Writing for Sanity's Sake

The HOR passed an aid bill for the American people back in May, this is September. By simple math, that’s 4 months. RBG died last week, and her body wasn’t cold before the GOP started talking about ramming through a candidate to replace her on the SCOTUS. They want to do it in two weeks.

They cannot in four months do something to help the American people who are suffering through this pandemic, but they can rush through an approval process, before the election…for something as important as a Supreme Court Justices seat?

I cannot fathom for the life of me how the American people can stand by and suffer this injustice.

Of all the qualities which set human beings apart from the rest of humanity, there is our voice. It was this means of communication which allowed us to move beyond other species and become social animals.

Our voice allowed our ancestors to pass on instructions on how to do critical things to survive. We began to live less off of instinct and more off of experiences passed down from generation to generation. Language came long, long before the ability to write and so most knowledge was passed down by oral tradition. Since early man tended to live in familial situations, with tight family ties, language probably varied a lot, and then as families stretched out and became tribes the group adopted the most useable language form available to communicate within the entire group.

But, the anthropological aspect is not where I want to concentrate. It’s the spiritual and mystical aspect of the voice to which I wish to “speak”

I’ve had so many wonderful and unique voices which have inhabited the echoes of my mind. My Dad’s laugh…I can never get it far from my immediate memory. He laughed a lot and at a lot of things. He gave me a lot of advice with that voice. I took some of it, and some I wish I had taken. His voice was stilled in 2010.

My Grandfather Jervis’s voice. My voice is a mixture of his voice and my Dad’s, leaning more heavily towards his. He could sing from bass to tenor and I inherited a bit of that. I used to sit around in his living room and listen to him sing his “scales” “Do..do..do……do, ray, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do..do..do..” I got up in front of the congregation where my Grandpa was song leader when I was four years old and waved my hands around like I was conducting the choir. Nobody laughed or made fun of me. I was really proud of myself and I remember it so well. My Grandfather’s voice was stilled in 1991.

My Mom and my Grandmother had similar voices…and they were both worriers. I asked my Grandmother on her 100th birthday what she would have done different if she could go back and go it all over again. She simply said “I’d worry about things less, because all the worrying I did never changed nothing” Her voice was stilled in late 1999. I still dream of her quite often, most of the time in the kitchen. She’s always telling me: “I wouldn’t worry about that, Honey” she’ll say. I still worry…I guess I can’t help it, I get it from her and Mom. My dear Momma….she would always say “I love you” and too many times, “I’m sorry” for things which really were not her fault, not anybody’s fault, just fate and fate alone. Mom’s voice was also stilled in 2010.

In late 1999, I was really scared. The specialist had found a lump on my vocal cords and he was pretty sure it was cancer. I went into surgery wondering if I would come out with a voice…..would I come out with a hole in my throat and no voice. Turned out it was a big lump of scar tissue. I came out with my vocal cords, but it took a year a rehabilitation to even get back to regular talking, much less singing. I have had to be very careful since then. Some days are good, some days not so good. At least I still have that mechanism of communication to use with my family, my friends…(although sometimes I bet they wish I would shut up!)

My voice will be stilled one day, as have been the voices of all human beings who ever lived. I hope I have used it correctly…will use it better, and maybe there will be some memorable phrase “hanging in the air” for someone to remember me by.

I’m afraid of heights. I also don’t like flying. I don’t like big crowds and speaking in front of a group of people terrifies me. Funny how things that are simple and basic to some people make other peoples knees turn to jelly.

I don’t know where a lot of these fears came from. Some of them have just developed over the years. Some fears we have always harbored. I have always been afraid of death. I never even wanted to think about it until the last few years. It’s a subject that most of us definitely want to avoid. I think sometimes we feel like if we talk about it, it might jinx us and we will end up on the “mortar board” at some funeral home before the days out. Also, it’s a pretty depressing subject to broach. Nobody wants to be depressed, so nobody talks about it. I can’t remember the first time I thought about it, and was scared. I think it was when I was about four years old. Really, it’s true. As a little kid when I should have been thinking about playing cowboys and Indians, I was mulling over the great unknown. It’s been a bummer over the years.

