Scenes that are no more

“When time and fortune cast their spell, and youth’s bright years are over. Our memories shall fondly dwell on scenes that are no more.”

These words are the beginning of the Morristown (NJ) High School alma mater. And now, 50 years from my graduation day in 1966, those words bear truth that no high school student could ever conceive of.

As I write this, two of my teachers and coaches have died in the past few days.

Robert Mumford taught printing. I never took his class, but he spent one season coaching my swimming team. It was the 1963-64 season and the members of the swim team were brought into the gym several weeks before practice was to begin. The athletic director, Eugene “Cap” Smith, asked all of us about our plans to participate and if we really wanted a swim team. Apparently there were some problems with having a team. We didn’t have a coach, and while uniforms cost us only about $5 each, I suppose renting the pool at the local Y.M.C.A. and travel to other venues was quite expensive. We had four different coaches in the four seasons, I was on the team—none of them really knowing much about swimming. Anyhow, Mr. Mumford was named as our coach and the season was saved. He wasn’t a good coach, but he knew it and he pretty much let us run the team ourselves.

These days, the high school has a beautiful, far bigger and better pool with co-ed teams. Other high schools, in fact, rent pool time there. That may not have come about if Mr. Mumford hadn’t stepped up and coached us that year.

Mr. Joseph Dempsey, my high sophomore history teacher, was the only teacher I had who wouldn't take my B.S. He forced me to do my work. While I was brilliant (school records show I had a 132 IQ score) I was also bored and plagued with problems at home. I passed by maxing out my exams. By forcing me to do my work, Mr. Dempsey was the difference between my graduating and flunking/dropping out. In 1990, when forced by injuries to make a mid-career change, I also became a social studies teacher.

When I took Mr. Dempsey’s class during the 1963-64 school year, he had us write a paper on a little-known place in Southeast Asia --Vietnam. Three years later all hell broke loose there and the war divided our country. Because of him, those who were his students were able to make up our own minds about this divisive event in our nation’s history because we were informed.

It was his example that was the deciding factor in my making a mid-career change and becoming a social studies teacher. I aspired to become like him. And my grades showed it. I graduated with honors in both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees.

In 2010, I had the privilege of spending some time with him at the annual high school Heritage Day. At that time, I gave a speech about my friend, Tristan Whitney Hayes, '67, who died a hero in Vietnam. If you saw the movie "Forrest Gump," Tristian's actions in rescuing his fellow soldiers was similar to the movie. I wondered how Tristian could muster such courage and I remember when Mr. Dempsey was coaching football, he grabbed Tristian's facemask and told him to keep playing until the whistle blows. I guess Tristian learned that lesson well.

Mr. Dempsey was fairly small in stature, yet he was an all-state lineman.  To those of us who were fortunate to have him as a teacher, he was a giant of a man.

I have two books he wrote. He wrote a story of life in Morristown during the American Revolution. For those who are not familiar with Morristown, it was the winter home of Washington's troops twice. He also wrote another semi-fictions book about his family over the years and how they were involved in key events in American History. The autographed copies he gave me in 2010 are treasured.  In searching for these books online, I discovered he also had written some history texts as well as a teachers’ guide to the standard New Jersey American History textbook.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Joseph+H.Dempsey

To those who were unable to attend Mr. Dempsey's wake, I wanted to share a moment from the service. The priest imagined Mr. Dempsey at the gate of heaven and was asked by God just one question: "Did you love?" Mr. Dempsey didn't answer but turned around and pointed to the room in the funeral home (there were well over 100 people there). And God said, "come on in."

During the wake, I ran into two other teachers, Mr. Ward (math) and Mr. Schaffer (geography). I spoke with each briefly and realized just how lucky I was to have such a group of dedicated teachers. I have great memories of both.

My memories of high school continue to follow me, even 50 years later. I was a terrible student; I knew the material and just couldn’t bother to do homework. I simply didn’t want to go home at night to deal with my alcoholic mother’s crap. But I loved to participate in other activities. I had lived at a home for boys and spent sixth through ninth grade there. I had grown to be safe and secure there and leaving there and becoming a mid-year transfer in my freshman year was somewhat traumatic. I no longer had friends and deeply missed my then girlfriend Valerie. And living with my mother was difficult in the best of times.

And so, I became involved in school activities. A couple of weeks after my arrival, the school hired a man named Joseph Hayes to produce a school play called “Take Time Out,” which was a compilation of songs from great Broadway plays. He was a charismatic and very competent director and I was hooked. I wanted to be an actor and I was involved in many school plays as well as taking speech and drama courses, which were some of the few courses I enjoyed.  I later discovered that Mr. Hayes had quite an impressive history as a playwright.

 I vividly remember opening night. We were standing behind the curtain and I was freaking out. The girl next to me, a senior blonde cheerleader, grabbed me by the shoulders and helped me to calm down. I never knew her name, but she was so beautiful I forgot all about the panic and had a wonderful time during the show.

