TENTH DECADE

No matter what I do, or say, or think - no matter what external forces bear down on me there is one overriding element in my life that defines life as I know it: I'm living in my tenth decade. It's impossible to escape. It's the Who and What I am.

Of course, I am quite happy to be alive even in light of a regular shopping list of ailments, some of which requiring heroic effort to hold at bey. There's hardly a system in my body that isn't under the watch-care of the medical community.

There isn't a day that passes without a reminder of my diminishing abilities. This is a cautionary tale. Your chance of growing old is better than ever, but growing old is not a free ride. It's a toll road. The toll is collected in terms of those afore mentioned diminishing abilities. At first you won't notice the changes but they persist.

The community at large are often aware of your limitations before you completely accept that not so subtle reality. They say things like, "Are you still driving?" Well yes I am driving. Why wouldn't I still be driving? Think about it.

Within the past four years I have had the unfortunate experience of falling unexpectedly several times. The fiirst time I broke my arm while turning around in my kitchen. More recently I fell while walking in the neighborhood. I ordered a walking cane from Amazon. It helped. My doctor told me to get a walker with wheels and a seat. I said, you're kidding? He wrote out a prescription for it. I laughed. He said (without smiling) Do it.

My son David turned sixty five this week. For his birthday he took me to Minute Maid Park to watch the Astros play the Red Sox. He suggested that I use the walker. It was a life saver. People were deferential. It made life easier - and safe. The Sox won. I had a beer - hotdog - fantastic seats off the mezzanine. Rest room within a few yards. David did the driving. I'm adjusting.

THE BEST LAID PLANS

Holiday plans vaporized amid
a cloud of unpredictable circumstances
and that ever present elephant in the room
Millions of automobiles all wanting to be
where - exactly where you are.

Now comes the birthday of our nation
for which we fear the worst
and hope for the best
that has always come even
in our darkest hour.

I'm feeling patriotic -
I feel like a Yankee-Doodle breakfast.
The recipe is whatever makes your heart sing.
For me it's cheesy yellow grits, jalapeño peppers
a dash or so of Tabasco to taste.
Not quite reunion but it'll do for now.
The heart is fed and the soul is at peace.
Love and virtual hugs abound.

Jerry H

HAPPY 93rd BILLIE HITCHCOCK

HAPPY 93rd BILLIE HITCHCOCK THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

THE CHRISTMAS CLOCK

I don't know exactly  when it happened - when Christmas stopped being fun - but it was a very long time ago.  It was about that time - that time when custom and hormones blended together to completely addle my brain into thinking that even at such a tender age I was ready to make life choices that were thought to last a lifetime.  It was that time when young boys and young girls had come into their "season" and suddenly they were certain that no one else had ever felt this way.  That's the time I'm talking about.

Fast forward several years and Christmas rolls around again and I said, "What do you want for Christmas?"  "Oh, I don't know…Surprise me."  This from a woman who had already purchased gifts months ago, wrapped them and stored them in top of the hall closet with the warning: STAY OUT!  While I, on the other hand, had just become aware of this urgency that was presently turning my guts into jelly.

So without any help and very little money, I headed down to 3rd Street ( this was before malls when all the good stores were down town where the banks and "picture shows" were ).  

I stopped to look at a clock in a jewelry store window.  Now, I think that would be the ticket - I thought.  My guts were in a turmoil.  The clock was busy with delicate romantic figures and designs with two angels on top - it was all molded glass or ceramic material.  The man who was helping me said it was made in Austria.  Austria?  I asked. He also added that since it was so late - Christmas Eve to be exact - he marked it down from #49.95 to $29.95.  I had $35 and change.  These were 1949 dollars.  I said, "Wrap it up".  He assured me that I had done well.  That actually helped, as I recall.

She loved it.  I should have learned something from all this but I did not.  The angels broke off within the first year and I glued them back on.  She loved that clock for decades.  She loved filigree and romance.  That clock had it all.