Lately, I have come to the conclusion that by talking about death maybe we can make it less scary. I am not as afraid of it as I used to be. It’s not the little kid fear of going to hell and burning up in a blazing fire type fear anymore. It’s more of just an apprehension of something unknown. It’s a disappointment that I might not be around to see my loved ones complete most of their journey that they have started. It’s the conversations and contact with my family that I don’t want to give up. The touches and looks of people you love, and who love you. Most of all, it turns out that it’s a selfish thing. Imagine that. I have so many selfish reasons for living that I don’t want to die and give them all up.

I don’t want to give up the beautiful sunny days like the one we had today. I don’t want to give up the good books that I enjoy reading every day. I don’t want to give up discussions with friends, eating out in great restaurants, the rain in my face, rolling up a Snowman. I don’t want to give up Christmas, or New Years. I don’t want to give up the hope of a #1 finish for the Dawgs, or the Falcons. I don’t want to give up seeing my grandchildren play ball, or band, or graduate from School….

But, it’s not what we want that we get is it?

There are so many theories and theological thesis about what happens to us after we die. It’s hard to pin one down and stick with it. One thing that I can assure you though is that it will be different from any of them. I don’t think that man has been given the knowledge, through any type of religion or science of what really happens. It may just be peace. Peace would be nice; I’ll take that over some of what I’ve heard over the years.

I’ve seen a lot of people going through unbelievable suffering, or who no longer know who or what they are who would take peace too. The little old lady who was “rooming” next to my Mother at the nursing home, back in 2010, who was there one day and gone the next. She was in bad shape. She was ready for a rest, and she got it. I think if you could have broken through the wall of her senility she would have told you she was. . A lot of times people outlive the desire to live, and when they do that, they are ready for peace. I am sure she wasn’t scared of it. Maybe welcomed it.

My own Grandfather, who lived the last few years of his life, not knowing who he was, where he was, who we were. My heart ached for him. I didn’t want him to live like that, but I didn’t want him to die like that either. I hope at the very end, when the spirit separated from the body…he once again knew who he was.

As long as we have the desire, then we should “keep on truckin’” as we used to say back in the 70’s. It’s when we lose the desire, due to things that are happening to us physically, that it becomes a hardship to keep on keeping on.

So, I guess as my perspective has changed from that little shivering four year old kid, who shouldn’t have even known what death was, to the more knowledgeable but equally unknowing 69 soon to be 70 year old that I am now am. I still have my desire to live and hope that I keep it for a long, long time to come. I hope all of you do also. But, when we are ready for peace, I hope we find it and that it turns out to be better than we ever imagined.

I have run around this little old town pretty much all of my life. I was born two blocks from where I am sitting typing this. I went to grammar and high school four blocks away, right next to the river that I take photos of all the time. I used to look out of the study hall windows and I could see that same railroad trestle that you’re always seeing pop up on my page.

I lived in three different houses while I was growing up here. One of them is one block behind me. The other two were up in “hot town” about a ½ mile away from here. I was married 45 years and a couple of months ago in the Church right behind my house…about 200 steps from where I am sitting. My wife and I raised our three children here…living in two different houses along these narrow streets. There has been a sense of continuity to it all.

I’m sad sometimes that things have changed so much….but change is inevitable. It’s like breathing in and out….like life and death. What does not change does not survive, and therefore change is necessary. I am happy that I have been here, and been here in this time and place. I’m grateful that I have survived the situations in which I have been, and the storms which have blown in and out of my life.

So, here I will be and perhaps will be from now on. You will see more photos of the landscape…probably more than you want to see. Of course there will be some more traveling, some more vacations and there will be time away from here. A cruise or two for sure. Disney World again…Paula likes that place and I kind of do too.

There are just too many ties here to completely break away at this point in life…family, kids, and grandchildren, and the memories…oh yes, there is that. Once upon a time back in the “old days” I dreamed for the day I could get out of this “one horse town” I wanted New York City or Nashville. A lot of my classmates and “city mates” have made it out of here. For some reason I didn’t. I guess maybe it was because I just wanted to stick around and see how things turned out.

