't like the advice. All the world is NOT old and aging. I am. If I've let things become stale, that's the first problem I have to solve. I should require of myself that I keep life fresh and new. My "wheels" may run down. But my mind is renewable. I'm determined I won't "creep" anywhere. I'm neither spent nor maimed. I can still stand tall. I grant the last two lines: with a little luck and some personal discipline I may still find a woman to love.

That's up to me!

Aging or not, I want more of what I've enjoyed.
Sadly or proudly: I may be too stubborn to settle for less.

Sometimes. . . .

It's been raining all week.

I lay awake this morning for about an hour watching the sky brighten through my eastern bedroom window. In my deep woods full of tall, sheltering trees, the water penetrates slowly in long series of single drops and alternating spatters.

The patterns are rhythmic. . .determined to lull me back to sleep in my darkened bedroom. I wake slowly, stretching and yawning, rolling repetitively from position to position, pressing into my pillow, hoping to fall back into exactly the posture that'll maybe coax my mind back to sleep.

But sleep eludes me. I halfway try, without much success, to order my mind and RE-plan my day. First I examine the sketchy and tentative plans I made last night:

1) Stretch, chins, 100 50# presses,
100 sit-ups, 100 one-legged knee
strengthening lifts, 100 dips

2) Total Body Machine sequence OR
Two-Hour Walk.

3) Pick-UP, dust, and run sweeper over
entire downstairs apartment.

4) Clean up, dress nicely, meet with
Volunteer Supervisor down at Bryan's House.

5) Read and answer email.

6) Run errands: groceries, bank. . . .

7) Write and post to blog.

I really don't intend to do all this stuff. Number ONE is misleading. I exercise and strengthen every day. But I do alternate muscle groups each day.

Number TWO I alternate every other day, and vary the walking-Time. On Monday I may walk one-hour OUT, one-hour BACK. Wednesday, maybe 90 minutes out and back. I do a four-hour walk at least once a week. Rain shortens the times. . .roads are slick, traffic more dangerous.

Number THREE is once, maybe twice a week, depending on how sloppy I've been. I make my bed and neaten the apartment every day. Maybe twice a week I dust and vacuum the the carpet, taking care not to turn my ankle on a large piece of debris.

I'm discouraged with Number Four. I should've long-since accomplished this chore. I fully know that developing a pattern of volunteerism will be good for me. It'll get me out of the house, provide opportunities to be helpful to others, cultivate my social skills. . .which I'm afraid will dwindle completely if I don't become more actively social. Still, I can't seem to bring myself to make the commitment. Since Nancy's death, some four-and-a-half years ago, I've become increasingly reclusive. I have lots of excuses: I find it difficult to generate and share my best self. I have this new and difficult emotional pattern by which I seem to identify with the emotional turmoil I encounter in others: they cry, I am apt to cry; they get stuck in a state of misery, I backslide into my own misery. This is hardly the sort of encouragement they need. Nor do I need to dredge up and relive my own misery.

So Number FOUR is difficult for me because it is the most crucial self-management problem I face. I need to begin managing my days more successfully, begin taking charge of my life and living it more usefully every day. I'm getting stronger. Very soon I'll face the responsibilities related to being helpful down at Bryan's House. I also have to begin volunteer activities down at Covenant Hospital. My daughter, Tara, reminds me several times a week. Soon.

I'm satisfied, then, that all these behavioral goals, except Number FOUR have become firmly developed patterns. FOUR is now the major focus of my energy. I need to get out and about more frequently. Indeed, writing emails and blog-postings may be ways I justify shutting myself in here at home. I know full-well I need to focus my creative energy upon seeing my friends more often, perhaps encountering new people, and increasing my friendship circle. I need to be more like my old gregarious self, be more interested in people. Retirement was NOT the best thing for me: I need to re-establish my old work patterns.

It's true: I loved my old life. I worshiped my wife. I loved my work as a university professor. I studied and learned every day. Prepared new teaching materials every week. I enjoyed meeting and discussing educational concepts and problems with my graduate students. Visiting schools was great fun. Every day was a small adventure that began and ended with loving my wife.

She and I were such great friends. But Gibran was right in his poem On Friendship when he said: ". . .put spaces in your togetherness." We were both teachers. Nancy loved her own work. I loved mine. We helped each other. But we respected each other's skills and artistry, and didn't try to run each-other's work lives. One's own work is a really significant possession. . .as much a source of good health and growth as is a rich friendship. Nancy and I took care to keep our work and friendship in balance. I need to re-establish that balance. Soon.