While I participated in sports, I wasn’t very good. During my freshman year, I blew out my knee playing baseball when my spikes got caught in a base. I tried to play football as a sophomore and Junior, but the knee just wouldn’t hold up. Even my swimming was a problem as my knee frequently popped in and out of joint when I kicked. But I did become involved in lifeguarding and teaching swimming. I later coached youth swimming and helped form a league for lake teams near Lake Hopatcong. Even to this day, I sometimes offer suggestions to people at swimming pools on how to improve their stroke.

Though I wasn’t very involved in sports, I loved to watch them. In my sophomore year, the football team was undefeated. There was a huge player, Hanson “Hamp” Hazelton, who was an all-state end during an undefeated season. I watched Hamp catch a ball and shred about five tacklers en route to a 60-yard football run.

During my senior year, nothing much was expected of our basketball team. We didn’t have a player over six-feet tall. But we had Davy Caldwell. He was only 5’4” tall, but he led the state in scoring that year. Combined with “Smeekie” Scott, the other guard, the team did a full-court press on every other team and lost only two games that year, one to the national high school champion, Newark’s Weequahic High School.

I remember we took a bus trip to Bayonne High and their team had four kids who could dunk. I said to the person sitting next to me that this probably wasn’t going to be our night. How wrong I was. Caldwell and Scott constantly stole the ball and scored. We scored more than 90 points, double the other team, and would have easily made it to 100 if Coach Cap Smith didn’t put in the subs.

But while the team was amazing, my memories about it are that I developed a love for the game. It was like a ballet, with players leaping through the air and running incredible routes up and down the court. But most of all, it was the teamwork. To me, the best team ever was the Willis Reed and Walt Frazier, Dave DeBusschere and Bill Bradley, Dick Barnett and Dave Stallworth and Cazzie Russell and Mike Riordan and Nate Bowman Knicks championship team. You never mention one player without thinking of another.

I was also on the debate team in my junior and senior years. It was there I became quite adept at both arguing and making a fool of myself. In one of those incidents, I got involved in a tiff with the moderator, a girl from Dover High School. Seven years later, we worked together at The Daily Advance, a now defunct newspaper and were briefly engaged.

Perhaps more than anything, I became involved in the school chorus as a senior. I had no musical training at all. I was (and am) a horrible singer. The only reason I joined was because I needed those credits to graduate. But Mrs. Sundstrom, the teacher, instilled in me a love for many types of music. With her, the transition from Beatles to Beethoven was made easily. As an added bonus, I met Emily, my senior prom date. After about 45 years, we reconnected and she is now much more than my girlfriend.

About ten years ago, I read a pop psychology book called “The Lies We Believe.”

The book examines the lies people tell themselves that damage emotional health, relationships, and spiritual life. It’s not just the lies you tell yourself, but lies other people tell you as well. The author, Dr. Chris Thurman, a psychologist, guides the reader through part one that identifies the different areas of self-lies, religious lies, marital lies, distortion lies, and worldly lies. It delves into the issues of what is truth, and Part Three, the most important part, deals with how to live the truth, giving one freedom from lies.

When I separated from my wife, I went on a journey of five years, travelling the country and speaking with people who were my classmates. I learned a great deal about how I was viewed, as well as much about them. Two of the people were women whom I worshiped, but was too shy to even approach as a teenager. Others were teammates and a wonderful re-connection with my best friend in high school.

But because I had so many problems as a pre-teen, the lies were deeply ingrained. As a Bonnie Brae boy, I had to say “Bonnie Brae” to the public school’s lunch line cashier every day. I was embarrassed to say it. I felt that I wasn’t as good as my classmates, and very different. I was different. But in speaking to Bonnie Brae’s director, Bill Powers, a few days after leaving the ex-wife, I was told I was, in fact, very different. But my reactions to being different were absolutely normal. It was a wonderful catalyst in learning more about my teen years and the “lies” that influenced me.

And so now, through the miracle of social networking, many of my Facebook friends are former classmates from both high schools I attended. Over the course of the years, they have been very supportive. An as I age, the alma mater becomes even more important.

“For busy, carefree high school days, and comrades tried and true. For these we lift our song of praise, dear Morristown, to you.”

An interesting aside. The MHS alma mater has the same music as the Christian anthem, "All Hail the Power of Jesus Name," Written in 1799, it is said to be the oldest American hymn. It is believed the author, Oliver Holden, may have taken the music from a popular drinking song. 

The unpardonable sin revisited

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers'

--Henry The Sixth, Part 2 Act 4. Scene 2. by William Shakespeare.

Those immortal words were uttered by Dick, a minor character who played a butcher in the play. But before the lawyers, let's kill the bureaucrats. Lawyers are harmless kittens compared to them.

Right now, I seem to be a minor character in a role that should be the protagonist of my current drama.

I am once again caught by the inescapable snares of bureaucracy. I have the incredible challenge of dealing with an auto insurance claim.

First, this has nothing to do with my driving or my truck. A tree fell through my trailer. More than a month ago it was declared a total loss. About three weeks ago, after some haggling, I reached a settlement amount. 

The haggling was the first time bureaucracy struck in the present claim.  The insurance companies, at least the one with the Gekko in its advertising, uses a company called CCC to create a "valuescope" of comparative prices in settling its claim amounts. 

I am once again caught by the inescapable snares of bureaucracy. I have the incredible challenge of dealing with an auto insurance claim.

