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We seem to approach problems from the view of a spectator instead of a participant. We always wish “they” would do something to make “things” better. I think what we Americans, we humans should do is to become “doers and not talkers” as someone recently told me. I could certainly do more. I started today by giving 50 dollars to a little Filipino nurse who I have seen at the flea market every month or so for the past year or more. She buys a trinket or two almost every time I see her. She’s going to send the money to some of her family there.

I know this is kind of an outside the box way of doing things. But I trust her more than the Red Cross. She always comes around with her Mom, who is a sly bargainer!

It’s not only that though…it’s looking at life from inside the game. Playing with a passion for the good of others no matter the size of the “good” No good deed is to small to do. No good thing is too small to bother with. From petting your puppy to donating a kidney…one is a lesser good, and one is a major life altering event. The only difference is the scale, the magnitude. All small things add up.

Sometimes all it costs us is a little time, a word, an encouragement. But we have to participate. We cannot just stand on the sidelines and watch. In all things, whether great or small the worth of our entire existence is in the doing, the worthwhile doing, the doing of good. Remember it when you tip your server, or when you give your blood. Think about it when you deal with a family member or a complete stranger. Consider it before you speak, and most certainly before you act.

Tomorrow is World kindness day. Wouldn’t it be a good day to start and just never stop?

We seem to approach problems from the view of a spectator instead of a participant. We always wish “they” would do something to make “things” better. I think what we Americans, we humans should do is to become “doers and not talkers” as someone recently told me.

Maybe in this age, we could become more “getting up and doing physical good versus typing out stuff on social media” I could certainly do more in the real world, and less in this cyber world. Most of the time, what we do in the cyber world doesn’t amount to a cup of warm spit…as the old saying goes. After reading what the former president of Facebook said the other day about Facebook being designed to psychologically trap us all through positive reinforcement of our most basic human desires for recognition, I am bound and determined to spend less time on it. (but I am on it now, aren’t I?) I know that I probably will never totally give it up, because it is just too totally ingrained in our way of life now. I sometimes wish I could go back to 2008, and refuse to participate in it…but it’s too late. Whatever though.

We are what we are, and we do what we do. Most of us will never change, but if we cannot change, perhaps at least we can modify our behavior a little bit. We can put our phones down when we are having a meal with our families. We can go outside and play pitch with our kids, instead of scrolling through Facebook. We can do these little things and live a “normal” life if we just think about it consciously and consistently and make an effort.

It’s not only that though…it’s looking at life from inside the game. Playing with a passion for the good of others no matter the size of the “good” No good deed is to small to do. No good thing is too small to bother with. From petting your puppy to donating a kidney…one is a lesser good, and one is a major life altering event. The only difference is the scale, the magnitude. All small things add up. One of my good friends has a saying that “no good deed goes unpunished” and sometimes I feel that way myself. But, I continue to try. The day that we forget how to try and do good to others is the day we lose our humanity forever. God help us that this does not happen.

Sometimes all it costs us is a very small amount of our time, a word, or a simple encouragement. But we have to participate. We cannot just stand on the sidelines and watch.

In all things, whether great or small the worth of our entire existence is in the doing, the worthwhile doing, the doing of good. This is a follow up to the quote from John Wesley which I published the other day, and it’s so very true.

Remember it when you tip your server, or when you give your blood. Think about it when you deal with a family member or a complete stranger. Consider it before you speak, and most certainly before you act.

THANK YOU VETERANS

My Dad was always the consummate “veteran” After serving in the Navy from 1945-52 he developed a lot of “Navy” habits. I can remember many times of waking up in my very early grade school years to “Hit the deck, hit the deck” What is the deck, and why…do I want to hit it, I thought? It seemed rather strange back then, but now as I look back through nostalgic eyes, it was rather natural. Having only been out of the service for a few years back in those days, Dad still had the “Navy” in his blood. He just wanted me and my brother to experience some of the rigors of “boot camp” which he had gone through, so he was simply running his own “mini” version with us.

