GROWING OLD WITHOUT GRACE
Life is like a cactus - beautiful and prickly
Saturday, May 16, 2020
PANDEMIC POTPOURRI
It occurs to me that as I age I begin to live more and more in the mind and less and less in the physical activities that have been a huge part of my life in the past. So it comes up for me to realize that if I find that I am bored (and I am finding this more and more these days) the antidote just might be activity. Any activity. Don't think too long about what to do, just do something. It's the motion that counts.
One of my favorite activities is cooking, which leads, of course to eating. But it's the cooking that excites me most - the actual pots and pans projects around the stove. If you're reading between the lines, you are realizing that though cooking is such fun and at some level necessary, it can be devastating to one's waistline. I'm not a great cook but a willing one. I've learned that there is a kind of poetry to cooking - a little of this and a little of that, and don't fret the rhyming.
We're trying to downsize and prepare this house for the market. It has yet to be discovered just how big an impact this pandemic will have on the real estate business. A large part of downsizing and decluttering is getting rid of stuff. Did you know that there are, I think, four or five Goodwill stores open in the state and one of them is about 20 minutes north of our house. Taking things there is more like re-purposing rather just throwing things away as in taking them to the dump, so to speak.
We drove into the parking lot and there was a long line of people waiting, at six foot intervals, to be let inside the building and a line of cars waiting their turn beneath the donation porte cochère. It seemed that the whole town was there. Watching the cars in front of us unload was fun. One woman seemed to be getting rid of a lifetime's worth of Christmas decorations.
Everyone wore masks and many wore gloves. Quite a few employees also had face shields. The whole experience was imbued with calm and orderliness. It was encouraging. It's highly likely that we'll take anther load there today. It's like going shopping in reverse. These days you take entertainment where you find it.
Friday, November 1, 2019
TODAY IS THE 121ST BIRTHDAY OF MY FATHER
Today is the 121st birthday of my father, John Murdock Henderson. He has been gone for nearly half that time. He died in the “dark ages” of prostate cancer research. Subsequently I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and a series of radiation treatments were prescribed. We check the PSA every six months. The number gets smaller and smaller. To say it’s a cure is a bit gutsy but it’ll do for the time being.
My mother named me Gerald. When she took me to register for the first grade Jeanie Watson, the principle who also taught my mother asked her, “Ruby, what’s your son’s name?” My mother said it was Gerald. I spoke up and loudly said, “No Mama, my name is Jerry!” - the only name I had ever been called. It was spelled with a “J” to match a favorite uncle’s name. Big Jerry - little jerry. I asked my father why he didn’t give me his name which I loved and still do to this day. I mean, John Murdock! What’s not to like? I know - I may be just a tad biased. It seemed that my mother had read a story in which the protagonist was named Gerald. She liked it. What could a kid do?
My father had six sisters and five brothers. His mother was a McQueen, a woman of Scottish descent. She had an uncle John Gunter who lived to 104 with a Yankee mini-ball in his chest. I don’t know what that’s got to do with anything except that it would have been nice if my father had inherited uncle John Gunter’s longevity gene.
He taught me to fly fish, hunt and drive. He believed I mastered the first two but he never believed I could drive a car. He was mostly concerned with my failure to leave enough room on the right side. When I was driving his body was in a constant cringe - trying to move the car away from the edge. He never said a word to me about sex. I dearly loved him.
Once somewhere in Kansas he was constantly complaining so much that I slammed on the break and got out of the car told him to go on. I vowed I would never get into a car with him again. I’ll walk, I cried. I began walking - in 1940’s Kansas! There was nothing in Kansas. Well, obviously mother prevailed and we drove on to Colorado and enjoyed a nice family vacation.
As a young man he was a telegraph operator on the Union Pacific Rail Road in Kansas. He met a man who taught him to cut hair and subsequently he spent the rest of his life as a barber with a thriving business in Baton Rouge. He was an honorable man. Honest and loyal to his beliefs and friends. He was an actual Christian. More importantly than all the above he was a committed family man, a loving father and husband. Whatever I tried he supported and encouraged me. I had permission and freedom as a child then that would be virtually impossible today. I was lucky and probably blessed.
John Murdock Henderson is seldom far from my thoughts.
TODAY IS THE 121ST BIRTHDAY OF MY FATHER
Today is the 121st birthday of my father, John Murdock Henderson. He has been gone for nearly half that time. He died in the “dark ages” of prostate cancer research. Subsequently I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and a series of radiation treatments were prescribed. We check the PSA every six months. The number gets smaller and smaller. To say it’s a cure is a bit gutsy but it’ll do for the time being.