“To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, Ahh…there’s the rub” Shakespeare..

Wonder what Hamlet was really thinking about when he uttered that line. Fear of the long sleep of death? Was he maybe just an insomniac…? Too bad for him there wasn’t Ambien back then, he may have been able to live a normal life!
Then there’s the line that “Hal-9000” asked Dave right before he “died” “Dave, will I dream?”

Dreams are weird things, and I have been having some really wild ones of late. I don’t know why… Mostly, I dream about work and how it used to be in those days. Mind you, it’s not enough that I used to spend 12 hours a day at work on most days. Then I came home, did some work on the computer, and read my emails, watched a little news, and tried to go to sleep. But the ignominy of having to still dream about working, after three years, just really peeves me. I think I have dream’t of every belligerent boss I ever have had over my working career in the last few weeks, and believe me that covers a LOT of ground. But then…there was last night’s dream.

I was in our old house on 8th Street (been moved from there for nae on to 27 years!) and watching apprehensively out the door and big black steam train was coming by. You could feel the house shake since it was only about 60 feet from the railroad tracks. The smoke and soot belched out of the top of the engine and the noise was like a jet plane. I was scared and sweating, I was terrified that the train was coming for me. Finally it got next to the house and I could see the engineer sitting there in the front in his gray hood, and his sickle next to him. He looked me straight in the eye and smiled…. and then the train passed on by. On the back of the caboose when it passed there was a banner that said, “It’s not over, til I say it’s over” The train boogied on by so quickly it was amazing.
I went back inside, and the house was pitch dark and there were cobwebs in the corners and on the ceiling. There was no sign of life, no furniture not a thing moving (not even a mouse!) There were memories…and a bright light off in the distance.. Then….the dog licked my ear and I woke up.

I get the feeling that this dream is kind of like my life. I am a reminiscer. Someone who feels more comfortable thinking about the way things were than about the way they are. I guess sometimes I figure my life is mostly like the train…chugging relentlessly and quickly on down the track. I’m a passenger but I’m not in complete control. I worry that the ride will very soon be over,… But hey….the banner on the back is encouraging!

So, I will keep on writing about the things I like and remember so well from the past, and try and keep it nostalgic, and leave out the politics and problems that we are bombarded with from every side on a daily basis. I’ll leave that to people who are smarter and younger, and more dedicated than me. And I WILL remember: “It ain’t over ’til HE says it’s over!”

Now, in an hour or two it will be time to go get a little shut eye. I think it will be peaceful tonight. “To sleep, perchance to dream…that’s the rub now…isn’t it!” Thanks Will!

A story I was listening to on NPR today really caught my attention. It was about a blind man named Daniel Kish who lost both of his eyes to cancer as a young child. One would expect…yes a person’s expectation would be that this child would lead a sheltered and protected life. A life where his parents would protect him and seek to keep him from being harmed due to his “disability” But, Daniel Kish himself had differenct expectations for his life. He expected to be able to do things that normal sighted people could do.

He developed a system of his own, using vocal clicks as he moved about, in order to locate things around him. As he grew he became more adept at finding his way using this unique sonar system. He came to be able to do things that any normal sighted person could do. He rides a bycycle anywhere he wants to go. He can identifiy items exactly, using his sonar system. The main part of his philosopy is that he is not bound by other people’s expectations of what he, a blind man, should be. He essentially became a real “Batman”.

Therein lies the idea which made me think and reconsider expectations.

Our first set of the expectations are from our parents. We are guided into the precepts of their own expectations for us. Kids are expected to play sports, or to be involved in some way. We must keep our kids busy doing the things we expect a child of their age, in their environment, to do. If a child asks to do something out of the ordinary, we sometimes tell them they “can’t do” that. “Momma I want to be an artist”. You can’t do that…your too little. “Daddy, I want to be a writer”. Son, you know we’re already doing football. “Mom and Dad, I want to be the person who cures cancer”. “Mom and Dad, I want to discover how to exceed the speed of light”. Say what?