There were also those many, many “Navy” stories. The knockdown drag out fights with fellow ship mates over some trivial slight magnified by being in close quarters out on the Ocean for so long. Then there were the memories of the horrors of death and starvation in a post War Korea, and in China, with human beings literally freezing to death in the streets. The many slick trades of cigarettes for goods…like the set of painted porcelain dragon china which hung in Mom and Dad’s kitchen for so long. The earlier memories of the last days of World War II, first being a gunner’s mate on the ship’s huge guns, then moving on to the 115 degree boiler room and advancing in rank. I was regaled by all these tales more than once, and in retrospect I was enthralled by the listening. There were so many more of them, and they filled my childhood with wonder and awe at the things which went on in the big World.

Dad never lost his allegiance to his flag and country by one iota as he got old. Though he hated War, and told me that many times, he always respected the people who were serving their country. One of my favorite photos of him is of him standing there holding an American flag and looking wistfully out at the camera…perhaps thinking about those days that he fought for his country, watched some of his friends and ship mates die for their country, and came back home a changed man.

I want to thank all of you Veterans today for YOUR service. I too have always been against War, but never have I ever had anything but respect for the human beings who have to stare death and hardship directly in the eye in service to our country. Thank you, and Bless you.

To my Favorite Teacher.

I lay here and wonder how it has come about that I find myself quickly approaching the mid sixties. Sixty four just HAS to be the “new” forty. But, its unfortunately not.

I think back a half a century ago. Yes, dang it…that’s fifty years. Back to the Beatle’s first album. Back to early Vietnam. “Looking for more in 64′” by Jim Nesbitt. Landslide win for LBJ. Arnie wins the Masters and Nicklaus the British Open. I had started playing golf that summer and loved it, and lived it.

Gilligans Island and Mary Tyler Moore premiered on TV, and LBJ premiered the “Great Society” Mickey Mantle tore up the cowhide that Summer.

The Fall of 64 rolled around and thoughts of going back to school surfaced. I had not enjoyed my 8th grade year and wasn’t looking forward to my Freshman year. I had signed up for Journalism for that year. Mrs Wingfield was the teacher, and advisor for the “Bulldog Barker” She had been my 8th grade English teacher, and it was my best class that year. I had developed a rapport with her because I liked to write poetry, which was sort of kiss of death for a teenage boy back then, but I had received some encouragement from Mrs. Wingfield, and I had penned a lot of poems that Summer.

Mrs. Wingfield would read them, and offer advice and praise…which was a badly needed commodity for me at that time of my life. Somehow, the idea was hatched to start a literary publication that year for students interested in writing and art. The Sampler was born.

As it turned out, there was a LOT of interest and a lot of contributions. Wayne Greene, who was talented at everything, had a lot of illustrations in the Sampler, and had offered up one of his paintings as the prize for best poem in the Sampler. Mrs. Wingfield and Mrs. Royals would be the judges.

I knew I didn’t have a chance, but I turned in a lot of poems that year. I was working hard on an article for the “Barker” in May of that year, and Mrs. Wingfield brought in a copy of the “Sampler” hot of the presses and handed to me. I opened the front page to find that one of my poems had won first place! I got my picture in the Barker that week holding Wayne Greene’s abstract surrealist painting I had won. I kept that painting up until just this past year when it got water damaged.

Most of all, I have kept the memory of that moment. I read over all the poems in that very first Sampler many times, and there were some good ones in there. I am not sure how my simple four paragraph poem was the best, but the fact that Mrs. Jesse Wingfield had thought it was, bolstered my confidence in my abilities to a point which has stayed with me all my life….all my life. How many people could say they had been that crucial in the life of another person? But that was the effect that the gracious and dignified lady had in people.