A decade ago, a claim was made on a Ford Taurus, the most popular car on the market at that time, and I was living on Long Island. The comparative prices, or comps, came from places like upstate New York, in an entirely different price range, from a private seller instead of a dealer. 

This time it was worse. There was only one model the same as mine in the comps. And the sales location was in Wyoming. Another comp was a different year and a different size model and the third comp was of a model that didn't exist. They offered me $12.5K and after nearly ten days of haggling, I finally got them to go for about $1.5K more...still at the low end of the most reliable quote, NADA (North American Dealers Group).

One would think that once that hurdle was overcome, the credit union that has the lien on the trailer would be paid. But that is not the case. GEICO wants the title before paying off the note and giving me the balance. But the credit union does not have the title South Dakota does not issue a title until the loan is paid off. So let's get this straight. GEICO wants something that does not, by statute, exist. The credit union wants its loan paid and the state of South Dakota will issue a title only when the loan is paid. 

In the meantime, GEICO's salvage company has picked up the trailer I don't even have a trailer, which -- in fact -- could have been repaired enough to live in by myself for a couple of hundred dollars. In fact, GEICO never even told me what the salvage value is (as it is obligated to do), despite numerous requests. 

I'm not sure if the bureaucrats or ISIS should be killed first, but on general principles, it's got to be the bureaucrats. After all, ISIS does claim some sort of moral ground.

I'm not sure if the bureaucrats or ISIS should be killed first, but on general principles, it's got to be the bureaucrats. After all, ISIS does claim some sort of moral ground.

But the insurance company was most helpful in adjusting my billing, eliminating the part that covers my insurance on the trailer and backdating it to the day of my claim. This means I will only need to pay $66 of my usual $270 monthly payment at the end of the month. By the way, the policy renews on February 1 so my new payment will go up to $411 -- $141 more. It could have been a lot worse. I just got a notice that, including the trailer, I would be paying $586.09 -- far more than double my previous payments.

All because a tree dropped on my trailer. What they dropped on me is worse. I probably can't afford to drive anymore. 

Perhaps trees will fall on their cars and their rates can go up 200%. One can only pray so. But who do I pray to for that, with more than a thousand religions vying for the true belief. Just look at any of these religions, murdering one another. Can we get this to work on bureaucrats? Can we have a blood war between GEICO and State Farm?

A Christmas Card Carol

Ah look at all the lonely people.

I sent out my Christmas cards, late, so they arrived today (Dec. 26). I received a Facebook note from one of the people on my mailing list discussing how her kids were away and that this Christmas was unusual for her. Alone, she said she hadn't gotten any cards and hadn't sent any. She surmised that Facebook greetings had replaced them.

The note ended: "And thank you so much for the card. Receiving it actually brought tears to my eyes that someone remembered me."

It reminded me of another occasion a few years ago. The former Mrs. Munzer and I were in the middle of a bitter divorce. I sent her a brief e-mail that said something like "For what it's worth, happy birthday." I received a very emotional response because I was the only one who acknowledged her day. The next day others did, though I had little to do with that.

But it got me to thinking about other times. I've had those days too. Last year, I was alone in the Cascade Mountains and was snowbound. I was volunteering as a "presence" at a state park. It was closed for construction and I was basically serving as someone who could tell people the park was closed and as a discouragement to potential thieves of the heavy equipment that was on the grounds.
With poor cell service, I got a voice mail from my son, but little other contact with the world.

This year was entirely different. I drove my companion to Western Massachusetts where we met up with two of her daughters, one boyfriend and one grandson. We went to the boyfriend's family home where we had wonderful food, better company and more at a farmhouse. The 66-degree weather and eating at a picnic table was quite a surprise for everyone. And the 200 mile drives back and forth were good times for my companion and I to spend time talking beyond the usual daily business discussions.

And so the words of Eleanor Rigby, a Beatles' song, came to mind.

Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice In the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream Waits at the window, wearing the face That she keeps in a jar by the door Who is it for?

I went to a midnight service on Christmas Eve and there were a few single, mostly elderly people. I thought how they simply wanted to be near people on Christmas Eve. During the service, the sign of peace was offered and people seemed to gravitate to those who were alone. Except for one person.

Father McKenzie, writing the words Of a sermon that no one will hear No one comes near Look at him working, darning his socks In the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

The one person who wasn't involved in the sign of peace was the minister. Confined to a wheelchair, I noticed that he remained by himself at the alter. No one had come to him. I started to go to him, but my friend told me that everyone would shake his hand after the service. And the exchange of greetings was just about over. You can bet tomorrow morning, I'll be the one to go over to him. 

Eleanor Rigby, died in the church And was buried along with her name Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt From his hands as he walks from the grave No one was saved

I was blessed to give someone some Christmas joy, And during this Christmas season, let's remember the ones Jesus associated with. They were the outcasts, and the lonely. Those who were desperate came to Him and were comforted.

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

I am reminded of another song. It's called "Do Something Now" by the Cause, a group of popular Christian music artists who put out the song as a fundraiser for Compassion International in 1985 to aid African starvation.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IehAFd7N2Ok.