Then there are the limitations we put on ourselves about our abilities. “I want to be a writer…publish a book”. What you talking about boy…your 65 years old…an old man!”

“I want to start a new chapter in my life, I want to live to 100 years old, I want to discover new possibilities for my life that I never thought possible!” Everything is possible if we believe we can exceed our expectations. Contrary to a popular myth which says we only us 10% of our brains, we humans use practically every part of our brain. What we do not do is expect success which exceeds our wildest expectations.

We should never sell ourselves short. We certainly should not put limitations on the expectations of our family.

We should not only expect them, and ourselves to be Batman, we should expect Superman.

I have sang the song “I’ll fly away” hundreds of times. In choirs, in duets and quartets. Solo.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory….I’ll fly away”
“When I die, hallelujah by and by”
“I’ll fly away”

I’m looking up at the heavens sometimes at night, as I did the other week looking for shooting stars, and I get strange feelings. I get carried away. I feel like if I could, I would simply float up into the air, and keep on going.

Out past the moon, out past Mars and Jupiter. Out of our solar system and into the Milky Way. Through nebula, and skirting black holes. Past dwarf stars and red giants. To gently go where no man has gone before. But I pull back for now.

I am not finished here yet. Not finished. I’ve things yet I want to do. Little ones I want to nurture and love a bit longer. I don’t for how long I’ll get to. Nobody knows, except perhaps God, and I’m certain sometimes he gives extensions for his own reasons.

Truth be told, I’m really tired this summer. I’ve been dealing with health issues of various kinds practically all season, including a bad spell this afternoon with some rogue PVC’s, and tachycardia. You’d think with all the cardio I do, I’d be fit as a fiddle, but I reckon it’s really simply maintainence I’m doing. No matter though. I’m a survivor.

Robert Frost said it best: “for I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep…..and miles to go before I sleep”.

….or in my case before I fly away.

Have a great week everyone, and when you can manage to, “go home and love your family.”

Watching the movie “First Man” yesterday about Neil Armstrong’s life, and about America putting men on the moon was a stark reminder of where we have been as a country, as opposed to where we are now.

The strength, resolve and focus that we had as a country to go to the moon…to beat the Russians in our space program, was something which inspired and united us as a people. I know there were a few detractors who protested about the money being spent on that program, and that protest was addressed in the movie.

Overall though, it was a matter of togetherness that included most Americans. Was there a black astronaut at first? A woman? No there was not. I do firmly believe however, that the overall encompassing reach of the program, on all levels…not just the men who composed the crews, led to more inclusion, faster than in other areas of our countries culture.

I know that as far as me personally, the space program was a part of my childhood, which I cannot separate from my psyche. It was an excitement, and an interest from the days of Sputnik and Telstar, all the way through the Mercury program, with pictures of Alan Shepherd and John Glenn taped to the headboard of my bed, right next to JFK’s and RFK’s. It continued through Gemini, with all its tragic deaths….finally into the Apollo program. My favorite photo of all time was from Apollo 8, the first photo of our beautiful blue marble hanging out there in space, like the last gorgeous ornament hanging lonely but divine on the tree being taken down from Christmas that year.

I think perhaps my somewhat obsessive need to photograph the moon, and watch the skies, stems from my childhood wonder with putting men into outer space.

Paula and I were more amazed than ever before about the ability of the scientific community to be able to propel what were essential well built metal “cans” into space, with high powered explosives to launch them, and not only keep the people in them alive, but eventually guide them to the moon. At one point in the film Armstrong was using a handheld geometric chart aboard Gemini 8, plotting lines to try and connect with another capsule with which they were supposed to dock. Computers were these huge and heavy refrigerator sized machines which contained barely a fraction of the computing power of even the earliest PC’s with the original version of Windows. Consider the following from Google:

“So when NASA astronauts rapidly approached the moon 50 years ago, a lot was riding on a computer with less than 80 kilobytes of memory. By today’s standards, it’s a dinosaur. The Apollo Guidance Computer (AGC) weighed 70 pounds. Programs were literally woven into the hardware by hand — it was called “core rope memory.”