HOLIDAY MEDITATION

A common theme among my friends, most of whom are well into their AARP years, is what seems like an epidemic of dementia and Alzheimers.  My own partner in life, Carol Ann, is deep into what seems a  hopeless decline into oblivion.  I don't know a better way to express it.  Everyone I speak to brings up their own experience, someone of their own family or close circle of friends who has succumbed to the ravages of dementia.  The disease is so powerful in its ability to defy reason and articulate hopelessness.  

This will be the first Christmas in our twenty seven years together that we won't be able to honor the myth with a tree that for many years was cut down and dragged into the house by our own hands.  Boxes of ornaments and holiday memorabilia would be dragged down from the attic and as each ornament was placed on the tree one of us would recite its epochal provenance.

I thought it would never end.  But of course I knew it would.   It's just that these latter years go by so quickly.  Thank you for being there.

Be well.  Stay safe and stay tuned.

                                All my love - - -   Jerry

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO YOU ALL

YES, THE CUP MATTERS

My friend, Margret Bell posted somewhere, "I can't explain this with science but the cup you drink your coffee out of matters." So simple and direct but so obviously true.

Margret - you nailed it. It does matter.

For as long as I can remember I have preferred my coffee in a tall rather than wide cup. It's my experience that coffee stays hotter longer in the taller, cylindrical cup. The wider cup exposes more surface area from which heat can escape. Makes sense to me and I expect Einstein as well.

My cup measures 4 and 3/16ths tall and 3 and 1/8th wide with a slight flare on the rim. The handle has a little bump in the top curve that is just right for the thumb to rest on. The sides of the cup are straight. No bulges.

I like a China cup. The one I am using now is made in England. It's bone China. I'm not clear as to where the bones come into the plan but there it is written on the bottom of the cup. Many of the cups that I use are actually made in China. I can't tell the difference. This style of cup seams to be a standard mold pattern in the China cup industry.

I'm not particularly picky about any art work on the cup but I do seem to lean toward flowers. I do not favor cute aphorisms on my cups. I do a fair amount of thinking as I sip from my cups, but I like freestyle thinking not pre-programmed one-liners by some back office poet in waiting, And just to be clear, I don't care for those thick road house mugs that seem endemic to the roadside café. Their only virtue is indestructibility.

I'm always on the lookout for another cup. Mostly, I have found them at TJ-Max. Carol Ann and I would look at each other some cold gray November morning and think, "What are we thinking? Why sit here waiting for a blizzard when we could go see if the stock has rolled over at TJ-Max.

WE ALL FALL DOWN

There isn't much you need to do to be old - just show up.  I understand that there are many impediments to aging, such as disease, accident or being the star in the ultimate reality show: the hideously popular Mass Shooting.  Many people think that in spite of eating your greens and regular exercise the smart money is on pure luck.  At least that's what my doctor tells me and she's not smiling.

Previously, I have mentioned my several falls, all of which, as I think about it, were completely unexpected - even shocking.  In other words, likely to happen again with potentially dire outcomes.  About a year and a half ago I smashed the radius on my right arm while doing nothing more dangerous than turning around in the kitchen.  More recently I knocked the hide off my head and a few other places in a majorly bloody episode while on a neighborhood walk.  For no apparent reason I am careening toward the pavement and I'm like: WTF!   Something is going on and that something needs to be addressed.

Children learn and sing . . . 

Walk around the circle

Walk around the circle

Walking walking

We all fall down

Remember those years when falling was fun - you just tucked your head and rolled up and kept running and falling all over again.

At what point - can you remember - at what point did it begin to frighten you?  Don't worry if you don't yet worry about falling.  I'm in my tenth decade and I only just began to be concerned.  You have time.  (Wink Wink)

Of course, I'm cultivating a working relationship with the neighborhood neurologist.  Here's what he said: Get a walker,  He gave me a prescription for one.  I'm thinking, Won't that make me look old and feeble?  For the time being I put that thought aside.  Which leads me to the next topic -

NOVEMBER IS BIRTHDAY MONTH 

I know this because I have a birthday this month.  Many of my favorite friends are November babies.  My father, John Murdock Henderson was 125 on the first.  Happy birthday, Dad.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVERYONE - AND WALK CAREFULLY

THE OTHER SIDE OF WORLD NEWS

Did you read about this woman over in Silsbe, Texas who was out in her yard doing yard work when, out of the clear blue, a snake falls on her and wraps itself around her right arm. Did you hear what I said? This snake fell from the sky and wrapped itself around her right arm! Just imagine - she is dancing around like a chicken wirh its head chopped off. She's desperately trying to disengage from this serpent. If only Eve had made such an effort we'd very likely have a whole other ball game.