All this brings me finally to the title of this posting:

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
A long, long way from home. . . .

I'm not whining. Truly I'm not.

But the simple fact is that I grew up without a mother in my household. My Mom was wonderful. But she worked long days at an important job in the steel mills of Gary, Indiana. She commuted by bus an hour each way. As a consequence, she was often gone ten or twelve hours a day. My teachers and neighbors kept an eye on me. But that's not the same as having a close relationship with a loving mother.

Nancy and I had no children. In many ways, she mothered me. She cared deeply about me -- as I did about her. We listened carefully to each other, regarded each other with great admiration and warm affection. Our days and nights were prolonged discussions about the many interests we shared. We held and acted upon the same values. In many ways, she shared her teenage students and dance-squad members with me. I was a professor of educational leadership. Because of Nancy's generosity, I was able to work among real-live, growing students. Because Nancy permitted me access in several simple ways to her students, I was perhaps the only college professor I knew who actually worked several days a week with high school students.

I think that made me a better informed and more realistic professor than some of my colleagues. How can a professor actively teach about classroom and school leadership, if he is not himself involved with students?

I'm retired now. In many ways, the loss of my work is as troublesome to me as the loss of my very best friend.

But Nancy was more than a best friend and a loving wife to me. In many ways, she was my teacher. She was generous about sharing her teaching settings with me. In so many ways she kept my mind open to new learnings. She made it possible for me to grow as a teacher and as a person.

Now that Nancy's gone I often feel lost.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

Giovanni's Pompey

I've been dying to write a posting about our Gang-of-Nine and our two-hour trip through antique Pompey.

Besides the great weather and the myriad things we learned about life in early Pompey, TWO other things added special excitement to the trip:

Our Guide was stupendous!
He reminded me that I had visited
Pompey as an excited fourth-grader.

I think his name was Giovanni. . .something like that. That I can't remember his name precisely drives me crazy. Makes me feel unappreciative, when of ALL things, I appreciated him immensely. I'm guessing he may have been late-forties/early fifties. His appearance was striking: not quite six feet tall, slender and energetic, he presented himself simply dressed in soft denim trousers, a trim sport-jacket, and a blue oxford-cloth shirt. Black socks. His shoes were shined. Imagine: a sport-jacket with leather patches on the elbows. How American-Professorial-Chic, is that? Giovanni was an especially wonderful guide.

Indeed, Giovanni looked like a polished American college professor. He spoke perfect English. He was superbly knowledgeable and smoothly literate. I give him extra points for the many times he drew attention to and explained unique features of family homes in Pompey -- beginning his explanations with English words drawn from Latin core words. Astonishing language proficiency. Amo, Amas, Amat. . .I fell instantly in love with him. . .well, in LIKE with him at least.

He won my confidence almost immediately. I had been a Latin scholar in college. I had taught English for about seven years at the beginning of my life as an educator. How could he have known that I had taught my English students vocabulary beginning precisely as he did (in Pompey), with Latin words at the core of the English words I was teaching? Imagine: it was just my good luck to encounter a "word-nut" on my first visit to Pompey.

He had all the characteristics of a wonderful teacher: superb mastery of his subject matter, wonderful fluency with English. And not the least, he seemed to delight in us -- his students -- as well. He approached us with great warmth and interest. As he told us in the beginning, the tour was designed to show us all the relevant aspects of Pompey: how the people lived. How they died. What their homes teach us about their particular style of living. How they died in one belching pyroclastic blast that rolled down the sides of Vesuvius and overwhelmed them. How they were buried under a torrent of falling ash. How they have been brought back to seeming life.

One of the most interesting -- if ghoulish -- aspects of the tour was the display of three victims of the Vesuvius eruptions: a pregnant woman, a tall man, and a spraddle-legged dog. Constantine gave us a detailed explanation of how these victims were found and "resurrected" from their entombment. When a "death-mound" was discovered, workers made a small entry near the top of the mound, and plaster was injected. When the plaster solidified, the "victim" was dug from its mound, just as if it had been a carefully manufactured casting. I had to wonder, though, if the skeletal remains were caught up inside the casting, and remained there pointing every which way. Perhaps. The bones weren't visible, though. Hmmmmnnnn!?

The second aspect I experienced while at Pompey was strangest of all. As a fourth-grader, my teacher was well-married and wealthy. Her retired husband traveled with her all over the United States and the larger world during her summer vacations. "Missus Hershman" and her husband brought back from their travels a huge array of authentic artifacts from countless places. These artifacts became the basis of many fascinating lessons about other cultures.