The song compares life in starving Ethiopia with life in our Utopia. And it notes we are God's hands and it is up to us to Do Something Now.

That song, 20 years later, still resonates because we are used by God, even when we feel we are at our worst, to help others. Neil Diamond's "Brother Love" preacher said we have one hand while we are in need to reach out to God, because that's what He's there for; and lift the other hand to our brothers because that's what we're there for.

And so I challenge every one who reads this to look for and reach out to someone who is lonely and hurting. And remember, It's not too late to send Cristmas Cards.

Psalm 37, Verse 3: "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. 

* * *

Those who read my blog regularly may be confused. I frequently attack religion and the Christians. I want people to know that, despite many doubts, I still believe in the good news of Jesus. BUT I am very angry at how fundamentalists, especially the people of the book, have turned their views into ways to control others. It is simply hate in a religious environment that calls for love. 

Tis the season to be raging -- It's complicated

For those who don’t know me very well, I have given up living in a travel trailer and my cross-country hauls are at an end. I’m living with a woman who was my senior prom date 50 years ago. Her name is Emily, and this is the first Christmas in a long time that I’ve lived in a house. Recent events, mainly the destruction of my trailer by a fallen tree, have also affected this decision. 

I love to do things at Christmas.  I believe in Norman Rockwell's view of it, though I've never experienced that world. This year I put up probably more than a thousand lights in the front of the house. And there is an 8’ tree in the living room with a village and a train on the bottom. In the dining room, I’ve placed a small fiber optic tree. It still needs to be decorated.

Decorating the big tree was an experience. After putting it up, Emily mentioned she didn’t bother decorating it last year, except for some candy canes. I figured it would be a good start to decorating the tree so I picked up three dozen at Wal-Mart. It took days to get started and I practically had to shove the canes in her hand. I brought up decorations and waited more days before trimming the tree by myself. The decorations were quite personal to Emily. Like my former wife, she either bought or made personal decorations for each of her children every year. And so I put up many decades of decorations involving the years of growing up with her three daughters who, incidentally, are almost as beautiful as their mother.

Long ago and far away, when our high school days ended, in the summer of 1966, it was quite different than today. A high school diploma was good enough to get a decent clerical or “blue collar” job. It was a time when being able to go to college meant your parents were well-to-do or you were a great student who could earn a scholarship. We were neither. And our post high-school days were for finding work and getting on with our lives. While we went to the prom together, our relationship wasn’t very serious. And we quickly lost track of one another.

The days of the junior college system began a couple of years after we graduated and we both attended the same college. I ran into her one day on the steps, but nothing lasted as I dropped out to go in the Vietnam-era army and she continued to do clerical work.

Anyhow, after my marriage ended, our relationship began anew and we finally are giving cohabitation  a try to see where it goes. 

Which gets us back to the tree. It was somewhat emotionally painful for me to put up the decorations. There were dozens of the annual ornament for each of her three girls. And every time I came across one, it reminded me that I don’t have these memories from my children. I began to go through time passages where I remember the Christmases with Rosemary, my former wife, and our children. Rosemary loved Christmas, especially decorating the tree. Her father loved to make decorations from things like the plastic “egg” packaging from L’eggs brand panty hose. And she had many of them, eventually adding more of her own comparative ornaments each year. I was flooded with warm memories of those days. When John was a year old, he was sick on Christmas Day and running a fever. Rosemary was a pediatric nurse and knew how to bring down a fever by simply putting John in a lukewarm bathtub. But both grandmothers insisted that he be bathed in alcohol, the treatment from when they were young mothers. We finally wound up taking the poor kid to Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan. Rosemary worked there and had a good friend who was working in the Pediatric emergency room that night. A couple of years later, I got an ornament that you put a photo in, and the photo was of poor John looking half asleep by the tree. I wonder if Rosemary or John still has it. I hope so.

I also thought about certain Christmas myths. John believed in Santa and we decorated the tree but left the tinsel off. We told John about the "Tinsel Angel" who came at night and put tinsel on the tree. It was a sign for Santa to come an place presents under the tree. He became so excited when he knew he had been good enough for a visit from Santa.  I often think about my kids and Santa. Trapped in the "born again" Christian culture, Rosemary decided that Matthew, my other son, would know there was no such thing as Santa. John is very optimistic and a mainstay in his church in Oregon while Matthew wants nothing to do with church and tends to be pessimistic. 

Those early Christmases were good years. We didn’t have much, but we had one another and didn’t need much. We had the largest apartment and hosted our families for Christmas dinner each year. I wish to God I could somehow have captured it again before the marriage fell apart.

Back to the tree. When Emily got home tonight, it was finished after several days of work and she told me how much she appreciated my putting it up. A window for about 15 years now, she told me she found it very difficult to handle the memories. Hell, so did I. But she was happy that the tree was filled with them for one of the few times since the loss of her husband to cancer.  It’s morel than that though. Life with her daughters has been very complex since her husband’s death. One of the girls had become involved with drugs and did much to hurt her sisters. She has been clean and sober for about six years now. But the bitterness still remains, complicated by other issues that are not appropriate for this missive, but very painful just the same.