What amazing devices of mechanical engineering were those early crafts. What focus and bravery, combined with a sublime curiosity, about pushing the boundaries and limits of mankind’s physicality and mentality to the limit of its endurance these people possessed. Amazing.

While the photos of all my childhood heroes are gone from the headboard of the bed, I still have a plate block of the Apollo 8 stamps which I bought at the West Georgia College Post Office in late May of 1969, before I headed home for the Summer to get married, and start a new kind of life. I remember well Paula and I sitting on Mom and Dad’s couch in the living room on July 20th and watching “the Eagle” land, and later hearing Neal Armstrong’s famous words. “That’s one small step for man, but one giant leap for mankind”. But was it really?

I’m not sure what it would take to break America out of its current polarization and deep divisions. Something like putting a man on Mars? I wonder if even that would do it. I wonder at times if we were even as solid of a country back then like I thought we were, or if I was simply looking at the moon through rose colored glasses?

1619-1865 is 246 years. 1865-2019 is 154 years. We have almost a century left until this country has lived as many years without legal slavery as it did with it. That doesn’t even count another 100 years exactly from 1865-1965 when the voting rights act passed. So in reality that’s 346 years.

Spain, and then Mexico…after it won independence, owned much of the Southwestern US from 1521 after the conquest of the Aztecs, until 1848, when the Treaty of Hildalgo was signed, ending the Mexican-American War, which the US had instigated. The US got Texas, Southern California, most of New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado in that treaty. That’s 327 years the SW United States belonged to the “Hispanics” and 171 years that the United States has owned it. All citizens of Mexico got to choose to stay in the new United States, or go back to Mexico. Most of them stayed, creating an instant cross culture between the United States and Mexico, which has persisted since then. That’s a total of 498 years that Spanish speaking people have been in this area, as opposed to only after 1848 that white Americans started to go into these areas to settle. (The Gadsden purchase of 1853 further enlarged New Mexico and Arizona)

It amazes me that in just a very few short years, history in this country has been forsaken for media make believe. The myth of white manifest destiny over the cultural patterns of this country, and the belief that somehow the stain of slavery and repression has been washed as white as snow in a few short years belies the facts which lie in the history of America, if any would take the time to read it. Perhaps it cannot be understood.

Perhaps the trend of purposeful ignorance has taken such deep root that it can never be reversed. It is a shame that we Americans of the last half of the 20th century have been either unwilling or unable to defend the hard won freedoms and openness that our Fathers fought and died for in World War II. We have given them up to Autocracy and Oligarchy with hardly a fight.

I was thinking about the old Weave room tonight. Back before the air jets and sulzers…the days of the old X1′ s and X2′ s. The old clackety clack of the shuttle’s flying out and back, and the beat up slamming that filling yarn in so tight. That rhythmic beat you could hear before you even hit the front door. “Slamaty..Clamity..Slamity..Clamity” over and over and over again. Hundreds of them in time creating an almost unbearable noise and a vibration that shook deep inside your chest.

I remember no air conditioning, and the sweat falling off in salty rivulets…And the white t-shirts all the men wore being soaked with sweat and dirty and greasy from laying on the Weave room floor up under a loom, legs sticking out in the narrow alleys.

And all the women with their waste aprons shoving those round battreys on each loom full of wound double tight yarn spools fresh out of the spinning room, double checking that it’s the right gauge and thickness. “Can’t have no mixed yarn.” Says the floor boss. You’d get wrote up for that. “Hell with that thick yarn!” Momma says. “Can’t get a break without the battery running out.”

And them’s the good old days.

But when we cut ourselves the blood was red. And some fixer who was caught up would help fill the battries so you could take a break and go to the water house and eat a bite. And the paychecks came home, with one savings bond a week coming out of it. But…in the end the money ran out anyway. And the old looms gave way to the air jets. And things changed and changed and changed some more.

But is it better? I can still hear those old looms in my head. My hearings a little hard, but my eyes are a little misty.