But wait! I'm not done. While this demon from the sky was tightening its grip on her arm and striking at her glasses this woman is not standing still. She is making moves that would have impressed the judges on Dancing With The Stars. Just then this huge hawk dives on the flailing reptile wrapped arm and began clawing and pecking at the snake obviously trying to retrieve his lunch that was, just as obviously dropped from on high. Viciously tearing at the four foot long snake with it's curved beak and deadly talons, the hawk, showing little concern over whose flesh it was ripping and tearing, finally freed the snake from the woman's arm and flew off to his pick-nick site in the woods.

The good news is that the woman's injuries were serious but not deadly. She will be some time recuperating. The less than good news is she will never trust anything that moves in the grass, along with a few other things. I'm guessing she will also add an overhead inspection to her outdoor activities from now on. It couldn't hurt, what with global warming and all.

LOOKING FOR COMMUNITY

It is widely known - just kidding - that I have been trying to figure out how to meet people and  make friends in my new home here in Texas. You know other than at the doctor's office.  Those people are OK, friendly enough and reasonably well educated.  Often someone will actually remember your name.  That's a nice perk.  It feels good.

Old friends - most of whom live a million miles away - offer welcomed advise such as, go to church.  OK, I'm rolling on the floor laughing my ass off over that one.  I have an advanced degree in church - too much baggage.  I know that there are several top tier brands to choose from but it seems rather dishonest since I pretty much reject the primary directive of religion that there is a god who loves me and will intervene on my behalf when called upon.  Yeah but, I am told, they all have a robust social component and fairly decent grub.  Not much booze, however.  I know the Catholics share their booze but he guy in the dress won't let go of the cup.  I'm gussing that the staff gather afterwards for their own sharing session and finish off the jug.  I mean, I'm just guessing here.  No question, though, a full bar would definitely elevate the quality of the service.

Another suggestion is that I find somewhere to volunteer.  That has a ring of authenticity about it.  And it touches the need to serve.  So I checked a couple of places and was informed that there was no current need.  Here, fill this form out and should a need pop up we'll call.  I have a secret confession to make.  I don't want to volunteer.  I really wish that was not there.  But . . . there it is.

I was talking to a sort of step-niece of mine Sunday and she told me about a web site called "meetup.com".  As the word suggests it's a place where likeminded people meet up.  You can pick from a list of groups covering all kinds of interests.  There are also virtual groups that use Zoom and other mechanisms to talk and actually see each other.  This sounded like a winner.  So I joined two: a book club and a discussion group.  The book club is reading what seems to be of the fantasy genre, so I'll pass.  I had already checked out the local library and in September they will offer a book club.  i'm hopeful.  The library is really great.

The other group I joined is a philosophy and conversation group.  That really rang a bell for me.  The first meeting is next Monday and the questioin is "is it really possible to be an entirely self made person?"   What gives me hope is that this group meets in a brew pub.  I've already put it into my GPS.

In case you're wondering, I am lightyears away from being self made.  But wait a minute - who else can be blamed for what I am?

Balancing Act

It has finally happened. It probably dosen't mean much but it feels like it does. For years I have been using hiking poles to steady my step on uneven terrain. Just this week I ordered an actual adjustable walking stick - the kind that people use who could not get about without it - that kind of cane.

Seven years ago I had cochlear implant surgery. In the immediate recovery period, I had some serious vertigo episodes. It's much better now but there remains an ongoing balance issue that will not, I expect, go away. When I fell in my kitchen while simply turning around, I broke my arm - my right arm. I had to train my left arm and hand to do some things it was never expected to do. The message was clear. I need ongoing, no nonsense help. Denial simply won't work anymore.