As we sat and talked about it, I began to remember the Christmases of my childhood. For the first seven years of my life, they were wonderful. Then after my mother walked out on me, they were hellish. Alcohol destroyed many of them. Other times, we were very broke. I still have some Christmas decorations from both those periods. There are a couple of decorations that have been with me since I was born. The others were some cheap plastic globes filled with angel hair we got in Woolworth. They look like hell after nearly 60 years, but I cling to them because they are a symbol of survival. As I write this, I am playing Christmas music that synchs with the tree lights. “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” sung by Judy Garland has come on. I hold that song dearly because every year I hoped that somehow the next Christmas would be better. It never seemed to happen though.

In talking with Emily, I voiced something for the first time ever: “My mother left me.” I have always used the term, “my parents separated.” And I was filled with rage. Over more than six decades, the hurt and all that went with it still emerged. It refuses to remain buried. I can't get away from it and it has given birth to far too much of my life. I am perhaps writing this to finally lay this to rest. It’s a season for forgiveness, and my mother has been dead since the mid-1980s. I thought this had been let go of when we talked to one another with great honesty for the first time in decades, if ever, when she learned she had cancer. I told her what her drinking had done to me and she apologized. It was a long time coming. 

But the rage continues to haunt me and I can’t seem to turn away from it. I suddenly can understand why the holidays are a peak time for murders and madness.

“Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe. Remember thee.

Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away the trivial fond records, all saws of books, all pressures past,

That youth and observation copied there; and my commandment all alone shall live within the book and volume of my brain unmixed with baser matter: yes, by heavens.

 Oh most pernicous woman, Oh villain, villain, smiling damn villain. “

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

How ironic it is that finally I appreciate Shakespeare. Perhaps I recognize the beginning of Hamlet's madness and I am drawn to it. The rage he expresses is deep inside me. It is not so obsessive that it will end in murder as Hamlet's life did,. I am merely a wounded animal in constant pain and those who know me, know it. And I am grateful for their concern and understanding.

Back to the tree.  I have pounded it out on my keyboard. All that is left is to check the spelling and put the words on my blog. I do not know how therapeutic it is writing about it. All I know as I sit in the dark with my screen and watch the tree lights dance, that I am grateful to be where I am and that I am loved. I hope the same is true of my former wife and the boys. It has been a long and difficult journey for us and I’m sure, dear reader, that you too have had your ghosts from Christmas past.

I suppose part of my spirit is also dogged by my lukewarm faith. As I continue to look at my own Christianity, I tend to become quite confused. I often challenge the so-called “facts” of the Bible, which does not lend itself to the fundamentalist point of view that states every word of the Bible is absolute truth. One of my college professors, a Jewish rabbi who taught a history course on the foundations of our Judeo-Christian heritage, noted that the style of writing in those days was often not literal. For example, the number “40” was indicative of a long period of time, not a more precise meaning. So I wonder if the children of Israel really did wander for forty years, or did Jesus fast for 40 days. I often think of the tall tales written about our fictional American icons such as Pecos Bill, Paul Bunyan and others; and about tall tales the historical people of our time including Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday, Calamity Jane and Buffalo Bill. Did Davy Crockett really kill a bear at the age of three? Writers of this literature were prone to great exaggeration. We recognize these tall tales as what they are. But we really can’t conclude if what in the Bible is completely true. And we also wonder what is what God wants of us. The Apostle Paul sets many conditions of behavior for women. Can we think these are divinely inspired, or simply a reflection of the mores of the time. Can “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet,” be acceptable in today’s America?

And what about the many Biblical accounts of Christmas? Are we to believe there were three wise men, shepherds seeing and hearing angels in the field, the birth in a manger? There was a time in American politics that anyone who aspired to become President had to claim birth in a log cabin. And they lied about it. 

I have read the entire Bible several times. But one must have faith to believe. And so my faith is torn in several directions. My former fundamentalist commitment to Christ has disappeared. I see the hypocrisy of the right wing too much. Rosemary and I were perhaps the only Democrats in our church. We were in favor of social legislation such as welfare. Yet while they opposed things like abortion, their opposition never came close to their charity to unwed mothers to be. They did not raise these children, but condemned them to live a life of emotional stress and poverty. It says something when you oppose both birth control and abortion at the same time.

But enough of my commentary on that. Back to the tree. It’s after midnight now. The lights both inside the house and our neighbors’ outdoor adornments are off. The only lights I see are those of the tree, dancing to “Silent Night,” and yet another childhood memory comes to mind. I was somewhere around four years old and went to a party for cub scouts, of which my cousin Red (Luke) was a member. I heard him and the rest of the scouts sing the song and I remember to this day how “all is calm, all is bright,” soothed my spirit. I sometimes compare our lives. I idolized Red as a child. He was like the big brother I never had. Red's life has been one of steadfastness. He remains with his lovely wife and worked for one company for most of his career. Mine has been chaotic, with two divorces and dozens of jobs. He knows what his life will be like in the future while I remain wandering. He is more Norman Rockwell while I am more Terry Redlin, looking at the closed homes and enjoying the beauty of nature that surrounds them.

