Youth...the song of Good.

The other day I purchased a song for my iPod. It was a bizarre little ditty. But it was a song of my childhood. The worn record played on an old record player as we played army men or built models.

“The Battle of New Orleans” by Johnny Horton.

In 1814 we took a little trip…along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip…
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans.
And we caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans.

We fired our guns and the British kept a coming.
There wasn’t as many as there was a while ago.
We fired once more and they began to running,
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.

A little tune to make you happy about a childhood of army men, Daniel Boone, and coonskin caps.

Remember when the discussion was whether Daniel Boone was tougher than Davy Crockett? Well, I do. It was a no win discussion but I’d put my money on Davy Crockett.

On the same album, Sink the Bismarck. The one thing I learned before I even went to school was that the Germans had a huge battleship was really tough to sink. Thanks to a goofy little song…

We’ll find that German battleship…
That’s making such a fuss.
We’ve got to sink the Bismarck.
Because the world is such a muss.

We’ll hit those decks a running boys,
And spin those guns around.
When we find the Bismarck,
We’ve got to cut her down.

I listen now and wonder how we learn. A song, a record album and a bit of history.

Our youth propels us to believe.
Our youth propels us without us knowing.

We dream sometimes of never growing old. We find ourselves caught in bodies and time we never expected. We feel young and we carry the torch forward to light up a part of our life we hope will represent what we believe is a good life.

Unfortunately, we find out the good is all in the perspective.
I felt “good” a few times where the perspective never changed. Work became work. But love was always love. A good love may glimmer in mirrors and change its appearance but only its appearance. Love is good regardless.

Here I am again at my age, feeling like a twenty something knowing what is good in life and what is not from the perspective of a middle aged man. I hope for the youth to remember the feelings of youth. They are good and they never go away. The perspective changes but the feelings never mean less. They grow in value over time.

The pounding beat of a heart signifies love, health and life. May you have all three and may they all be good.

SUN!

The weather can change you. It can change your perspective. I’m sitting in sunshine in the middle of February. A brilliant day if it were in Scotland. I type of day the locals would remember for a long time. But as I embrace this beautiful day, I hear the old people complain of the cold and putting on jackets; looking forward to the soup of the day.

Here I am in shorts and a golf shirt. It is all a matter of what you are used to. I even went swimming in rather chilly water. But because I have taken a dip in Lake Michigan in the middle of summer, I know what cold water really is. Nothing is too cold if it won’t induce hypothermia.

So, I enjoy the frozen chill. It is good to be in the sun, the water and despite the work load there really isn’t much to complain about.

We’ve worked two 14 hour days in a row and this is my first morning to take a breath. The car leaves in 15 minutes.

As I think about it, the sun and the weather and the way of life. I can only imagine how my life would be different if I spent most of my life down here. The North would be as unforgiving and barren as any tundra.

More than that, the lifestyle would be different. The smell of grass all the time probably goes unnoticed. The strong sun becomes weaker over time.

A day of golf can occur any time while in the north we wait for the snow to melt, the ground to dry and our hands to unfreeze.

Not much else to say today, except the car is about to leave, I’m driving and the sun is shinning.

Happy Valentine's Day

A hidden camera portrait of Jan and Dean on a Sunday afternoon.

The Laughing Sounds of Leaves

Looking for a laugh? There was always Grace. She could always give out a laugh when you needed it. Unfortunately it didn’t make her life happier. She became very nervous and afraid. Instead of letting her laughs brush away the sorrow of age it was just a momentary escape. The weight of life grew heavy on her.

She was a good grandmother. Some of us are born to do certain things and some of us grow into roles. She must have been somewhere in between. She had a rough childhood during the Depression and it weighed heavily on her. She had issues like the rest of us. My own mind wanders down some of the paths she took. It is easy to get down and fear the worst.

Just the other day, her home town suffered a huge fire. I can only imagine what Grace would do in the wake of such a tragedy. The town she loved so much charred and destroyed. I am sure her worries would have manifested into a mood I’m glad she never had the chance to experience.