You wanna see and handle very carefully an ancient Hopi water-jug? Or perhaps an exquisitely woven Navajo wheat-basket? How about a rock allegedly carried away from the plain on which stands the Stonehenge? Never mind: Missus Hershman enriched her lessons with myriad personal snapshots and other authentic items gathered from scores of archeological sites. Even as a widely-UNtraveled fourth-grader, I had to wonder how Missus Hershman and her husband escaped prosecution and incarceration. How had they "collected" these items, and at what cost? I have to imagine that in that simpler time, they were able to buy and pay for many of MissusH's trove of teaching artifacts.

Here was a woman who literally "stole" her students' interest and made history live.

Her lessons on early Rome and Pompey were like countless others she assembled on our National Parks and other sites of historical interest across Europe and America. You may believe it or not, but her lesson on Pompey, its gorgeous mosaics, its authentic living quarters, its footpaths and byways -- all this led to my studying Latin for four years in high school, and four more years in college. Never underestimate the power of a teacher. . .especially one who has become herself a deeply committed learner.

ANYWAY: Giovianni was a riveting teacher, and while he did not fully realize it, he had Missus Hershman and her devoted student, Robby, along with him as well.

Visit Pompey someday. Be lucky enough to have Giovanni as your guide.

He'll absolutely fascinate you.

He'll bring Pompeians back to life for you.

nota bene: Our guide's name was Giovanni. I woke up a few moments ago (after midnight) remembering a fragment of conversation between our Donna and our Master-Tour-Guide, John. Referring to our Pompey trip, the day before, I over-heard her say: "Oh! We loved Giovanni!" And when he looked up and caught my eye, I nodded in agreement. I suppose the conversation was nothing more than John's wanting to catch the spirit of our group's approval of our Pompey trip. I said no more, because Donna's comment fully expressed my approval of Giovanni's superb guidesmanship. I've corrected the title of this piece, corrected his name wherever it appears in the posting, and added this note -- but nothing more.

UNpacking!

OKAY!

I'm back. Had a great time. But jet-lag got me. All last week I fell asleep every time I sat down. Still, because this trip was probably the most challenging and the most fun thing I've done in the past seven years or so, I'd like to tell you some things about it.

The trip surprised me. Aging may have mellowed me some: I'm getting used-to planes hung-up on the ground, when I'm on the way to places I know I'll have fun. I'm surprised: after all these years, I've become patient. Go figger!?

Another wonderful surprise was that I really liked the eight others I joined for the trip. They were old friends of the (really) old friend who invited me to go along with them. In many ways the trip took me back in time. My friend, John, goes way back. In fact, we played high-school football together during that early period of the game when the ball was fat-around and we wore no face masks. (Which may explain my face, by the way!?)

But my major point here is that while we visited a host of interesting places near and around Naples and the Amalfi Coast, the really wonderful thing about the trip was the fun I had with these new acquaintances I met through John.

I'd like to tell you about these eight very special people.

Our group was made up of two married couples, John and his daughter, Jerri, two lovely young women, and lovely me.

The married couples were connected to John from way back. At the time they met, John was the football coach and Athletic Director in Munster (Indiana) where they were attending high school. They still call him "Coach." I'm guessing these folks are in their mid-fifties. They're all warm and interesting. And very successful.

I've never before spent much time with successful men of this sort. Bob is a vigorous political fund-raiser for the present governor of Indiana. He is currently working in the governor's office in Indianapolis, and his wife Mel is not only lovely and sweet; she's a world-champion shopper. We all had fun admiring her. . .and teasing her. Glen lives an esoteric and challenging life in "investments." he's the CEO of a successful "investment firm." I think that means he brings together wealthy investors and successful investment opportunities. His wife, Donna, is petite and charming and winning. I think she would've been chosen every time -- on any university campus -- the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi. I mean this in the most flattering and positive way.

It was fun for me to listen to John, Glen, and Bob talk about university and professional sports. They appear to be informed about every well-known coach, his record of wins and losses wherever he has coached, his personal and professional reputation, and where he is likely to move in the near future. Plus they know about fine players. I'm a retired university professor, and what I MAY know is of little interest outside my profession. (I'll spare you at this point several paragraphs on the current best-selling books on school leadership . . .unless you insist, that is.)

So it was fun for me to sit quietly and pick up the sort of information this unique sort of conversation offers. I just let their "man-talk" wash over me and tried to learn what's going on in Big Ten and professional sports these days.

