THE WOODS

I am fortunate in that I live 1 1/2 miles from the gate to Bradbury Mountain State Park. Because of my age - just about everything these days is because of my age - I can get in free. I take advantage of this benefit as often as possible.

On this particular day I am getting my kit ready in the parking lot and I notice a quartet that about to begin their hike and notice that it consist of what seems to be a 14 year old boy, an infant in a big wheeled stroller and what I assume to be a mother and grandmother, both of whom are rather wide in the beam.

I decide that rather than overtaking them - they are surely going to be slow - I'd take a shortcut through the playing field and get out on the trail ahead of them. When I got to the head-off point they were a hundred yards beyond. These overweight women pushing a baby carriage are walking much faster than I am. Soon they are out of sight. I am quickly re-evaluating my physical condition.

However, I carry on toward my destination which is the perimeter, or boundary trail - the longest and most difficult of the walks available on the mountain. Surely these portly women will not be attempting to push a pram over those trails which can be a challenge for healthy hikers alone. Guess what? That's where they were. When I got to the junction for the perimeter trail there they were trying to decide what to do, as the terrain had begun to be challenging.

In my most genuinely supportive tone I suggest that they not attempt what would likely be impossible and to do another trail which would be possible for them and more enjoyable. They seemed to be pleased to have this information and proceeded to take my advise. I probably saved their day. However, no matter how wide their bottoms were, they were out there out pacing me, who, in my inflated ego state, felt I could and even should out pace them and their baby buggy. When will I ever learn? I can just hear Freddie Mercury's refrain: "Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round".

Living as close as I do, I am able to report on winter, spring, summer and fall. Don't worry - I will not do that here. I do remember once when CA and I clung to each other to get over a particular passage of icy trail to get to the summit. I believe it was March. What were we thinking? During visits long ago, I actually ran the trails that I now carefully negotiate with a supporting staff. Just coming to grips with reality, folks.

Bradbury Mountain is a pocket park in the classic sense. The park is tiny as parks go but it can handle scores of people without having them bump into each other. I have gone out there when the parking lot was full and not seen a soul on the trails. Weekends in good weather excepted.

In the day, this was a farm. Stone walls are all over this mountain. Such things were not constructed in the woods. they were there to make clear the fields that were cultivated or grazed. Now, people like me walk along these trails thinking wilderness and the shades of generations past, who cleared the land and piled up these stone walls, laugh up their etherial sleeves at our hubris. Once it was wilderness, but that was long long ago.

Ultimately, I arrived at the summit and found that I was surprisingly alone. I enjoyed the view and had a swig from my bottle while a couple walked up from the opposite direction. The young woman had on a pair of pink and yellow sneaks, fresh from the box, it seemed, and loudly noticeable. They seemed almost electrified. I made some comment about the pink and yellow sneaks and she looked at me with that blank stare, which suggested to me that she did not have English as even a secondary language. Ah, Québécois perhaps? The shoes should have told me that much. She never uttered a sound. So I lifted a foot and tapped it indicating that that was the subject of my comment and she more or less smiled and went on her way with her companion. So much for my lame attempt at international sociality.

I always say that I am out there to get the exercise, but what happens is that I end up experiencing the "magic" that is there for anyone who walks in the woods. There's always the chance that I will discover something new or forgotten about being in nature. About being alive. About myself. Some days out there are more effective than others. Today was one of the good days.

WHAT DID YOU SAY?

Nothing, in my experience, comes close to equaling hearing loss for removing one from the mainstream. No matter how much money you spend on hearing aids, hearing loss, in most cases, is progressive. The electronic hardware can only amplify the frequencies you can hear. The more frequencies you loose the less effective hearing aids become no matter how expensive they are, or what your audiologist tells you.

I began wearing hearing aids fifteen years ago and for a few years felt that with the moderate loss I was experiencing I was still able to participate at a high level in an active social experience, which included listening to music with genuine appreciation. As time moved on, my disability became more profound and I had to move from tiny units completely within the ear canal to more powerful over the ear units with all kinds of amplification and multiple channels for amplifying selected bands of frequencies.

It was at that time that I noticed a distinct change in the level and quality of my understanding. Although I was hearing the sounds I was not hearing the subtile sibilant and explosive frequencies - like the S's and K's - which are essential for understanding words, specially if they have a common "vowel" sound, such as corn, horn, born, torn and so on. Attempts to amplify just the frequencies I needed seemed to help at first but then as my disability increased it did not matter how much specific amplification was applied, I simply was not hearing certain frequencies. Those frequencies had just dropped out of my aural repertoire.

Not long after that realization, I discovered that music no longer sounded like my memory demanded. I spent years involved in choral music and listening to all kinds of music. I also appreciated much of the popular genre from the 60's and 70's. Recently we had a roof replaced and the man doing the work had his radio blasting out what sounded to me like a metal garbage can being dragged beneath a car. Then I heard a familiar beat and realized it was John Fogerty doing his signature Proud Mary, to which I had danced and listened for hours a few years ago. The parts of the audio spectrum that are required to identify music, much less to appreciate it, were gone. It was one of the saddest moments in my life.

