The Porcupine III

This is the most contemplative time of the year for me. Is it the seasonal change, or part of our cultural norm, or perhaps a little of both? It’s the only time of the year I can catch the time before it ticks away. I think on Thanksgiving places and people that are long gone. Christmas time memories that fade a bit with each passing year. Grandpa who drank his coffee from the saucer, dad who liked pecan pie with his meal. All around the table at one time. I recall faces from church members of long ago that ate Thanksgiving with us, or staying with a friend in Alabama and playing basketball in the school gym before the big meal, and then walking the property after and picking up grocery bags full of pecans. I remember a Thanksgiving dinner with the Peace Corps, our last American meal for a long while where somehow turkey and fixings made their way to Southern Russia to go along with the multiple shots of vodka.

This Black Friday, I took my youngest son to work, not because I had to but because I could. An opportunity to do something different, meandering a bit out of the ordinary. It was late afternoon and the rush of shoppers had died down. I was able to learn the route he drives to work and why, and where he parks and what door he goes in. All mundane stuff, but the multiple things we do without thought our whole lives. I watched him walk across the parking lot and go in, and then it was just me. I lay the seat back and watched the sun go down.

I heard a flock of geese pass over with their honks. If you’re close enough to them, you can hear them slice through the air, a body perfectly shaped to ride wind, and then a car alarm went off somewhere across the concrete. One truck drove in and parked further out where there are more empty spaces. He pulled a trailer filled with lawncare equipment and one of those nice zero turn mowers that can do a circle in place. I imagine he has worked this day when many of us had the day off. I watch him get out and he strolled around to the driver’s side. This must be his wife, I thought, and then he pulled a collapsed wheelchair from the backseat, set it up and helped her into it, then shut the truck door. Together, he rolled her across the parking lot and into the store.

By the Grace of God go I.

I think of a friend of mine who I worked with for several years. She died too young of cancer and would go to this store after it opened. She was a scientist with a sense of humor the level of a high schooler. We laughed a lot. Such a soul, she was a humanist who believed you did the best you could now with what you see and what you know. I always told her she was more Christian than many Christians I’ve known.

I was a substitute teacher once in a third-grade class, the last day before the Thanksgiving break. The kids are always in a good mood. The lessons were creative and interactive, cutting out a turkey and coloring it and doing search words. Glue, paper, and scissor stuff to sneak in some learning about the history of Thanksgiving. There is much historical truth that is sanitized for kids, heck for all of us, though this isn’t the place to tell them. The spirit, the intent, is here. To pause and be thankful. I feel privileged to be with these kids. Those kids are in high school now, wherever they are.

The moon is up. Another man leaves the store and walks to his car by himself. He wears a mask, even with the cool, crisp night air. Does he have allergies or does he just not think about his mask still being on? He carries no bag. Did he go in to buy something for his wife or kids and not find it? My mind is a curious one. Always has been.

Silent Night plays on my satellite radio. The Hallmark Channel. Music from the time of records.

When I was bored in church as a youth, I would read stories in the bible that sat in each pew. My father would be preaching, but I would be reading about Joseph or the various kings who either found favor with God or had problems with women or were constantly doing battle with enemies at home. What I would give to hear my father again. This time I would listen just to hear his voice. When young, time feels forever, even slow. When old, time runs faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

Bing Crosby is on the radio now. I love the music and nostalgia of the old days. Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis. This was my parent’s music, not mine, but my kids put me in the same group. Since I was alive when these people were, I am equally ancient. Whatever. Time marches on, but talent is timeless, and now I like them. I’m obviously old.

The man has returned with his wife. This time she rolls herself in the wheelchair and he pushes a cart with a new microwave, some croissants, and some other goods I can’t make out. He wedges the boxed-up microwave under the mower on the trailer. The rest of the goods he puts in the back of the truck. She pulls herself up to the passenger door. He helps her get into the seat, then collapses the wheelchair and slides it into the back seat behind her. She holds the croissants in her lap. He pulls out slowly and makes a wide turn when they leave. I wonder if she ate a croissant.