And as you may guess, these men are all (dastardly) Republicans. I was the alleged "liberal" in the group. They teased me some in a warm and good-natured way. But just enough to keep me in my place. In fact, I have to say that I may be more disappointed by the current administration than are they. And for some of the same reasons. In any case, I am not the sort of person who makes my political views central in any conversation. I'm aging and much more an independent in my political views. In any case, such conversations run the risk of offending people. I try not to be rude and boring. So I really enjoyed being with these so-called "conservatives." I would be remiss if I did not say truthfully that these two couples were the most generous and likable people I've met in a very long time. Really nice people!

John is the same as he always was when we were growing up together: quiet, steady, and protective. . .well organized and prepared to lead us all through exciting days in and around Naples, Pompey, and the Amalfi Coast in general. His daughter, Jerri, is exactly the sort of attractive and delightful person who may decide to take over when John decides to stop leading tours for his friends.

Joan is a Bank Examiner attached to the Federal Reserve in Chicago. She is so nice. Even though I would've been interested to know something about the processes by which her team "examined" banks during the banking difficulties of the recent past, she really couldn't share much about her work. Still, she is a bright and attractive woman, probably in her late-forties. A really nice person and a skillful travel companion.

Elaine was once a flight attendant. By now mid-fifties, she's a really striking woman. She's now a retired realtor. And she must've been successful. . .because she is still an engagingly warm and stimulating companion. She was bright, interesting and politely interested in any person with whom she fell into step as we traveled about. She's the sort of delightful companion any man would like to see more often.

In short: when people ask me what was the best thing about the trip, I have to answer honestly: the small group of people I traveled with was by far the best aspect of the trip.

And this is true despite the fact that we spent wonderful times hiking the gorgeous Amalfi coast, where we found countless fine restaurants, engaging hosts, and wonderful places to shop.

The weather was especially nice: warm and comfortable. . .perfect jeans and light-sweater weather. John kept us moving. Our driver, Stefano, was cordial and informed. Our Pompey guide was eloquent, dapper, and engaging. . .the sort of enlightened and cordial person who often introduced his presentations with Latin source words. And all of these helpful people spoke English as if they had lived among us in America for years.

Our hotel accommodations in and around Naples were fine. . .as were those on the Isle of Capri. Our buffet breakfasts were sumptuous. Restaurants were especially fine. I gained about ten unwanted pounds. . .about a pound a day. Not enough to split my levis. . .but enough for daughter-Tara to greet me at the airport and immediately poke her finger accusingly into my expanded waistline. This past two weeks she hasn't starved me. But I've lost a pound a day since I came home. . .a pound or three more than I gained while away. Tara hasn't changed my diet yet, either.

I gained this weight, even though John's daily itinerary kept us hopping all day, every day. My aging artificial knee served me well for a day or two, but I soon found it functioned much better when I wrapped it securely with the four-inch wraps I brought along -- just in case. Twice we marched down what were billed as "thousand-step" granite stairways on the Amalfi Coast. The first stairway taught me it was time to wrap my knee. The second stairway taught me to wrap my knee -- and lose about ten pounds.

Tara is paring me down. She sees ahead into this summer when I have planned a serious surgery to replace my existing artificial knee. This initial replacement has served me well for more than a decade. But I've worn it out with daily hikes and bike-rides during each of a dozen or so springs, summers, and falls since I had it done. The new one is a much-improved version of the old. Still, extra weight will not do me any good during my recovery stage, or on into the future. It's likely that this new knee will serve me well the rest of my life, IF I don't overload it.

People have asked me "what was the outstanding place you visited. Hard to determine, because everything we saw and did was so much fun. But I think it may have been the long hike down to Amalfi along granite walkways and stairs to the coast. The overlooks were striking, the weather beautiful, the walkways and stairs gradual. In this mountainous region, the overlooks into the valleys provide striking views of clustered white houses. . .reinforced concrete, squarish homes with orange tile roofs. The customary walkways and lane-and-a-half roads are laden with hair-pin switch-backs which provide very little protection from passing cars.

On this one special long hike down into Amalfi and Sorrento, the overlooks were spectacular. The deep valley full of square houses gave way to a wonderful view of the Bay of Naples. Once down, we found wonderful shopping in modern, rich-looking, glass-fronted stores sprinkled along narrow cobble-stoned walkways winding in and out. These shopping by-ways frequently opened into large piazzas -- small park-like openings like those I found a year ago in Rome. Here we found more inviting stores and shopping stalls, and nearly always a huge church above a long-wide stairway, with throngs of weary tourists seated tightly on the steps.