The hiking sticks project the message that this guy is out for some exercise. The Evening Blue, collapsible, adjustable cane with a fitted hand grip projects the message that this guy has a disability, be ready to assist or at least be kind.

It's going to take some time. It won't happen overnight. It's not like I have an injured leg or ankle. It's for balance. It's tripping insurance. I've already found out there is a rhythm to using a walking stick. I like rhythm. I'll check and see if I can chew gum at the same time.

ON THE BEACH - AGAIN

I recently re-read Nevil Shute's 1957 novel "On The Beach". I believe there was a movie made around the turn of the century. Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is another profound trteatment of the aftermath of a nuclear storm. There is a movie of this book as well. Please read these books before our next meeting and bring a one page summation of each. Be prepared to discus your summaries. It probably would be a good thing to read the daily news from Ukraine as well, just to better connect the dots. Thank you.

It doesn't even help that you know that only two atomic bombs have been deployed and that was seventy seven years ago in those unsuspecting Japanese cities, Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Almost evey one agrees that those horrific moments saved American lives, but Jesus, at what cost? Nobody wins a war. Furthermore, those bombs would be mere firecrackers in today's nuclear arsenal.

Here's a reality check: Nine countries have nuclear weapons. the United States, Russia,
France, China, the United Kingdom, Pakistan, India, Israel and North Korea. It is estimated that there is a stockpile of 13,000 nuclear weapons.

Today, ignorance, arrogance and the unfathomable thirst for power own the means of planetary distruction. I am afraid. Even if I had in my hand the BUTTON, the push of which would plant an atomic missile in the rose garden of every enemy of democratic freedoms - I am afraid. Whoever uses that third device signs his or her own death warrant. Do I need to remind you that even though you are nowhere near the blast sooner or later that radiation laced atmosphere will seep beneath your door.

I know - I know. The rich, the powerful, the connected: they will have their hid-ey-holes. But there are not enough Cheyanne Mountains for even a fraction of us worthy citizens of a doomed Planet Earth. Imagine, if you will, that morning in the distant future when it was deemed safe to venture out - to create from scratch a new world order consisting of the descendants of that bunch who had keys to Cheyenne Mountain. If you're waiting for the punch line - well, that was it. Albert Einstein said "I do not know with what weapons World War 3 will be fought but World War 4 will be fought with sticks and stones".

Doom's Day. Armageddon. This is the stuff movies are made of. It can't be real. World leaders, sometimes called politicians, surely won't let such a thing happen. . . . . .

To be continued (I hope)

GRIEVING - ONGOING

Recently I was driving down Route 1 in Yarmouth and passed one of our favorite coffee shops - windows covered and dark. Not one car in the parking lot. A wave of sadness at our loss washed over me. It was such a delightful hide-a-way filled with a collection of funky furnishings and good strong dark coffee accompanied by a peaceful quietness - along with the occasional sweet, of course.

It was a favorite - easy to find by simple directions for friends passing through so we could meet and share a cup or two. We can not afford to loose these wonderful institutions - victims of COVID 19, beyond the magic of vaccines.

Too many papered over windows and empty parking lots. It's fair to wonder if we are approaching a tipping point for or against recovery of culture and ordinary human activities - at least those we are used to.

So much has been lost, perhaps never to be the same. In the midst of the pandemic, we sold our home that we hardly ever planned to leave until we grew too old to handle the work. Now it's gone and I wonder if the sadness over that loss will ever go away. I never wanted to have to deal with these emotions so far down the line. Grief is common to us all but it can erode sanity and balance if not acknowledged and processed.

Can you keep a secret? I'm already eroded. The flakes of rust have eaten to my core and it's using up more than its fair share of my emotional resources and I'm fucking tired of it. Perhaps that's a good thing. Maybe something good can come out of this wave of twisted energy after all. Maybe it's never too late for another damned growth experience. You know about growth, don't you? Letting go of the old and reaching for the new. My mistake was in thinking that I had already been there - done that . . . enough already!

