LIVING WITH MARGINALIZATION

I think a lot about aging.  Probably too much.  This really began to happen a few years ago, when I retired,  I began to see the attitude others had toward me take an interesting turn.  It was as though there was a collection of assumptions about my life that automatically became a part of my reality.  It almost seemed like  patronization.  Society was taking care of me whether I wanted it or not.  A new definition was attached to my life and I was given special names to make sure I was "marked".  Senior Citizen.  Retiree.  Or just a simple "Old Guy".  My input was not solicited.  I just got old.  At that point the system kicked in and I became - Mr. Senior Citizen.  This may all be in my mind.  So what - that's a real place.  It can't be ignored.  Just today I got a letter from my gastroenterologist.  I am, it seems, too old to have a regular colonoscopy, my favorite invasive examination.  I suppose if I have a budding colon cancer somewhere in there, I just don't have enough time left to make treatment cost effective.  The actuarialists are running the world.  

I don't mind being old.  As a matter of fact, I rather enjoy it.  However, it takes some rather intensive adjusting - not only to being old, but also to the subtile little shifts in attitude the world now has toward me and my contemporaries.  I didn't see it coming.  More accurately, I didn't want to see it coming.  One day I found that I had moved into this alternate universe: the world of being an old person, a retiree, a person with a major history.  I began to feel marginalized.  A different set of rules now apply to me and I don't like it one damned bit.

To be marginalized is to be socially excluded, treated as unnecessary, unneeded, past tense - was, rather than is.  Growing old is by definition a kind of marginalization in itself.  Age, at some point, for all of us, brings with it a collection of diminishing abilities.  We just ain't what we used to be.  In this sense, aging is itself a degenerative condition.   The situation is amplified by a seemingly growing list of famous-name degenerative conditions such as, arthritis, Alzheimer's, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease ( my current favorite ), diabetes,  Parkinson's, atherosclerosis, heart disease, inflammatory bowel, prostatitis, osteoporosis and, of course, everyone's favorite: cancer - just to name a few, several of which I am coming to terms with.  All of these common accompaniments to aging tend to become agents of marginalization.  Guess what?  It's unavoidable.

For most of us, should we be so lucky as to live long, we will be gifted with one or more of the above conditions and because of that will no longer be able to run fast, jump high, lift heavy or step lightly.  Just dealing with that reality is what aging is all about.  It's making do with marginalization.  It's adjusting and being happy about what is possible and not spending the late night hours pining away in despair over lost stamina, Superman/Wonder Woman strength, a movie star profile or the pleasure, often unrealized at the time, of planning a long life.  It's a learned skill. There isn't as much stamina or strength, and God knows the profile is history, but it is what it is and not what it's not.  

It seems to me that that's the lesson of aging.  I deal with it every day.  I'm sure we all to to varying degrees.  It's tempting to focus on the past.  There is so much of it.  For me the key is to make some plans.  Do something.  It's about making one's self necessary.   It really doesn't matter much what it is, just be with what you're doing.  Cut the grass.  Plant those peas.  Fix something.  Help someone.  And, for the good of us all, stay in touch.  Hanging out at the margins of life is someone else's idea.

Jerry Henderson

EXCUSE ME - WOULD YOU REPEAT THAT

One of the most difficult things for me to acknowledge is that I am truly old fashioned. I mean I am connected, on-line, Twitterized, FaceBooked and podcasted, but deep down I am living in the late thirties and forties. The radio days. At least, in part, what I am saying is that my values lie there while all the glitter, pizzazz and speed of present day technology simply give me the chance to run out my outdated values on the unsuspecting friend, family member and the occasional "everyone" who stumbles across my electrified  threshold. Caveat Emptor. Translation: Watch your step!

Some years ago while living in Southeast Texas, and while I still had an active interest in flying small airplanes, I used to read Flying Magazine and a columnist in that magazine named Gordon Baxter. His column was called THE BAX SEAT. He described himself as a "pasture pilot" and had a homey way of expressing himself, even about the technicalities of flying small airplanes. He had a radio program which he produced from his back porch at his home on Village Creek, a sometimes robust little stream that I paddled and camped upon many times.

On his show, he talked about whatever seemed to catch his attention. It presaged Jerry Seinfeld's show about nothing by about 30 years. It really was about nothing in particular. He rambled in a most interesting way. You could hear birdsong and a creaking screen door occasionally. His voice was well modulated and I could understand every word. It was quite popular. I'd get to the office and someone was likely to ask if I had heard Baxter that morning, and we'd talk about that. I don't think today's fast talking, hurry up media would give him the time of day.

A friend of mine once told me after listening to one of my podcasts, that I talked too slow and had too many long pauses. Well, I said, that's how I talk. We laughed and he still listens. I think. And I still talk slowly.