I guess I have put enough words – more than 2000 – to finally free myself of the rage and sleep in heavenly peace. 

Oh reader, if you’re still here, thanks you for taking the ride and may your Christmas be bright. Show those you care about some love and give even more to those you don’t care about.

This too shall pass -- maybe ‫این نیز بگذر

I have hesitated about commenting on the latest slaughter of innocents in San Bernardino, California. It is not for lack of empathy, but because I am simply overwhelmed by the violence. And very few will see what I write, and it will soon be forgotten.

Beyond yesterday's slaughter, recent killings include the Planned Parenthood massacre in Colorado, at a town I visited and really liked. It is near the magnificent Garden of the Gods. On the same day, ISIS released another beheading video, this of a Russian journalist.

Of course, there was Paris a week ago. And since Columbine, there have been so many school shootings such as at Sandy Hook. And there have been mall shootings – including at a mall my son and former wife surely have gone to. And the theaters. And the streets. And in homes. 

As I write this, I am listening to the news.  There was a shooting in Brooklyn, killing three. Police say it was a man killing his girlfriend, her lover, and then himself.. I can't help but wonder how many of these lesser taking of lives, numbering about 30,000 every year in the United States, are no longer shocking. We are nearly immune to these things. They have become common place. Perhaps it is because many of us have killed tens of thousands of video game characters. 

Politically, the insanity continues. As the Republicans yet again attempt to end Obamacare and defund Planned Parenthood, they ignore the issues of crime and refuse to take the slightest steps to stop crazy people from getting guns. And the NRA's mission seems to be to keep assault weapons for hunters. The United States has 283 MILLION guns in civilian hands!

It’s just too much to comprehend at one time. How do we stop terrorism? How do we end the political gridlock? How can we keep guns away from madmen? 

And I can’t help but think that humanity is now involved in a new Darwinian version of survival. The violent will destroy the peaceful. And the only way for the peaceful to survive is to fight back, becoming violent. 

I have also come to realize that the extremists of various religions care little about God. It’s all about power. Here, fundamentalist Christians use abortion, Obama, and gun control to gain political control of the nation. Elsewhere, ISIS and its cousins use control of women; hate for America, and weaponizing to control what it can. In this season, I ask whatever happened to “peace on earth and good will towards men?”

And the peaceful are dying. Not only here in the United States, but elsewhere. Europe is being overrun by those who flee Syria and ISIS. 

Personally, I had enough of weapons when I was in the Army. I don’t hunt, but I like to fish. But I am now thinking of arming myself. In my mind, I will be ready to protect myself. And if I do, I becoming part of the problem.

I also ask myself if I really want to live in a world like this? When I was in high school, I once proposed in a debate that the best way to control nuclear weapons was to have an all-out nuclear war. We would be rid of the weapons and the people who use them. A perfect Darwinian solution.

But that won’t stop insanity. Without violence, how we would have dealt with Hitler’s Nazis, an older version of ISIS?  I have said, “Kill them all.” But I know we can’t and whatever doesn’t kill them also makes them stronger. 

So I have another reason to be grateful that I’m getting old. I won’t live to see much more of this. But I fear for the survival of my sweet granddaughter. I wonder if she will someday live in some sort of  dystopian society. And I ask myself if we are entering such a time. 

Humanity surely has had other eras of social chaos. The Dark Ages in Europe; the world wars of the 20^th century; the near-annihilation of native Americans through European disease – not to mention AIDS in Africa. Civilizations rise and fall, and violence is its catalyst. Is it our destiny to repeat the same mistakes in a never-ending cycle? 

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” – Solomon, Ecclesiastes 1:9

I can only cling to the words that make a happy man sad and a sad man happy. “This too, shall pass.” ‫این نیز بگذرد‎‎‬ , ironically an adage coming from ancient Persian poets. And so will I.

No Answers

I’m not sure where this is going because I don’t have the answers about terrorism. It seems that nobody else does either.

My gut level reaction to the latest terrorist attacks in Paris continues to be the same. Kill every last fucking one. But the problem is, you can’t. Because for every one you kill, you will outrage others.

It began with the children of Adam and Eve as the Jews and Arabs became bitter rivals. With the rise of Islam and the European crusades, the hatred fermented into a bitter feud that has remained in the heart of Islam since before the Europeanization of North America. In a way, the current terror started with Hitler, you know. History tells us that actions create reactions. Unlike in science, the results are not predictable. Hitler tried to wipe out the Jews. The reaction – the state of Israel was born. Now Israel was filled with Arabs who happened to own the land for centuries. They were forced out; creating the Palestinian question that has gone unresolved for more than half a century and seemingly has no salvageable ending.

Out of this has come our need to defend Israel. It is in our political and moral interest to do so. And because of this, we constantly concern ourselves with any threats to Israel. And when you involve the oil in the Middle East, we are sure to get involved. We supported governments, like the one in Iran that was corrupt and certainly undemocratic. And when the Iranians revolted and put in an extremist religious group in power, the hatred for Americans became highlighted with the capture of embassy personnel as prisoners.