As the days passed, I found gifts for Tara and Jon, young Taylor and Konner. I found hooded sweatshirts and shirts (emblazoned with the word "Capri" for all four of them). And in one of the scores of ceramic shops I found a wonderful, large "strawberry" display plate for Tara. For the boys I found beautifully embossed breakfast sets -- plates, bowls, milk pitchers. Through the "miracle of UPS" these arrived yesterday completely unharmed. I found a second oil and vinegar set the boys can present to their mother, too. Our daily salads will be much healthier because of Amalfi Ceramics, Inc. And a bit more stylish.

The very best thing about the trip. Not sure. But I DO know the funniest thing. During our hike down to Amalfi we encountered a wonderful sequence of small rest-areas provided for the weary. In one there was a wonderful life-size bronze statue of a gorgeous nude, sitting boy. . .some god, but I can't remember which one. But the commentary presented noted that a touch on his hand was warranted to grant good luck. The poor guy had been vandalized. One arm was torn off above the elbow. But that somehow made him more antique, more lovely. That he had brought luck to many tourists was indicated by the fact that his hand, his nose and forehead had been touched so frequently that golden bronze shown brightly in the sunlight. However, his private parts also shown brightly.

Well. . .you sit around nude in a public place, you are likely to encounter friendly tourists.

Italy is, after all,
The Land of Lovers.

Packing!

Oh YES! Here I go again.

This coming Tuesday I'm flying to Italy for about ten days. The Amalfi Coast, Naples, the Isle of Capri. If that sounds like fun, then you never observed my struggle with a suitcase. It's not the suitcase that daunts me. It's all the other insoluble problems related to packing. . .

For instance:

What's the weather gonna be like?
How many changes of stuff will I need?
Do I take levis, khakis, or corduroys?
Something more formal, too?
Will it rain constantly?
Will it be chilly and dark?
Sunny, warm, and sweaty?
Will we be marathon-walking?
Is it possible to stay downwind of fellow travelers?
Howcum I thought this trip might be fun?

The list goes on! Never mind that I go through this crazy cycle every time I take a trip longer than one day away. I hate the approaching flight as if it were Doomsday. Then, soon as I board the first plane I'm all excited, filled with the anticipation of new places, new people, new fun. I know I'm crazy. But knowing that doesn't seem to help me with packing.

So! Today I began my NEW APPROACH to travel. I laid out an ensemble for each day. . .the stuff I'll wear on the plane. The stuff I'll wear for each day's adventure. The stuff I'll wear to supper and into the night. The stuff I'll wear on the flight homeward. A simple, orderly process for once!

I actually laid the stuff neatly out on my bed and went over it carefully. Only when I was completely satisfied with the layout, did I realize that not even half that much stuff will fit into a sensible suitcase. It was at this point that I remembered the last time I went to Europe: I never wore half the stuff I took anyway.

Ahhhh! But which HALF goes with me? Which stays home? Imponderable!

At this point in the packing-planning-process I take some small comfort from the realization that, at best, most European travelers get a little stinky by the end of the first week. Maybe a bit earlier. In fact, I've noted that most Europeans I've gotten shoved too close to are a little gamy themselves. Maybe all the time! (No wonder the United Nations doesn't run smoothly)

In their favor, I've noted that many Europeans don't seem to mind a little BO now and then. It's the Americans I've crowded up too close to that seem so fastidious. It's they who wrinkle their noses. (I wrinkle mine right back at them!) A little manly cologne could help. . .although the cologne bottle must be added to the items already cut in half.

Only one time did I find a quick solution to packing for a European trip. My flight left early one Sunday morning. I'd had a really busy Saturday. Half my stuff was still at the cleaners, because I had forgotten to pick it up before early closing time. That trip I wound up with more toilet articles than articles of clothing.

And to my surprise I didn't miss the stuff I couldn't take. All the way across the Atlantic I kept telling myself stuff like: "Never mind. You can buy any stuff you need." But it developed as the days sped by that I did quite well with about a quarter of the clothing articles I had planned to take with me. I'm a skinny, non-perspiring sorta guy. In fact, planning my packing is one of the few things that makes me sweat.

On that half-a-suitcase trip, I had plenty of clean underwear and socks, for instance. And SOAP! And shaving gear! All I had to do was let food-spills dry over-night and whack the particles off the front side of my clothing in the morning. I finessed that trip like a seasoned traveler.

Perhaps too seasoned. But one of the virtues of BO is that few people can smell their own.

It was my most comfortable trip ever.
Nobody crowded around me that much!