Even for many years after, when I would visit the school and see her, Mrs Wingfield always had a smile and a “Hello Larry” which was just for me, her “favorite” student…one among hundreds of other favorites. She knew how much she meant to me, because I told her so in no uncertain terms. I’m glad I did.

I remember back to 1963. That was a great year. I started off at 12 years old, and stayed that way for 10 2/3 months. I had played baseball all that summer and it was great. I hit 5 Home runs, three of them grand slams. I made the all stars. I walked all over town, fished in the Chattooga, gone to the movies. The summer of 1963 was idyllic, and I loved it.

Then, suddenly I became a teenager.

Oh God, how awkward I was. What terrible luck I had too.

I go a bad case of Athletes foot late that summer, and it just ate my feet up something awful. I had to start school that fall wearing sandals with white socks. Nobody can imagine how embarrassing an ordeal that was. My old protagonist J. Suits kidded me mercilessly about it. It took a month or so to finally get healed up….just as the weather started to cool off.

I had fairly greasy hair, so the pimples came along shortly after the feet healed up. I washed my hair regularly, but it didn’t matter. I had one or two fairly bad eruptions a week. Another embarrassing issue, and so I kind of walked around with my head down and avoided direct eye contact, especially with girls…

I remember as Christmas approached, the glee club started rehearsing a Special program. One of the songs was “White Christmas” one of my favorites. I lined up in the back of the boys section and was belting it out, Bing Crosby style. My voice had already changed, and my tenor was clear and on key. I didn’t think I’d be noticed, I just loved the music, the song and the time of year. Mr. Carruth stoped in the middle of the song one day and said: “You…Bowers C’mere”.

I went up front. He proceeded to inform me that I was going to sing solo for the song, with the rest of the singers backing me up. I was floored, and scared crapless.

We rehearsed the song over and over the next few weeks, and when the day came for the program, I was ready. I started a little tentatively but forgot anyone else was in the assembly that morning, and did my best Bing. “Good job” said Mr. Carruth.

The year changed after that. I walked with my head up. I continued to sing every opportunity I got, and I still thank John Carruth to this day for believing in me, and helping to make my life better.

We had several good teachers, who were also decent people at our school that year, and in the ensuing four years. I was lucky to be there with a good group of teachers and some great classmates. It was a wonderful time.

I think that a lot of people have things that they are mad about and sad about. Some have things they are glad about and happy about. I’m not sure. As for me….tonight I am tired. Pretty tired. I know a lot of other people are also tired.

I can think of things that I am happy about, as I mentioned in my second sentence. I’m happy my wife and I have been able to make a life together, a pretty long one at that. I’m very glad about that. We have had three children who have grown up to be good adults, and we’ve been delighted to have nine grandchildren. A lot of joy in having close family. Quite a lot. I can hope that our legacy lives on long past our time here, just as our ancestors from England, and Ireland, Scotland and Germany, live on in us. At some point in the future, something I have genetically inserted in my make up may come in handy for one of my descendants. I sure hope so.

So, I will meditate a bit tonight.  I’ll probably watch an inane show on Netflix like “To the Continent”  That one usually puts me to sleep.  It used to be the “Great British Baking Show”, but I’ve run out of episodes on that one.

Could be that I’m just a little downtrodden mentally.  Could be old age “catching up” to me.  It’s hard to tell.  Could be that I’m like Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein’s generic “old Joe” as he sings “Old Man River” in the Broadway Show “Showboat”

“I get’s weary, and sick of trying…. I’m tired of living, but scared of dying, but that Ol’ Man River, he just keeps rolling along”

And the river will keep rolling on, long after I’m gone.  In peace.

The worst possible thing for someone who likes to sing is to lose their voice.

Since having vocal cord surgery in 1999, I face a “season” of hoarseness and loss of my voice on a regular basis, especially this time of year. You would think I would be used to it by now, but the inability to be able to even hum along with a song on the radio is frustrating. But yet…

I can see the beauty all around me. The huge moon…the glorious fall leaves.