As a grandchild, I thought the town revolved around my grandparents. When we walked to the store or went to church it seemed as if they were the town’s founding couple. The people shook hands, nods were exchanged and a good laugh. It was as if everyone embraced my grandparents in a communal hug and a pat on the back.

To me it was a great town, better than my own. It had a river you could swim in, cool stores full of toys and ice cream shops. A visit to my grandparents was always a treat. Their house was quaint and clean. The staircase was slick from polish. The smells will never leave my mind. From the apples ripening on the back porch, to the scent of the couch where we’d watch Johnny Carson, to the bedrooms where I would try to sleep in the house I considered sacred.

When things in our lives change, it is as if it happens and we don’t respond. We see the falling leaves but do not contemplate the tree is bare. We don’t appreciate the tree when it is full and we lament when the limbs hold nothing but memories.

As my grandmother aged, I seemed to be unaware of the bare tree. I never contemplated the emptiness that would occur. The laughs were like fall leaves dancing quietly in the air and rustling on the ground.

I sometimes feel as if I’m trying to be more aware of falling leaves of those around me. I contemplate that someday they will no longer hold the gems we remember them by.

Because I did not fully understand, because I was selfishly concerned about myself, I was unaware of what was happening. Maybe I did, but subconsciously I never realized the moments would end. It is in our way of coping we think everything will continue as it is.

Memories beget memories until they are faded from the world. I speak of my grandmother because her memory should not fade. She made me feel as if I had the best grandparents in the world. She succeeded at being a grandmother beyond what she expected in herself. She made me feel normal and special at the same time.

I’m not sure what she would say of me today. I just hope she’d laugh.

When I pass by her old home it is as if the moments we had slowly reacting to their passing come back with a vengeance. It is a slap in the face. What we hold precious today can be gone tomorrow. The smells lingering in my mind are gone on earth. The sights and comforts of what we hold dear vanished.

I have no warm memories of my own home. It was always cold and spooky. But, my grandparent’s home was like a way station on the journey to adulthood. What I learned from them in their home I take with me wherever I go.

Whenever I feel like a laugh is needed, I think of Grace.

The Ghosts of Orchard Street

I often wondered why I woke up in the middle of the nights when I was a child. I blamed it on ghosts. I’m sure there were ghosts but more than likely it was the angst of what I would become. Whatever truths existed in my life, the future was a blueprint. There were expectations in my mind to be something more than what was expected. There was no gauge set, no compass, but a meandering direction in my mind.

I can recall the street of our home more clearly than most things, a vivid dream sometimes, and the last time I returned it had all changed. The dream is more real than the reality.

What is our youth? What fate do we own for where we are born and raised? I doubt much, for my birthplace means nothing in my life today.

I don’t believe in a birthplace as much as a “lifeplace.” The more I think of it, there seems to be a lifeplace for each of us. A place, where we came alive or where we feel alive. It is a place where our dreams are real and reality is as close to those expectations as they can be to be what we imagined. Each of the four of us, have a place we may have found or are still searching for. I found mine.

I may have forgotten the sleepless nights of childhood but I know the sleepless nights of adulthood. A child awakes out of fear. An adult awakes out of anxiety. I fear little now, but I’m anxious about everything.

Some of our friends do not contemplate the thought of other places to find their peace. They carry out their lives as if their lives are complete. They know of only one world, the one they made and they gauge the world by how they live. Their compass always points them to their home, their hometown; their birthplace.

I think we all want to feel safe at home. We want to feel complete. We want our lives to mean something in the end. In our minds, our world was created in our youth and as we grew up the Dorian Gray picture of our lives remained. It changed very little until we awoke and felt our age.












The Ghost of Adolescence

My imperfections lie in the painting of my life. No masterpiece, no great work, but something personal. It is a painting most people seem to pass by in this great gallery of lives. Nothing catches their eye to make them stop and look. But if they stopped and took a look there might be something there to remember.