Groundhog Day and Other Stuff

Okay! Who knows the line of poetry that follows the one below?

"In the spring, a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove. . . ."

WHAT!? Nobody knows? Here we see another failure of the American school system. Both the public and private schools have disappointed us again. But for now, I'll set aside the wailing and finger-pointing, and proceed with my comments on Groundhog Day. (I'm already more than a month late with this posting!)

But first: here's the complete couplet:

"In the spring, a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove;
In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. . . .

There, SEE: You knew the answer all along. Or maybe you didn't. . .but no matter! The lines are from Alfred Lord Tennyson's Lockley Hall, a long and woefully wailing set of couplets dedicated to the various delights of Love, found, lost, and imagined. Very Victorian. But then, so was Tennyson. A British Poet Laureate, no less. He lived and wrote his verse in mid-and late-19th Century England.

As a high-school boy in Senior English, I was forced to read a bunch of critical commentary about Lord Tennyson. I also waded through seemingly endless pages of his cloyingly sweet poetry. I confess: my suffering was so acute I thought the poetry must be good.

But when I read American critiques of his work, I discovered that American poets of his time made fun of him, claimed his stuff was silly and sentimental, ridiculously ornate, and bombastically patriotic. Which is honestly what I had thought. But then, as a high-school boy, I thought that was what poetry was supposed to be.

Never mind: the English monarchy, the English public, and the English military of that day liked being simultaneously bored and praised.

And Tennyson was good at that. He was at his best-worst -- from an American high-school boy's point of view -- in his "Charge of the Light Brigade," wherein he chronicled the supposed feat of a bunch of 600 nutty British cavalrymen, who followed idiotic orders and rode into three sets of cannons during the Crimean War. THREE SETS OF CANNONS, left, right, and center. He had all the horsemen bravely blown to bits. Very Romantically Victorian. But upon further research, I discovered that only a small percentage actually suffered wounds and/or died -- a finding even more spectacular than their crazy charge. Apparently the Russian cannoneers were even more inept than were the British cavalrymen.

A little something Tennyson never mentioned in the poem? The spirited gallop was hell on the horses. But I digress.

I really wanted to talk about Groundhog Day and Punxutawney Phil, Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell, and how early springtime drives young men a little crazy where women are concerned. (And maybe I will manage to tie this wandering piece together at the end.)

First, about Groundhog Day. The whole thing's a delightful hoax. The idea is built upon the fantasy that IF Punxutawney Phil -- the celebrated Groundhog -- emerges from his burrow and sees his shadow, then we are all doomed to six more weeks of grim-winter. Never mind that if you count off the weeks on any calendar you will discover that six weeks and a couple days expire between Groundhog Day and the first day of spring, anyway. Never mind! Punxutawney Phil is like the rest of us. He must have work to do.

BUT! Go ahead, I dare you. Betcha big-bucks. Count the weeks between February 2nd and March 21st. Then send me your money. Or don't. Because the truth is those of us who winter across the band of states including New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and points west are pretty sick of winter by the time the second day of February rolls around. By that time, an unseemly and maddening mixture of warm days and hard freezes have pretty much converted the snow to a crumbly-black slush. Skating-pond-ice has become untrustworthy. Road conditions have become treacherous. And we all have begun to feel a little bit crazy and closed-into our homes. A person can ski, toboggan, snow-shoe, snow-machine, and snowball-fight only so long. Exceed the limit and madness inevitably follows.

By the end of January, snow angeling seems much less angelic. Sidewalks have become dangerous. Snow-shovels and blowers have lost their tenuous appeal. We've grown seriously tired of hauling-on boots and heavy outdoor clothing. The season gets us beaten-down so badly that ridiculous pass-times like ice-fishing become ever-so-slightly appealing. And anyone who acts all robust and winter-loving strains our patience.

And YES! By February, most of us are counting the days 'til the vernal equinox. We doubt we can make it through six more weeks of lousy weather. But we have little choice when gainful work holds us close to home.

Beer-sale-figures escalate precipitously. But even utter drunkenness falls short as a solution. What we need is some sort of spiritual celebration. The sillier the better. Punxutawney Phil may be ugly and ungainly. But that's his major appeal. You just can't look at him without laughing. Whoever came up with Groundhog Day was a genius. In fact, he might be the same guy who came up with beer!

Which completes my discussion of Groundhog Day, the celebration.