I have listened to many programs where someone is supposed to be telling a story or interviewing someone and all the while there is music, or other "environmental" noise (on purpose - by design because we live in an age where noise seems to be the only thing that keeps us from going conscious of our reality) and I am unable to hear the actual content of what the person is saying.

I should pause here and say something like, that's my opinion. And that's the opinion of a person wearing hearing aids which makes it difficult to make sense of noisy environments. And if the truth be known, if you want to communicate real information, every effort should be made to make that easy to do. Right? Well, you'd think so. Hearing aids or not.

So it's my problem. I'm OK with that - I have to be. But I resent being cut out of the process by the process itself. You can observe this going on in just about all media today. So-called realism in broadcasting seems to mean that environmental noise is as important as content. I can just see this sound engineer pushing the slider up on his sound board to increase the noise of the big diesel passing by so it's impossible to understand what is being said. Exciting huh? After all - it's the truth. It's what's happening.

A few years ago there was this guy on NPR's morning classical show who also talked slowly and it became a kind of joke. I could understand his every word however, even if it kind of infuriated me at times. I sometimes wondered whether the guy was somnambulant. Now, I really miss his kind of "delivery". If you have something to say, say it so others can be assured of understanding it. It's communication - get it?

Walter Cronkite, Ed Morrow, Erving R. Levine, Martin Agronsky, where are you guys when I need you masters of every syllable?   God, how I love every syllable.

TRANSITIONS

There comes a time - at least, I assume it does - in most of our lives, when the specter of moving into a new and completely different phase of life confronts us. It comes up to consider the possibility of leaving the cherished home site or situation and moving into something more manageable, for instance.

There will come a time when we must move on and leave this treasured spot on the edge of the woods. In gentle preparation for that moment, we have begun culling out those obvious items that are purely meaningless and hauling it off to the dump. It's actually a so-called "transfer station", but nobody is keeping score. But the heavy lifting is yet to come and it could take longer than we imagine. It's the kind of activity that we both dread to do and are anxious to do. I suppose that is the nature of transitions.

The thought of moving on curdles my blood and also heightens my sense of adventure and being alive. The reality is that there will come a time when we will not be able to take care of this place. It's part of the natural rhythm of life. Oh, if one of us wins the big one, we will be able to just hire the work done and be as mobil as we want to be. I read those headlines about someone winning mega millions and think - it's just a matter of time until my number comes up. Yes, I know. There are balms available that can calm such specious thinking.

There are hundreds of books, CDs and cassette tapes. Give them away, I hear you say. Take them to one of those places where they accept boxes of such stuff without a word. Don't do a close inspection of every single book. Actually, I will hold onto Baugh's Literary History of England. About two and three quarter inches on thin paper - it does not miss a point. I'll keep the poetry - a few other volumes that remind me of the loftier aspects of the human experience. OK, I'll probably hold onto some pulp as well, just to keep me honest. God, how I love a mystery.

Around this rambling house are nooks and crannies into which is stuffed every imaginable piece of useful, useless and unused "stuff". There are kayaks, bicycles, snowshoes, badminton sets, bows and arrows, a chainsaw, a wood chipper, a table saw, all kinds of battery powered tools and there is a photographic darkroom - just to give you an idea. Actually, the darkroom equipment is not useful anymore except to a scant few holdouts. If you want it you can have it. This list is only a "symbol" of what is actually stored around this place.

So the task is laid out before us and, as I have said, we are beginning to hack away at it. It's the mechanics of transition. It's not easy work, but it should reveal something important about us. Something I am actually anxious to discover. I really think I already know what it is, and it is this: You can go farther with a lighter load.

There was a time, back in the searching 70s when meaning was attached to everything, that in the middle of a warm night I hauled the contents of a large storage space in my building to a huge dumpster. I needed to make a break and rid myself of stuff, the possession of which, I could no longer justify, and which simply did not hold meaning for my life anymore and needed to be jettisoned into the night sky. It was transition time. I needed to lighten my load.

There was as many as a dozen suits, kitchen ware that drug my memories back decades, dozens of sundry items that filled boxes upon boxes - like rocks and mementos collected from places once visited and which had no function except to remind me of things I did not want to be reminded of and so should be let go. It was one of my finest "grownup" moments.

This cleansing took most of the night. It occurred to me then as it does now that this kind of purging is best done beneath the covering of darkness. It is best not to have too bright a light shine upon every once prized artifact of a past life as it tumbles into the rubbish bin. I think that's the key: begin at midnight and work until dawn.

When my storage room was finally emptied, I felt light of heart, energized and quite hungry. It was time for an early breakfast at the Pig Stand on I-10 where I celebrated with three of my most faithful friends: grits, sausage and egg.

I'm Jerry Henderson Be well and stay tuned.