In a more practical sense, this has resulted in my being literally on the edge of life. Marginalized. I suppose a certain amount of marginalization goes along with being an octogenarian. Old people are not, as a rule movers and shakers, or even chosen to be on someone's softball team. However, not being able to actively participate in a conversation including more than three people because of the practical inability to understand what is being said is distressing. It gets tiresome saying, "What did you say? Will you say that again slowly and articulate clearly, please?", every other sentence. What happens is that I spend the evening simply not knowing what was being said. I find it impossible not to feel just a tad left out. You think I am feeling a bit sorry for myself? Goddamn right I am. But not that paralyzing locked down self pitying thing. I do not intend to drop out. I might become choosy in my social exercises but I'll be there.

Why should I care? Here's why. Conversation to me is one of the most exciting features of being a human being. I thrive on it. It is still possible on a one to one basis and sometimes with a few more but it must be conducted in a quiet setting. And, my partners must not mumble, talk to their armpits or slur their words and phrases.

Unfortunately, elocution, the skill of clear and expressive speech, especially of distinct pronunciation and articulation, is simply not valued anymore. If everyone sounded like Walter Cronkite, there wouldn't be a problem. Well, that may be a slight oversimplification, but you take my point.

I am clear that this is my personal problem, but if I want to be understood, it is my responsibility to speak clearly. I was taught to do that in high school. At some point such training became unimportant in the modern curriculum.

The bottom line is that I want to be included. Everybody does. However, at the rate things are going, I may be lucky just to be able to hear the dinner bell. I really don't want to miss dinner.

Please - Ring it loudly, ring it long.

Dear Pal . . .

Dear Pal

Thanks for your recent note. I really enjoyed reading it - several times, if you can believe that. It's always good to hear from an old friend. I have so few friends who actually write letters anymore. I can tall you that I treasure each one. I will say a special thanks for typing it. As I recall, your handwriting resembled something it would take a board certified Egyptologist to decipher. OK, OK, I know even that would not help my scribble.

I have to thank my first wife - you remember her. She was in the class ahead of us. She was a champion typist. She gave me a lesson of sorts and after some years of trying and then the advent of the computer I finally am more comfortable at the keyboard than with pen and ink. I never thought I'd be saying that.

It's funny how when I think of you, I seem to easily slip into that old comfortable memory mode - not that squishy nostalgia mind lock thing, but, well we do go back a long way - do we not?

It's probably something like a self-fulling prophesy, I suppose. The older I get the more I value someone's friendship who remembers the same things that I do.

I just thought: I am sure you remember when it was in vogue to say something like, "Do you remember what you were doing when you got the news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor?" Now, try this on: do you remember when it was that you became aware that you had not heard that for the past 20 years? Hell, it might have been longer than that for me.

Anyway, you mentioned Mary Jane. Yes I remember her well. I kind of had eyes for her in High School, but never made a move. I think I was afraid of rejection. Always been an issue with me. I later found out that she said "yes" more than a little, and I probably knew that at some level and that was the real root of my fears. HA!

I am so sorry to hear that she died. I remember in High School I always thought she had one of the finest rear ends around. Her cheerleading skills were worth the price of a game ticket. I think she married that big All State guard - what was his name? I know he died some years ago. Heart attack at work. Did she remarry? I don't have any information about that. No reason I should, I suppose.

Except for you, Tyrus and sometimes J-Boy, I never hear any news from down there. Moving away early on kind of severs the connections.

I'm glad to hear that you and Rosalie are still playing golf. I'd like to think I could still do that but my shoulders would not survive three holes, I'm afraid. I love to watch the game. I had a half set of clubs about 40 years ago and a friend borrowed them for another lefty to use and I never saw them again. Probably a blessing considering what it costs to play these days.

If I remember rightly, you actually live on a golf course? That must be nice. But I don't know how I'd like that unless there were other benefits. Like a saloon near by. Maybe a pool and a work out room.

We do some hiking and now and then still get into our kayaks. But my treadmill and bicycle keep my legs moving year around. I'm afraid to stop. We have some good trails near here and get out on them as much as possible. The roads have no shoulders so that is rather dangerous with those Red Neck pick-up cowboys flying through these hills. I guess that's a bit unfair. I have more red-neck blood in my veins than any other kind.

So, as you can see, I am rambling along here and probably need to stop and put this in the mailbox. Thanks again for the letter, and we do hope to see you later this summer. Be well, and keep in touch.

As Ever - - -

Your pal Jerry

HELLO SUMMERTIME

In the early morning, I sit here with that initial cup of darkroast and have the morning sun shine directly into my face through a window that faces almost due northeast. Perhaps a little more north. In that same chair in the twilight, as I sip an evening libation, the sun shines in through a southwestern window directly through the room and out the northeastern window through which the morning sun shown. No big deal. Right? Happens all the time. It's just that I find it enchanting.

In winter time when the sun is in the southern sky the light comes into the southern window behind me but never shines in those other two windows.