Here begins my discussion of Groundhog Day, the film: starring Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell. I would say it's an unlikely love-story. Andie's so gorgeous. Bill's. . .not. Still, he brings an irresistible charm and understated humor to most of the roles he plays. He's bright and appealing. Sometimes he's outrageously funny. In G-Day, poor Bill is doomed to live the same day over and over until he figures out how to win the love of Andie MacDowell. Or maybe more important: he has to relive each SAME-DAY until he learns to make his every-day worthwhile. Herein -- despite the zaniness of the story -- lies the really serious message of the film.

While all his Groundhog Days appear largely the same, we watch Murray master the problems of this same day. He gets better at his life: makes friends, saves a life, masters jazz piano, makes new friends and becomes central in their lives, encounters and solves small problems, and finally wins the lovely Andie MacDowell.

Despite it's fun, the film always makes me wish I could GET-BETTER -- more skillful and artistic -- at living my own life, one day at a time. Of course, that's the moral of this subtly simple story. Life is short! Make something really generous and good out of your days. Live each day as well as you can.

A good message for me. I'm at that advanced age where I remember the good and easy days of my life. The days when, though I paid attention and worked hard, I had things all my own way -- and knew it. I was seriously good at my life. . .the Master of My Days. These were the glory days: when my wife and I loved each other more every day. When we renovated our river home and made it beautiful. When we cultivated a gorgeous expanse of perennial garden. When we made our days caring-about and teaching students. When we made every day beautiful together. When we each were something very special to each other. The days when we were lovely and loving. When we made love every night.

Nancy's gone. But I remember Nancy-Time with such sweet satisfaction these days. . .because we lived it so artistically and well.

And that, I suppose, is the reason these endless POST-Nancy-Time, dark and wintry days seem so empty and loveless by comparison. They're much like those early and loveless days of the film Groundhog Day: fun sometimes. But mostly gritty, arduous, and unpromising.

And that makes me think of Bill Murray's character in Groundhog Day. How he eventually took advantage of each new-OLD-Groundhog Day and made it worthwhile: learning stuff, improving himself, making friends of the people he encountered, building caring relationships, making something better of his life. And he did it one-same-Old-Groundhog Day-at-a-time.

And that's the message and promise of Groundhog Day. The film and the celebration carry the same challenging and uplifting message. A new spring's coming. That demands more creative energy. That demands trying harder. Never mind mastering our days. In fact, that means we must master ourselves. Only then do our days get better.

For each of us, the struggle to grow, to become a more loving and generous person never ends. Tennyson almost got it right -- for each of us. It's not just a young man's fancy that in springtime

"lightly turns to thoughts of love."
An OLD man's fancy does too.

Nobody Gets Too Much Love Any More

The words that follow and complete the opening line of that old Bee Gee song tell us: "it's high as a mountain, and harder to climb."

Certainly true in my current life. But don't think I'm whining. Few people've had the life I've had: prolonged good health, a fine career, extreme "comfort" -- if not great wealth. . .and the love of a wonderful woman I worshiped for most of forty years. Not bad! I'll take it. . .and slide off grinning like a bandit! At least most of the time.

During the final phases of her life, my sainted Gramma used-to confess her age with a pesky grin and add the word "young." As in "79-years-YOUNG!" She never complained about her longevity. She never whined about her cranky joints and often-dyspepsic-stomach. . .or about the growing length of time it took her to complete her daily chores. She stayed busy, often humming a Methodist hymn. And in the final phases of her life, she maintained a sort of smiling grace I took for granted. I'm a little bit wiser now. I now know it's true that she meant her life to be an example for me and the others she loved.

She died in the seventh month of her eightieth year. And until lately, I never quite understood the depth of her creative energy and fortitude. She was one tough and caring lady.

I'm thinking about her today because last night I watched a movie that both broke my heart and lifted me.

I'm not a movie critic. I just know what I like. And what I like is often something that reflects my own life, the way I've tried to live it. . .the good luck I've enjoyed and the joyful love I've experienced.

I say at the outset that Hollywood gangs-up on the unwary. The people we meet in films are gorgeous. Their struggles are touching. Things nearly always work out just as we wish our own struggles to work out: happily ever after. Ahhhhh, those brave and rewarding sunsets.


So! The film we watched was "Love and Other Drugs." Ann Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhall -- or however he spells it. If you haven't watched that film, I recommend it. But then, depending upon your own life and dreams, you may not like the film at all. It's about a handsome young guy who wins-big selling pharmaceuticals. He meets and falls in love with a young woman struggling in the early stages of Parkinson's Disease. He has no idea what he's in for in the beginning. He simply thinks he's won a prize. I think he has, too.