What I have learned, and I'm sure you have as well, is that it's never too late for learning a little bit about life and loss. Several years ago we had Carol Ann's mother with us. She suffered from a type of blood cancer and needed regular transfusions which at the beginning was once, then a couple of times a month, then weekly then twice a week. The transfusion itself virtually wiped her out for the entire day. Then there was increased energy for a few days then the need for a fresh transfusion arose. Until one day she announced her intention to stop the transfusions, knowing full well it meant she would soon die. She said goodby to the nurses and staff at the infusion center. There were long hugs and tears. I had to remember to breathe.

I was privileged to hold her hand when she let go and took her last breath. I miss her. We watched a lot of baseball together. My Red Sox - her Yankees. Every moment in her presence was a growth experience.

Never fear grief. Use it. Let it deepen your appreciation for everything. For the record, I'm not there yet. I'm not all that sure there is a "there". I'm still working on it. I think it's the effort that counts.

THE TOUCH OF YOUR THOUGHTS

Who among us does not know the joy 
that spark of surprise when someone
says, I was thinking of you 
I think of you all the time
how bereft I would be without you.
Anticipating the sound of your voice 
the warmth of your embrace
who knows but that thoughts have substance
and wishes can come true
and we are rich beyond our fondest dreams.

TECHNOLOGICAL WONDERS

 I ordered two sets of snow-ice cleats from Amazon for safety's sake.  CA has already fallen twice on the ice this season, and the season is young!

When they came I realized they were sort of overkill.  Just right for scaling the Matterhorn but a tad much for these gentle trails around our cottage.  

So I went to Amazon's web site and clicked on "Returns" and immediately got this email that said, "Hey Jerry - no problemo!  Take the stuff you want to return to any Whole Foods (and I am less than ten minutes from one) and show this "QR code" to any associate and they will bag it and send it for free.  I mean, you gotta love that - right?  

So I take my return to our local Whole Foods and belly up to the Customer Service desk and tell this young guy that I have a return.  He scans the QR code on my phone - his machine spits out a label - he puts my stuff and the label in a plastic bag and tosses it in a bin.  I say, "That's it?"  He says, "That's it."  He couldn't care less what the item is or why I am returning it.  I mean come on - you really gotta love that.

But wait!  I'm not done yet.  Before I get out of the store I get this email telling me that my return has been processed and my account has been credited!  I want to run back and give that kid a big hug.  God I love technology!  Suddenly I am aware that I need to pee.

_____________________

Earlier this past year we had a freak one car accident and totaled our car - an eight year old Ford CMax.  Sad, sad, sad.  Now we needed a car but didn't want to spend new car dollars.  Our dealer came up with a very nice 2020 model for a price we could deal with and before the dust settled we were driving what seemed to us a new (used) Ford Escape.  For several reasons we never got the full orientation to the car and what we did get was brief like: push this button and turn this knob and that was about it.

You've heard of OJT - On The Job Training?  That's us.  I'm driving down I-95 and drifted over to the right side margin and, "Woah there Cowboy!  Some unseen hand shoved me back into the driving lane.  Further on this guy passes me and pulls in a little too soon and my car - without any effort from me - slows down and beeps at me before resuming my preset speed.  It's called Adaptive Speed Control.  Now, that's as close to self driving I ever want to get, Elon Musk notwithstanding.  But - and here's the thing - I love it.

I have said many times how I love being an old guy.  But the other side of that nickel is that actuarially speaking I'm not going to get a chance to experience technological wonders that are coming by the droves.  That's life, of course.  Just imagine.  

I was a child without a telephone or television.  I have lived to see wonderful things and promises of things unimaginable.  I would love to have been able "to go where no man has gone before".  But for the time being, I'll keep Adaptive Speed Control up and running.