I can touch my grandchildren gently. and pick them up and hug them.

I can smell the wonderful Brunswick stew I picked up last week when I warm it up.

I can hear amazing music at the touch of a button, and enjoy its depth and meaning.

I can walk, and move without pain.

Even with so many things which are wrong in this world, the ability to sift out enjoyment from the chaffe which is constantly being thrown at us is essential to maintaining our humanity. We can choose to give in to the frustration, or we can choose to turn in another direction towards the joys still available to us.

So I’m going to listen to some good music now and sleep. It doesn’t really matter if I can hum along or not. I will still cherish it.

I walked this evening in the rain, hooded sweatshirt draped loosely over me. My wife told me it was raining before I left and I asked “don’t you remember last winter?”

I walked in the rain and I walked in the snow. This past summer I walked in the blistering heat and sweltering humidity. The only time I refuse to walk is during a lightning storm.

I walk to exercise, but I also walk to think. I think of the past and the special times I have had with loved ones who are gone. I think of friends who are still alive and well when I walk past spots where our lives have intersected. I am thankful for all of them. They have shaped me. For good or bad? Who knows? Who judges?

I walk in places where my children and grandchildren exist and live their lives. Down by the river, and up the steep hill. I see their past and their present. They must see to much of their future.

I walk in the cemetery not because it is quiet and there is no traffic, but in order to pay my respects to people I have known. Our paths have crossed and I honor them. There are always new people there. There have been three or four this week.

You see, a walk is not just a walk to me. It’s a different experience each day. It’s a different choice of memories every day. It is cathartic.

As long as I can physically put one foot in front of the other I will continue my trips. I expect if you ride around town much you will see me. Smile and wave if you can.

I am Charlie Brown

I think maybe it’s because my birthday coincides with the first syndicated appearance of Charlie Brown in the newspapers back on October 21, 1950. I have always been like “good ol’ Charlie Brown” even before I knew who he was. It could be that or either just the luck of the Irish (or the Scotch-Irish in my case) but when I was young, every time the gang in our neighborhood got together to choose up sides for baseball or football, I always started to get a knawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I just knew that no matter what happened, I would be the last one chosen for the team.

It wasn’t that I was that bad a player, because I wasn’t. There were just a lot of decisions which entered into who was chosen and who wasn’t. Rickey was chosen first because he was the fastest. Mikey was chosen early because he was small and quick and could maneuver well. Mike B. was chose early because of his HUGE size. Hiram was chosen, because he was the meanest and nobody wanted to choose the meanest guy last. Stanley was the friendliest so he got picked. So, by the time the last choice came around, it was me who was left. The last boy to be chosen.

I was mediocre at most things. In baseball, I was probably the best hitter though. I later won a lot of games for my team in Little League, although I was the last kid picked by a coach for his team. I steered away from baseball and football in High School and went with “individual” sports like golf and tennis, where I did well.

I’m not sure what the problem has always been. Maybe I don’t smile enough. I sure never kissed up to anyone just to be chosen, I considered that below my dignity. Guess it’s just part of that Scotch Irish heritage thing again, where my ancestors never bent their knees to the English. I am sure quite a few of my ancestors got a chopping or a hanging because they wouldn’t bend quickly enough. FREEDOMMMMM…….Hmm,..guess I watched “Braveheart” one too many times.

I was big, but not the biggest, fast but not the fastest, quick but not the quickest. For sure I was never the meanest. Definitely not the friendliest. Maybe the quirkiest. Yep, for sure that.

But I guess the main thing is that it really never bothered me that much back then to BE the one chosen last. It bothered all the other guys, and if they were the last one picked they would raise all kinds of hell, and get their feelings hurt. I never did. It bothered me some, but all I really wanted to do was be a member of the team, and I always got to do that even if I was the last one, so what did it matter really? The proof of your worth comes after the choosing not during it. So, I guess that’s another reason why I was always the last one chosen. I took it calmly. I was always the mediator and rarely the instigator. It must be because I’m a Libra. That causes me to believe in a certain balance. Or maybe because I believe God made us all the same on the inside.

