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.