SOME THOUGHTS ON TURNING 90

First - for all you wise crackers out there - it's not just a number.  All the sugar coating you can apply can't hide the raw facts of all that's left behind - the family that is long gone - the friends - the activities: the sweat, the muscle soreness after a day climbing or skiing or cutting grass - yes I even miss that.  I miss the gathering of friends who are all moved away, doing their own end of life thing or simply moving on following their own life map.

Everything I say reeks of grief.  There are ninety years behind me and, well, my future is right in my face.  I just hope my collision avoidance program is working.  I don't want to go slamming into my headstone in the dark. Then, truthfully, we don't have much control over that - do we?

Here at The Woods at Canco, the facility where we now live, we are issued a little button on a lanyard that goes around your neck.  You get in any kind of trouble, fall or get lost of whatever, all you need to do is to press the button and you are in voice contact with someone who can find you and summon help.  Pretty slick.  Many residents don't wear them but many do.  If either I or Carol Ann go walking alone we take one,  The best advise is to wear one all the time.  When we were issued the little buttons I just looked at it and thought, "OK Buster - you are now a certified member ot the 'I've fallen and can't get up' generation".  

I miss my life.  Three great children.  All of them in their sixties and all in Texas.  I was married to two great women and am into my 24th year partnership with a simply amazing woman and together we try to make sense of the issues, pressures and realities of aging.  Some days are better than others.

The missing confidant.  Over the years I have been blessed with priceless best friends.  I have now outlived some or time has separated us.  Longevity is a bitter sweet pill.  You wash it down with a draught of gratitude for long life and then you spend a little time grieving over the loss that comes naturally to those who live long.  

Communicating with best friends is essential and becomes more important with age.  I have found that writing letters in longhand is an effective way to have an intimate relationship with a best friend.  Electronic communication has been a gift to those of us who have taken to the medium.  Then there is the telephone.  Long conversations with best friends who can manage an extended conversation, and that is becoming a rarity, can be a true balm - a real gift to those who are managing a long distance relationship.  I have several friends from one end of the country to the other with whom I enjoy long phone chats.  It's incredible how these conversations lift my spirit.  Yes, I know about Zoom.  

I don'r intend to say everything there is to say about being 90.   I will say this: it's not easy.

WHAT DAY IS IT AND DOES IT MATTER?

Yesterday I was sitting in my favorite chair contemplating my next move when, for some unknown reason, I looked at my watch which said it was Wednesday. I looked over at CA and said, is it really Wednesday? She said, I’m reading, I don’t know what day it is, but I think it’s Wednesday. I said, I though it was Tuesday. I’ve been working on the plan for the rest of my life which begins on Tuesday. Now I’ve got to recalculate the whole damned thing.

This is so frustrating. At my age, there are not that many Tuesdays left to loose. Try as hard as I can, I can’t remember a thing about Tuesday. CA looks up and says, well all I know is that we went to see the doctor yesterday and that was supposed to be on the 15th and the 15th was Tuesday and today is the 16th, which would be Wednesday. So there you go.

I was so sure.

So maybe it was Monday that I misplaced. I can recall few Mondays that I really could have done without. There was nothing on our calendar for Monday, It was probably Monday. Tuesday - Monday: it doesn't matter. I still have to recalculate my life plan. Should take about 20 minutes.

PANDEMIC POTPOURRI

During these days of social isolation I find that I think of friends more often.  I'm also thinking more  of friends with whom I have not communicated in nearly a lifetime.  That part, however, may be a function of my age more than this present pandemic - as in the older one gets the older the memories get that bounce around in the mid-night mind.

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.

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.

A YEAR AGO MY BROTHER DIED

A year ago Ken, my brother, died.  He was preceded by his wife, Audrey, who died shortly after falling from her high-lift wheel chair, having forgotten to fasten her seat belt.  Ken busied himself in his church but loneliness soon overtook him.  He slipped into dementia and soon died.  It seems that their lives were so intertwined that for him, at least, there was little life apart from Audrey.

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.

TO SEE OURSELVES . . .

A current popular pithy piece of high minded wisdom goes like this: What other people think of me is none of my business. Of course, you say, that's obvious. Really? Well, sort of.

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.