IT'S CHRISTMAS

As I have mentioned elsewhere, we decided not to go to the trouble of putting up a full Christmas tree this year. It's not the first time I have made this choice, but it's the first time in 15 years, and it probably will not happen again.

CA has boxes of ornaments, each one with it's history and bag of memories that must be told every year. It's very much an epochal ritual. I suppose it is a kind of validation - a connection to or honoring of who we are and who we have been. This year we decided not to go through the routine and opted for a minimalist presentation as far as the tree thing is concerned. It feels right.

There is a reason for this, of course. It's the season of CA's retirement. She works as a hospice nurse and works 12 hour shifts at night. Her last two nights to work are Christmas Eve and Christmas night. This was a conscious choice that fulfilled, a week earlier, her time in service obligation, and since it is just us two, it seemed the thing to do. It's not a sad thing, it's our chosen reality, and we are quite excited about it. Of course, it would be nice to be with family. Yes, it would be wonderful to be home together with a big bird in the oven on Christmas Day. Yes, it would be fun if it were some kind of Currier & Ives thing with dozens of people, horse drawn sleighs, reindeer and skating on the pond. But it never was that.

We'll celebrate our Christmas on the night after Christmas. I mean, it's already an arbitrary date. We'll go out for Chinese. They don't do Christmas and are always there. Furthermore, we love Chinese. We'll have cocktails and great food and drive home through the woods to our fireside and feel blessed.

Second only to Thanksgiving as a family day, Christmas holds for many of us a great host of memories and traditions long gone into the dusty bins of our past. I've grown used to that tape player in my head that goes off on those same songs, scenes and scenarios that make up my remembrance of decades of Christmases past. It's a kind of comforting sameness.

It's different when kids are around. Kids thrive on myth and festival and Christmas is bursting with myth and festival. There is always that unpredictable, spontaneous quality of life with children. If things go as we think, we'll be surrounded by kids next year. Perhaps, at times, we'll secretly yearn for the quiet warmth of our remote fire.

It's who we are - at least those of us who happened to muddle through life in a Christian tradition. So we'll have our table top tree. There will be presents and a warm fire. We'll do a "FaceTime", or at least speak with distant family and hang on every word. We will feel truly blessed and pleasantly stuffed with spicy Singapore rice noodles.

Jerry Henderson

A LONG NIGHT'S MEDITATION

Seeking forgiveness for yielding unto temptation and making a batch of sugar cookies toward the tail end of an evening, I stumble across an ancient stone given to me by a traveler who once passed through that holiest of lands - that spit of earth called Cornwall.  On his way he came upon this old man sorting odd looking stones which he said came from the sea but had been found deep in a cave known only to the few who ventured into those tidal regions where the endless sea molded that coast into its signature façade.  He told how there were ancient glyphs on those cave walls that have never been completely deciphered, but which many believe were by the hand of Merlin himself.  These stones were laid out in a rough pentagram and covered with the dust and grime of ages.   

When asked what was special about those "rocks" the old man  said that if these stones were touched by the hand of Merlin, that sage advisor to Author, born of mortal woman but sired by an incubus, then they possessed many powers that transcended our physical world.  

As I now hold that stone in my hand, on this longest of nights, I think, surely among those powers would be the gift of forgiveness especially when it came to making a batch of sugar cookies.  It is well known that Merlin had a particular affection for sweetmeats and therefore could possibly find reason to make room for others who like himself find themselves powerless beneath the spell of a well made sugar cookie.  

It came to me that such a construct was not altogether unlike others upon which entire systems of belief are built.  I began to feel the weight of guilt slide from my shoulders.  Perhaps, I'm thinking, there is room for just one more cookie before turning in for the rest of this long night. 

Behold! The Light Cometh!

THE ANNUAL LETTER

You know how it goes.  A friendly recapitulation of the year.  It's not a candidate for the Pulitzer nor is it a literary achievement.  It's a simple, folksy, unadorned, informational letter.  It's sometimes called the Christmas Letter.  I always learn something from these epistles.  I love to get them.

CA mentioned earlier that she was thinking of doing one.  Today she showed me the finished product. I liked it and felt she did a good job of it.  She didn't tell me anything I didn't know, but she did capture the entire year, and there was even a line or two about me.  It's surprisingly comforting to know you are worth a line or two in someone else's recollection of the year gone past.

I got to thinking about it and concluded that I don't think I have ever tried to do an annual letter.  You know, the kind that goes through the year relating events for the family.    Except for my immediate family, and I am not sure about them, I can't imagine anyone being the least interested in what my life was like every month this past year.  When I actually think about it, I can come up with entire years that I would just as soon forget.

I don't think this years will be forgotten. This year I became fully invested in my ninth decade - an accomplishment not afforded to a lot of people - and for that I am grateful. This is also the year that my partner in this life, Carol Ann, has chosen to retire from nursing. Yes, there are many details, sideshows, detours and distractions, but those two things pretty much sum up the year for us both.