My mother named me Gerald. When she took me to register for the first grade Jeanie Watson, the principle who also taught my mother asked her, “Ruby, what’s your son’s name?” My mother said it was Gerald. I spoke up and loudly said, “No Mama, my name is Jerry!” - the only name I had ever been called. It was spelled with a “J” to match a favorite uncle’s name. Big Jerry - little jerry. I asked my father why he didn’t give me his name which I loved and still do to this day. I mean, John Murdock! What’s not to like? I know - I may be just a tad biased. It seemed that my mother had read a story in which the protagonist was named Gerald. She liked it. What could a kid do?
My father had six sisters and five brothers. His mother was a McQueen, a woman of Scottish descent. She had an uncle John Gunter who lived to 104 with a Yankee mini-ball in his chest. I don’t know what that’s got to do with anything except that it would have been nice if my father had inherited uncle John Gunter’s longevity gene.
He taught me to fly fish, hunt and drive. He believed I mastered the first two but he never believed I could drive a car. He was mostly concerned with my failure to leave enough room on the right side. When I was driving his body was in a constant cringe - trying to move the car away from the edge. He never said a word to me about sex. I dearly loved him.
Once somewhere in Kansas he was constantly complaining so much that I slammed on the break and got out of the car told him to go on. I vowed I would never get into a car with him again. I’ll walk, I cried. I began walking - in 1940’s Kansas! There was nothing in Kansas. Well, obviously mother prevailed and we drove on to Colorado and enjoyed a nice family vacation.
As a young man he was a telegraph operator on the Union Pacific Rail Road in Kansas. He met a man who taught him to cut hair and subsequently he spent the rest of his life as a barber with a thriving business in Baton Rouge. He was an honorable man. Honest and loyal to his beliefs and friends. He was an actual Christian. More importantly than all the above he was a committed family man, a loving father and husband. Whatever I tried he supported and encouraged me. I had permission and freedom as a child then that would be virtually impossible today. I was lucky and probably blessed.
John Murdock Henderson is seldom far from my thoughts.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
A YEAR AGO MY BROTHER DIED
Ken came along about four years after me. I can remember him lying in his crib. I had a small rubber hatchet and I tried to chop him with it before mother intervened. I'm sure there are many more happier episodes to remember but that's the one that sticks. I never learned how to be a nurturing older brother. It wasn't a conscious decision. Our lives from the beginning seemed to run in different directions. We loved each other. That was clear, but we were never close. Four years.
Through the years we visited, mostly around holidays. Audrey was a hugely successful cook and brought her South Louisiana Cajun specialties to the Thanksgiving table often. When distance prevented more frequent visits we talked on the phone. After our parents died there was little to share but we talked a few times throughout the year. My life took me away and he remained in place.
I wish I could remember where I read it that as long as your name is remembered you are still alive. Sounds like magical thinking to me but I wish that talking about Ken would bring him back. Then all those names of all those loved ones, many gone before they should have, come to mind and my eyes cloud with tears. Ken - I miss you.
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
TO SEE OURSELVES . . .
Most of us grew up with something like school yard rules of behavior, ethics, protocols and politics. Before any important undertaking it was wise to check out what the "troops" thought about it. By important undertaking I mean something like - Hey I wonder if Sadie would go to the movies with me. Peer feedback was critical. I can remember getting ready for school and making sure my dungarees were rolled up just the right amount, showing just the right amount of sock and my swoop daddy pompadour - (Yes wiseass, I had one.) - was just right and pasted down with a dollop of WILDROOT CREAM-OIL CHARLIE.
What I'm saying is this: It's next to impossible not to be concerned about what others think of you. We all know how futile it is to worry about what someone else thinks but we do it. We want to be loved, even admired. We want to be an early pick for someone's team. I'm not sure that those feelings don't follow us from the school yard to the social institutions of adulthood.
Over the years various of my friends and family have gifted me with rather uniquely generous gifts for birthdays, Christmases and Father's Days which give me pause to reflect on what they think of me and how fortunate I am to have them in my life. Still I am always mildly surprised to hear that someone had been thinking of me. It feels good.
Thoughtful generosity is not usually a physical gift. More often it's something else. Evidences of connection - remembrances - inclusion - acts of love. It's what makes life on this planet worthwhile.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
IT'S CLEANLINESS THAT'S GODLY - NOT NEATNESS
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
BEING PRESENT WITH HEARING LOSS
When real time profound deafness was added to this history there were the makings of some serious, perhaps unconscious ground-in expectations when experiencing group discussions. I have found that confirming a statement is often the solution as in - "Are you saying the price was wrong or the purchase itself?". What I heard was not definitive, but asking such a question could get to the point easily. It can make conversation kind of clunky but it also can clear up a lot of misunderstanding and keep one in the center of things. It's more to the point that just asking, "What?".
I often wonder what it was like when I could hear it all. I think I remember when I could understand conversations in the "other" room or across the room. I think I can remember the sweet passages of Beethoven's sixth. But can I be sure? It's been so long. Those are childhood memories. Memories of other times.
The thing is, hearing loss is a constant struggle. It's a major feature of one's life and there is something to learn from it every day and it's not often about the past, but about now.