All this leads to more conflict. The rise of bin Laden and the September 11 attacks on America rose us to wrath the level of which hadn’t been seen since Pearl Harbor. The result – we invade places like Iraq and Afghanistan, and the cycle of rage continues. The crusaders have returned. We had no business in Iraq, and as we destroyed bin Laden’s group, others arose. And now we have to deal with ISIS, a group even more extreme.

Nuke ‘em, I say, nuke ‘em. But that really isn’t an option is it? To do so would make us even worse than ISIS.  

So what is to be done? Do we simply get the hell out of the Middle East? We can’t. The threat to Israel is too great. Places like Paris, London and New York are occasionally attacked. Israel endures terror on a daily basis. And Israel’s position is often highly provocative.

Do we wait for Armageddon? It seems almost certain we are a situation such as the end times described in the last book of the Christian Bible, Revelation. Jesus, the man with the hippie values that changed our entire philosophical landscape, would probably say the answer is to love one another. But how do you love after millennia of hatred? Come to think of it, with the hatred today’s fundamentalist Christian whack jobs have produced within our own country over abortion, immigration, education and other issues, I suspect we spread more hate than ISIS.

OK, perhaps I am being extreme – but so are they. And there is a problem with extremism – there is no place to consider the other’s position. And so while we have discussed compromise in the Middle East, there is no longer any room for it. The Middle East is much like the American political process – paralyzed due to the inability to compromise. And perhaps that’s another reason for the insanity. With all the political stubbornness, we can’t even agree on a national position. And I suppose our lack of a clear direction also encourages terrorists.

Or is this about us? View this link and listen to what it says. Are we so buried in our own bullshit that we have lost our direction? It is the opening scene from a HBO series called The Newsroom and the actor is Jeff Daniels. The series lasted from 2012 to 2014 and the writer is Aaron Sorkin, who also wrote much of television's finest series including The West Wing; as well as feature films including The American President, Charlie Wilson's War, Moneyball and The Social Network. His current movie is Steve Jobs, which was released two weeks ago.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMqcLUqYqrs

Like I said at the beginning: I’m not sure where this is going because I don’t have the answers about terrorism. It seems that nobody else does either.

I don’t know how long this will last, but carpe diem.

My nerves are shot . . .and it is a wonderful thing!

A decade of background is in order.  Sometime in the autumn of 2006, I was working in the auto service center of a Wal-Mart on Long Island, near where I lived. That day, the store was expecting some very important visitors form the Wal-Mart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas. And so some damn fool in management insisted that every floor in the building be freshly waxed overnight.

Now it was perfectly all right to wax the floors in the store. But there is a major problem with waxing the service bays. In brief, there is oil on the floor. It does not react well with waxing. We wear shoes with oil resistant soles to help fight the oil spillage problem. They do not work on wax and oil. To make matters worse, it was raining heavily. We were having the reminents of a hurricane, which had been downgraded to a tropical storm. But we still got four inches of water.

My job was generally to write service. I would take a hand-held computing device and write customer’s orders down as they lined up their cars outside the garage. I was very, very good at this job as I had won the district’s (Long Island, New Jersey and Connecticut) two years running. Anyhow, I walked into the passenger aisle of the garage and suddenly I was looking at my feet facing the ceiling. I landed, very hard, on my neck, shoulder, arm, elbow, and hand. I was in agony. After a moment of catching my breath, I walked over to the wall and slammed my right shoulder into the wall. The shoulder had become separated and I was able to knock it back into place.

And so began a long and unhappy series of doctor visits, MRIs and worker compensation hearings and lawyer nonsense. If you ever get hurt on the job, know that worker compensation is an adversarial procedure between you and your insurance company. It took five years to get a settlement for the case and I am supposed to obtain coverage from the ongoing pain from the injuries that has redeveloped, but people can’t even find the insurance company that handled it. So I have to see doctors under Medicare and lord only knows how much this is costing me.

I would be given a series of steroid injections in the upper spine to determine if the pain could be relieved. I showed up for the procedure a couple of weeks ago and as a precaution, they monitored my heart rate. I was stunned to discover it was 155 – about 95 beats per minute above my normal. And, rightfully, the procedure was postponed.

But it’s worth it. The pain has, over the course of 2015, become unbearable. I could not sleep well, despite taking medication to help me do so. I could not lift my upper arm over my head and often had the arm in slings, along with elbow and hand braces. After five years “on the road” travelling many times from coast to coast and living in a RV travel trailer, I rarely had the opportunity to see doctors or physical therapists. I spent five-month stints during the summers of 2013 and 2014 in a small town (population 850) in the South Dakota Badlands and saw a doctor who came once a week. He had a great name – Dr. Goodhope – and he was able to manage my diabetes. He also was great about prescriptions, enabling me to get refills over the course of a year; so even though I was only there for a brief part of the year, I had some medical support.

But with my return to the New York metro area, I was able to return to my medical support system, which included a primary/pulmonologist, cardiologist, endocrinologist, surgeon and others. I was back in the medical system. It took about two months to get an appointment with my primary care doctor and, while waiting, the pain had become unbearable. I checked into an emergency room, where I was diagnosed with, in addition to neck issues causing the pain, a sub-acute stroke. Doctors tell me that a sub-acute stroke is one that has occurred in the past few days, but has not been disabling. I had been very tired, but was unaware of what was going on.