Becoming an Octogenarian is more than surviving.  It's an epiphany.  The bush is indeed burning and is not being consumed. It's time to pay attention.  I hear a voice coming from within the fire saying,  "Whoa there pilgrim, sit down here beneath this Bodhi Tree and study about things a while".  I don't believe that particular tree grows in my neighborhood, but other trees do and I have spent a fair amount of time beneath them.  So?  Nothing.  I don't feel enlightened or transported into some Nirvantic existence.  I do feel comfortable in my skin and very happy to still have it.  That's got to mean something.

For both of us to be fully retired beings up a whole set of conditions, opportunities and challenges that will take some getting used to.  Just being aware of the shift in our situation beings up some anxiety.  You think about it a lot.  I mean, what are we going go do with all that time - together?   We've about decided to just let it happen.  Take a trip.  Hang out with it for a while.  What's the rush?

In other matters - we both lost significant weight this year. I thought I'd turn out to be prettier.  CA did but guess what?  I did NOT!  The same ugly wrinkled old guy stares back at me in the bathroom mirror.  But I feel pretty good and for that alone I am thankful.

Any time you can look back at a whole year and realize you survived it in one piece, you can be thankful.  I am thankful.  Any time you can feel able to hope into another year you can be thankful.  I am thankful.

Maybe I'll have more exciting things to report next year.

Be well, and stay tuned....

I'm Jerry Henderson

A POT OF RED BEANS

Thousands have asked for my recipe for making a pot of red beans.  I never think in terms of a recipe, but what follows is pretty close - close enough that if it is used to make a pot of red beans it will probably work.

Bear in mind that individual tastes vary and what this formula produces may not be to your satisfaction. That's when it must be remembered that a recipe is only a guide.  Follow it once, then deviate.  See something you don't like, don't put it in there.  Think of something different all on your own - go for it.  

Here's what's in it:

2 cups dry red beans.  You can soak them over night or boil them two minutes and then simmer until done.  I have done it both ways and don't see much difference.  Here's what I do:

I cover the beans with water  and bring to a vigorous rolling boil and let that go for 2 minutes.  Cover and reduce the heat to a nice simmer.  Be sure there's enough water not to run dry.

Meanwhile, in a separate pan sauté the vegetables below until the onion becomes transparent, then dump that into the beans. ( You can sauté the vegetables in the bean pot, then put the beans and water in and go from there if you want to )

1 large white onion coarsely chopped.  Any kind of onion will work, just so it is a big one.

2 or 4 cloves garlic minsed. ( If you want, you can use garlic powder.  You won't die and go to hell. Nobody will know. )

1 medium bell pepper coarsely chopped.

2 stalks of celery sliced longitudinally and thinly sliced - on the diagonal, of          course.

Once all this is combined I like to add some vegetable stock - if you have veganistic tendencies - or chicken stock if you don't give a hoot about such things.  By the way, I have always wondered that if I use animal manure to fertilize tomatoes can a vegan or vegetarian eat my tomatoes with a clear conscience?

Many times I also chop up a fresh pealed tomato or dump a can of diced tomatoes into the pot.  Be flexible.

You will notice there is no meat in this.  The reason for this is that I didn't have any.  I know, you thought I had some deep seated spiritual reason for this omission but I just didn't have anything.  I like some smoked flavor if possible.

I would liked to have had a smoked ham hoc to throw into the pot and or some andouille sausage.  If you use the hoc then when it's all done you'll need to pick the meat off the bone.  It'll fall of easily.  The sausage should be added toward the end of cooking so as not to dry out.  At least that's my experience.

Now let's talk about seasoning.  I used approximately:

1 t salt

1 t freshly ground Tellicherry black pepper. 

1 T Pickapeppa pepper sauce.  If you don't know Pickapeppa Sauce you need to go get some.  It's Jamaica's finest contribution to your pot of beans and many other bland foods in your pantry.

1 T Tabasco regular.

1 T Tabasco Chipotle sauce.

1/2 t smoked paprika.

I didn't add any herbs but I sometimes do.  Oregano, Marjoram, Basil or something else you might think of.  

Taste!  Adjust.

Here's the thing about beans:  You have to decide if you want bean soup or beans that are a little thicker, to put on rice.  If you are thinking red beans and rice then they need to be cooked down and become "creamy" thick.  It really doesn't matter, it's just the way I like them.

If this doesn't work out for you, don't call me.  I'll be out of town for a month or so.  It it works out to your ecstatic satisfaction, then I'll be happy to receive your praise any hour day or night.

Jeeze, I forgot to mention epazote.  It helps to reduce the possibility of gas production.  Popular in Mexico.  It is, however, a renewable source of energy.  Be well, and stay tuned.