Whether you notice it or not, it just happens. In our modern go to meeting kind of existence it hardly causes a ripple in the daily plan. But our forbears, however, took special notice of all these celestial shenanigans. It was big mojo to them. It was the longest day of light in the year. They had ceremonies and postulated meaning to it all. Kind of sounds like modern religion, doesn't it?

I mean if you didn't have the internet and the evening news to explain things to you, then you made up your own explanations for such phenomena. It was otherworldly. It was divine stuff. A time for chanting, drumming, and possibly a little dancing. I am so happy that Wolf Blitzer was not there to screw it up.

Every school child knows about the wobbling earth. How the planet is offset 23˚ and how it swings back and forth like a top spinning on a table top and how that wobbling is the reason for our seasons. In the summer time the top - or earth - leans toward the sun and in the winter it leans away - at least in the northern hemisphere.

That tabletop top looses its momentum ultimately and falls over and rolls onto the floor. Perhaps that's how it will all end one day. I mean, it's got to run down some day. Don't you think? I've always heard that it was axiomatic that there is no such thing as perpetual motion.

So much is going on around us - it's mind bending.

Don't forget to stay awake for every single lumen on the longest day. A little chanting or drumming might help. A small nip of something special could lighten the heart.

And - on the 23rd there is a super moon as well.

Hello SumerTime! Now if there can be just a little warmth.

It's not asking too much, you think?

UP TO MY NECK IN THE "F" WORD (EXPLICIT - IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY 4 LETTER WORDS DON'T READ ANY FURTHER - PLEASE)

When I was in graduate school, we were "blessed" sort of, by various itinerant lecturers who came by and shared with us their particular slice of the wisdom pie.

I wish I could remember this guy's name but like so much of that time, I have put it somewhere beyond reach. The thrust of his presentation was that if you couldn't say "fuck" then something was fucking up your fucking. I mean, it doesn't get much cuter than that.

He had a presentation lasting about 30 minutes and used the "F" word in just about every sentence he uttered. I think he was trying to say that it was just a word and had no particular power in and of itself. But in our culture it's an emotionally charged word. I'll say one thing: it was memorable. Funny, how I never heard of him since.

I have always wondered how many colleges he hit with that little stunt while driving around in his air-conditioned RV, taking a nip out of the student activities fund.

Recently someone posted to his FaceBook timeline another bit by some joker, who was, in reality, just another redneck shock jock. His recipe for an omelette contained more or less about 70 words, 18 of which were some form of the "F" word. In addition, it was a rather plain and incomplete recipe that would never make it to a real kitchen. Not mine, anyway.

Then there is this site called - I Fucking Love Science . No question about it: we need to love science, but do we need to "Fucking Love Science"? I want to say, why cheapen the love of science with gutter talk? Oh, wait - you're trying to reach gutter people - I got it.

The same holds for those so-called reality shows on TV where these situational characters with bad hair and grunge clothing and no future in acting, seem to be incapable of putting two complete sentences together without the "F" word popping up, bleeped out of course, so we won't hear what we know is being said. At times there are more "bleeps" than regular words. I wonder how long before the networks just forget the "bleeps" and let it all hang out. I wonder if anyone will complain.

The gratuitous use of profanity cheapens even profanity. There is no question about the value of a well placed "by-word", even "that" word, now and then. I do not claim to be some kind of example of high minded speech, but discretion seems to be a lost art these days. And, by the way, profanity free English is perhaps the most beautiful gift we have as communicating human beings. The language is so beautifully powerful as not to need any help.

If I have offended someone, I'm sorry. But remember, I told you not to read this. Anyway, I am feeling like it's time to rinse out my mouth. "Oh, Miss. A little Tanqueray on ice please?"
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WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS - FOOD WORKS

If you're anywhere near the same place I am these dark, damp, dreary days, a nice culinary pick-me-up is just what can turn the tide away from the mudflats of despair, the shoals of aimlessness and the craggy rocks of self inflicted bodily harm.

The following just might save your life. First go find three other people and follow these directions. This can work for just one, or two, of course.

Go get four 6 oz salmon filets or a sections - it isn' critical. Sprinkle a little salt on the fish.

Then put these things in a small bowl and mix well. If you have large pieces of fish then increase the amounts a little. After you do this a few times you may want to add a little more of this or a little less of that. It's just a guide.

2 tsp paprika
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp ground ancho chili powder
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp brown sugar

Heat a non-stick pan to medium and wipe the bottom with an olive oil soaked napkin, or spray with some good non-stick spray, just to be sure. We are not frying this fish.

Rub the fish with the dry spice mix to coat it well.

Cook about 7 minutes on a side and about half way through the second side cooking time, drizzle some maple syrup on the fish. Some of it will run off and sizzle in the pan. That's not a problem.

Maybe some peas or carrots on the side along with a fresh spinach salad. It's up to you. You want French Fries, go on ahead. It's your happiness we are working for here.

Most any nice chilled dry white wine will do and soon after your first taste of salmon treated this way, you'll begin to think you are truly important and that the sun will actually shine again in your lifetime.

Enjoy! Jerry Henderson

WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE OCEAN