As the Hathaway character advances through the stages of her disease, she drives him out of her life. All the reasons for this aren't clear. Perhaps a really good relationship is frightening because the challenges are so great and the stakes so high. And the pay-offs so great. Perhaps there are moments -- moments we hide -- when we fear we can only go on together when we are at our very best. And we doubt we have the discipline to live the good and the testing times with grace. Perhaps such marriages last because we learn over time how to imagine we actually deserve the wonderful days we experience. And perhaps we actually DO grow into the strength such good marriages demand. Maybe we really do try hard, learn and grow. That's surely something good to hope for and work hard to achieve. After all, all of life is learning.

So I have to imagine that Hathaway drives Jake out because she doubts her capacity to face her death with dignity. She doesn't want him to see the weaknesses she fears he will come to see in her. But Jake has his own doubts. . .about his own strengths. There is a brief scene in which Jake meets a grief-stricken survivor of a Parkinson marriage. And this grieving husband assures Jake that as much as he had loved his wife, or perhaps because he loved her so much: he is not certain he could, or would make the same choice again. Perhaps he would have left her to die alone. At one point, he opines, that leaving her seems to be exactly what she would have preferred.

In some brief, yet key scenes, we see the progress of Hathaway' disease, and how it ravages her. She struggles to open safety-top pill bottles, for instance. Still, when she finally drives Jake out, he regretfully leaves. Yet, we see that mixed-in with his apparent heartbreak and regret is considerable relief -- and the whole sprinkled with guilt. Jake's young and inexperienced. He permits her to drive him away. And, as we elderly know full-well, our unfinished business remains tucked within us, no matter how far we may choose to run. Better to face life head-on while we have youthful strength and energy and perhaps a powerful will borne of ignorance.

Never mind how the film ends, except to say it ends at a triumphant point. Nevertheless, I identified strongly with the characters and the situation. More important, I realized from my own experience what sorts of terrible things would surely follow that triumphant point. The film both terrified and lifted me. . .moved me to emotional turmoil and tears.

Nearly four years ago, my wife died of breast cancer that finally moved to her liver. Nancy was a health educator who took good care of herself. She was brilliant and skilled, clever and funny, strong and brick-house built. A green-eyed-ravishing blond beauty with great teeth, she smiled when she drove a tennis ball down my throat. The three years of her terrible dying, and the four since her death have tested me over and over again.

This ordeal came to Nancy and me when we were twice the ages of the characters in this movie. We'd been married thirty-seven wonderful years during which I never loved her less. . .I always loved her more. Every day. Never mind why. You would have to have known Nancy to understand. She was truly that good.

So now I'm an aging widower -- now closer to eighty than seventy. Just before she died, Nancy earnestly said to me: "Find a woman you can love who loves you. Be happy" Not knowing how to respond, I promised to do as she wished.

Need I say I have since discovered two things: first, all the good women within my age-range are firmly attached and deserve to be. And second: it appears that whatever I once was, whatever it was that drew Nancy to me and held her is long gone. I say this with good humor. In 1960, I saw the film "Gigi." Early in the film, the gracefully aging Maurice Chevalier sings a delightful song entitled "I'm Glad I'm Not Young Anymore!" Trust me; fifty years later I have come to understand the song quite well. Enough to say with good grace and humor that I've been loved long and well. If necessary, I feel quite able to finish-up the final phases of my life alone.

"Sorry, Nancy! My love stays with you!"

I have my memories and a few more good things to accomplish. . .not to mention my kids and grandkids. I hope to live long enough to find out what good things may happen in their lives. . .and how I might yet have a hand in their good fortune.

Years ago I heard it said: "The older a man gets, the faster he ran as a boy!" Yet, the greater part of grace is seeing oneself clearly. The few fine, unattached ladies I've seen have not seen me. Or if they have seen me, they felt no need to express interest. Never mind: I prefer to think of them as victims of their own good judgment!

Still, regarding my present Joy and Sorrow, I point to the wise words of Kahlil Gibran, who in his poem by that name so wisely said: "The deeper that sorrow carves into your being , the more joy you can contain." And further on he assures us: "When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

Wise man, this Gibran.

The Bee Gees got it right. Perhaps, it's true that "nobody gets too much love anymore." But then I've been uncommonly lucky. More than half my life, I've been well loved.

Still, I have to laugh. Incurable Romantic that I remain, I have moments when I imagine that any minute now, some gracefully-grown-old Ann Hathaway is waiting for me right around the next corner.

Pardon me, please!
I'm in a hurry just now!