By the Grace of God go I.

In an earlier issue, I mentioned the necessity of getting familiar with AI. The breakthroughs are continuing, and it will be a bit of the wild west before regulation catches up. Until then, there are several apps with useful features you can find, such as restoring old, damaged photos. Since AI has gotten good enough to create an entirely unique picture just from a simple description you give it, if you have even a smidgen of a photo left, it has the capacity to fill in the blanks, and it will keep doing so until you pick the completion that is the most accurate. Check out the various tools in this article and the amount of restoration that can be done in seconds. The most interesting one to me is the application that will blend photos and put different generations together. The creativity with AI will be endless.

Cousin Deborah sent me a link from a writer she follows and that led me to this gem. My sleep pattern is hit and miss. Sometimes I wake up rested. Sometimes I don’t. I may wake up in the middle of the night and never get back to sleep. The older I get, the more attuned I become with the sweet bliss of sleep. I am reminded of a friend who told the story of her elementary age son, when asked by the teacher what their parents do, he answered, “my mom naps.” 

This article was fascinating. There is more research that shows some of our fogginess probably comes from a shift in our cultural norms. While society expects us to predominately be up in the day and down at night, there is some indication that we really were made for two different sleeps, not one big helping of sleep overnight. Maybe this is more of trying to fit ourselves into patterns we weren’t made for. When it doesn’t work, we drug ourselves to do so. In any case, this is a stimulating read on the complexities of sleep, and now I know where getting up on the wrong side of the bed may have come from.

The Dean Martin Celebrity Roast is a time capsule of the big names from days past, most who are long gone, but my oh my, they left us moments that are fun to watch. I read a lot of biographies and by now you know that the best of us have personal issues, unforeseen challenges, moments of weakness, and so on. It is really how we deal with them that makes us who we are, and I’ve come to admire some of these big names that I saw as a kid and read more about as an adult. Frank Sinatra was legendary for taking care of his friends, and for stepping in for the likes of Judy Garland or Sammy Davis, Jr., when the going got rough for them. Dean Martin and others had personal tragedies that perhaps led to the extra imbibing but they carried on. A good many comics had terrible young lives and found humor as a lifeline.

Most all of these people grew up to be decent. That’s what we should care about. Not the stumbles but the body of work. Humans being human. And to get through whatever they dealt with, some of them needed an audience, and we have the benefit of still being here to watch.

Now, here’s the disclaimer. There is a lot of inferred and unsaid things in these old shows, and quite a few things said that are unacceptable to say today. Some of these comedians made their living on racist and prejudicial comments, but note that there was much more appreciation in that time that they were only words. Not sticks and stones. They couldn’t hurt because everyone was in on the joke, or maybe everyone carried a shared pain. Humor was a universal way of coping with it. It’s not laughing at you, it’s laughing with you.

One thing we could learn from these old roasts is to be a bit less sensitive, to be more wary of giving up our power so easily to words. The world would be a better place if we could re-learn to laugh some things off and not find every human interaction a potential liability.

Here’s one of the shows with the great Redd Foxx.

This article reminded me of the difference between place and people. We are visual creatures, so we are engaged much more than we think by what we see around us. Place is the first thing we are attracted to when it comes to where we abode, but what I really think makes a place a home is the people. When we get both things right, the place and the people, it’s paradise on Earth. It’s the whole reason for the notion of “neighbor-hoods”. I think if we go back to considering what it is to be a good neighbor, there will be many more great places. There will be more hoods full of neighbors. There may even be less looking for greener grass. We become more happy where we are planted.

The author used the term of finding a “powerful community spirit” where they retired to in England and gave examples of what that meant. I would challenge you to read and think about the stories and examples she shared, and then ponder whether you have that where you are now. Most importantly, consider your own role in what a powerful community spirit would be.

And Now….

Your fatherly advice for the day:

Hope to see you next time. Keep reading, and remember: Be a good human. 

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