As I have gone on through growing up and into my adult life, it has become more difficult to be the last one chosen. I still exhibit most of the same qualities I did as a kid. I am smart, but not the smartest. Quick to learn, but not quite the quickest. I work hard, but there are probably some people out there who work harder. I am consistent in my beliefs about how people should be treated, but I am still not mean. I believe in treating other people like I want to be treated. I still don’t smile that often, and I am terrible at telling jokes. Most jokes require that you belittle someone or something, and I am just not going to do it. I don’t like talking about myself and what I have accomplished, or failed to accomplish for that matter. I just still believe in that balance. I believe in being calm and waiting for all the decisions to be made and for all the choices to be exercised.

I believe that fairness should be Universal and not just reserved for the richest, the strongest, the most advantageously placed politically, the meanest, nor due to any other quality that might be construed as giving a person the appearance of forbearance or special treatment. I despise favoritism. Fair is fair. People know what is fair and what isn’t. It is an innate quality that is placed within each of us a birth. The only difference is that some humans believe in “being” fair, and some don’t.

So, many days in many ways I still wait to be chosen. I have a good record in life, not outstanding but good, and always trying to be fair and fight injustice. Just like back in my baseball playing days I have had a good average and have always helped the teams I have been on. I would love to be chosen first sometime in life, BUT even if I am still the LAST one chosen I will continue to do my best to be above average. Even if things don’t turn out to be exactly fair in THIS life, I think that the Universal “balancer” will square things up one of these days. It may be a while yet, but it is one thing that IS inevitable.

When it comes to jobs, I have run the gambit. I have worked as an hourly worker doing hard manual labor.

I made mattresses.

And when I say I made them, I mean just that. I threw the naked heavyweight springs onto a wooden table and added the “innards” of the mattress, the foam, the cotton batting and then thicker foam and the quilted cover. (Which I had already also made on the quilting machine…I was a one man department)

I took a “hog ringer” which is an air gun which bends large metal staples through the cover and attaches them to the spring. I got my thumb in the way several times and ended up with one of those things through my thumb. Most of the time, if I just shot them through the corner of my thumb I would just have someone else take a pair of plyers and unbend the ring. Once when I shot one straight through the middle of my thumbnail I had to let a Doctor get it out. He used a pair of plyers too.

The only difference was the tetanus shot.

After hog ringing the cover onto the spring and filling up a huge buggy with mattresses, I would take them to “tape edge machine” and sew the cover to the “boxing” which is the narrow strip which runs around the circumference of the mattress. You would pick the mattress up off the buggy, throw it on the sewing table and pull it up under the tape edge machine. You would then sew completely around the mattress, flip it over and while putting pressure on the mattress with your right arm to hold it down, you would use the knee lever which moved the machine to sew the second side. The king size mattresses were about 90 pounds each. If the “boxing” was a little narrow then it required a lot of pressure to sew the second side. It was like holding down a horse to give it a dose of castor oil.

I once did nearly 100 mattresses in one day, since we were on “incentive” meaning the more I did, the more it paid.

This company worked ten hours a day four days a week, with two ten minute breaks and a half hour for lunch. During the half hour lunch I usually slept.

For the first two weeks before my body got used to it, I would come home at night and just fall onto the bed and lay there. I didn’t even feel like eating, although I ended up finally doing so because I needed energy for the next day.

There were many weeks when our orders were not very good and they started cutting our work down to three days instead of four. I was in a lazy “funk” at that time, and I did this for two years,1980-82, before moving on to the world of medical supply sales, at my wife’s highly motivating suggestion that we needed more money to raise our growing family. We did, and I got out of my doldrums and got my butt to work.