The childhood ideas of being “something” seem less important after I’ve met those people who are “something.” With age, comes the determination of completeness. We wish we could have everything we dreamed. When I’m with the “somethings” they are so afraid to become “nothings” they spend most of their time talking about themselves. They spend too much time telling themselves they have everything.

It is with age, I learned the most meaningful people are those who we just pass by. Their paintings are not masterpieces but they are personal. They don’t stop people in their tracks but a good observer will find a gem in their canvas. A good listener will hear the brilliance in the artist.

When I think about the ghosts of Orchard Street, I think of artists who were busy painting their canvases, unsure of what to paint. We believed in darker tones to match the dourness of a place we thought was home. Now, the bright colors of our lifeplace cover up the darkness. Our dreams on canvas, the artists still painting and trying to use every piece. We each have our hopes the painting won’t be finished until it is exactly what we dreamed.



Let’s hope we have enough paint.

Three Ladies and a Tramp

This blog is for three people. My mother, my sister and my wife. Three women, who change, impact and inspire me each day of my life. The reason I created this blog is simple. My wife needs it. She misses the blog entries I used to create on a daily basis. For almost a full year of our marriage, the blog was our connection. It became a way for me to discuss my feelings and for her to read about them. She could have just asked or talked with me but there is something in my writing I guess she needs. I don’t blame her. I do find the voice I have on paper is much better at being specific, emotional and foretelling. I articulate better writing than speaking.

So, I guess I am the tie binding this little group. At least I will have a place to express my feelings. I may not write as frequently as before. I do miss the daily writing. Like exercise, I need to keep in shape, so I think it is good to at least write a little every day.

I have found my brain losing its dexterity. Last year, really made it work and I enjoyed the feeling of maxing it out with theory and perspectives.

Just the nature of this blog may point out a simple fact: I relate better with women then men. I find men to be caustic, plodding, arrogant, and wrapped up in their insecurities. I would never confide my true feelings with any of my male friends. They would turn everything inward and wonder what it means to them. And politics finds men wanting to prove their sexuality by their stances. I call it “dick swagger.” Men are conservatives because they think a hammer can solve any situation. Just pound the nail…and keep pounding until the problem is fixed. Excuse me dude, but we are dealing with mold? Well, burn it! It will catch the house on fire. Build a new house!!! It’s all about muscle and swagger.

I guess my personal feelings and thoughts have to be written down. They tell you not to give out so much information on blogs but I’ve done it for a long time now. Somewhere someone knows way too much about me. I often think no one understands me really. Sometimes not even myself. However, I would say you three know me rather well.

I wish I could say this blog won’t go into discussing a certain place we all know I’ll write about. But, of course, I’ll write about….Michigan.

Here’s the first take on that….I like running at night because if I play the right music, look down at the cement, I transport myself to a town far away. I imagine the stone walls passing by my feet on my right…the long causeway…the bus stops…the crisp wrappers…it all comes back to me as I run.

American life is so smothering. I have to come out and say it, I don’t like the people. I found Russians as stubbornly dismissive as Americans but not Scots. Maybe the English are so, but not the Scots. Americans are so self-centered it is an impenetrable force and discussions are a tap dance of boosting egos.

Academics are as arrogant as TV stars and they really have no right to be. Now, when I deal with people it is so much easier, as I just let them talk. I feel humbled. I’ve had my knees taken out on a cheap shot. I am vulnerable. As I go from one culture of TV (NBC) to another culture (PBS) and then another (Scottish TV) and then another (Sports Time Ohio), I find that my existence is insignificant in the rush of talent. Like water it forces everything in its wake, you either float and take a ride or drown. The memory of my career is only in my mind.

So, here we are…a public personal forum for me again. Let’s hope I can remain positive.

It is not always easy. The four of us have our visions of what life should be. Each one of our visions are different, each not quite what we expected. However, we all have had memorable lives so far. In the grand scheme of things, we’ve done rather well.

I used the other blog as a vent for emotions and I’m sure I’ll go right back to doing the same. It is just what comes natural.

So, this is our blog. Feel free to comment on anything written. We may have an occasional visit from someone from cyber space so remind yourself when you do write.

I love you all.