So anyhow, after being discharged from the hospital, my primary doc set me up with a bunch of appointments. The problem is that the primary doc is located on Long Island, where I had lived for more than 30 years before hitting the road. And I had settled down in Northwest New Jersey, where I had been raised. It cost me more than $100 in gas, tolls and food, including dinner with my son, every time I went there and doctors there began telling me to get help in New Jersey.

Anyhow, I thought the answer to my pain had to be spinal surgery. I had problems with five disks and so I saw a Long Island spinal surgeon. He told me that I needed to see a pain specialist first. I decided that I would see one in New Jersey and I obtained a recommendation from my companion. (“Companion” is kind of a weird way to describe our relationship. It sounds too gay. She is a woman and was my senior prom date 50 years ago. We are living together but are very apprehensive about marriage due to many New Jersey legal issues involving property.)

Anyhow, I saw him and we set a date for a procedure. I would be given a series of steroid injections in the upper spine to determine if the pain could be relieved. I showed up for the procedure a couple of weeks ago and as a precaution, they monitored my heart rate. I was stunned to discover it was 155 – about 95 beats per minute above my normal. And, rightfully, the procedure was cancelled. I had another visit to the hospital where I was stabilized with IV fluids. I was very dehydrated and was showing signs of A-fib, which is very dangerous given my stroke history.

I’m not certain if the release from pain has restored me to more normal energy or if I’m manic as a side effect. And frankly, I don’t care. I feel wonderful, better than I have since I was injured.  

I had bowel problems over the past few days and figured the cause was dehydration. But I decided to go back to Long Island to see my cardiologist (whom had checked me out only a few weeks before and I was fine). But when I arrived, my heart was running 144 beats per minute. He prescribed the appropriate meds, but insisted I get a cardiologist in New Jersey to check me the next day and have lab work done. They did so, and now my heart was back to “normal.” And so yesterday, I received the procedure.

Now I hadn’t a clue what would really happen. It being “Back to the Future Day” – the day that Marty and Doc visit the future in the trilogy – I figured I would watch the movie on my laptop while they working on me. I expected things to last about a half hour, but it only took about 10 minutes at the most. So I watched it in the recovery room. You were supposed to eat and drink something and as a diabetic, I had issues. But the pretzels they had were only a gram of sugar and they had diet soda – which tasted awful. It was out of date and soft drinks with artificial sweeteners go south in a hurry. So they gave me a diet ginger ale instead of a diet cola and that was fine. I was very pleased to learn about the low sugar count in pretzels as they will be the handouts for the trick-or-treaters and I had thought that I would have to throw them out afterwards. Instead, they will make an imperfect, low-calorie, low-sugar snack.

So I drove home, after making a side trip to nearby Wightman’s Farms and picking up the best apple cider in America. We have gotten into the habit of a hot mug of it before bedtime and I will miss it after the harvest is over. It was also late so I picked up some chili at Wendy’s for dinner. She loves their chili and I didn’t know if I would be up to making dinner.

 I woke up feeling great. There was little pain, more like a minor ache. And for the first time in nearly a decade I was able to throw a ball overhand. 

Anyhow, the side effects started shortly after 8 p.m. I began shaking badly and became quite crazed and manic. I called up the doctor and his nurse practitioner returned the call. As I described the symptoms, I mentioned that they often occurred when I was hypoglycemic – my blood sugars were too low. But in this case, they were about 450. Normal is 80-120 and if I hit 500, it’s a matter of going to the ER. Anyhow she said the steroids where probably affecting my diabetes and I took some extra medication then and calmed down in an hour though my blood sugars were still very high at around 340, they were not a cause for immediate hospitalization.

My symptoms relieved, I took my normal meds around 10 p.m., including more diabetic medicine and something to help me sleep. But I was still way too manic, but much less than I was. I still didn’t get to sleep until around 2 a.m., after watching hours of post-Mets game cable coverage. And I’m not really a Mets fan.

But the needles worked. In the morning I woke up feeling great. There was little pain, more like a minor ache. And for the first time in nearly a decade I was able to throw a ball overhand. My accuracy sucked, but I could do it. I am so looking forward to playing a game of catch with my granddaughter the next time I get to Oregon. I recently joined a gym and will also give shooting baskets and swimming freestyle a go.

It feels incredible. It's as if a huge burden was lifted from my shoulders (and I suppose it is literally true since the shoulders were the key source of pain). But I remain somewhat manic. I had let things pile up in my room and though it would take a week to clean. It was done in a couple of hours – while I was also working in the basement and doing laundry. And when I sat down to write this, I’ve gone more than 1700 words in just an hour or so. I’m not certain if the release from pain has restored me to more normal energy or if I’m manic as a side effect. And frankly, I don’t care. I feel wonderful, better than I have since I was injured. And I raring to go. So far today I’ve done all that and I’m about to hit the gym. I don’t know how long this will last, but carpe diem.

* * *

An interesting aside to the dramatic reduction of pain due to steroid injections the other day. My mind seems clearer. I can remember words much better and am more aware of what I am doing and need to do. In other words, far less scatterbrained.