An Interesting Anniversary

November 14 marked the one-year anniversary of FOMS blogging by this elder ranter. I was amazed to realize that there were 50 entries in the span of the year, 51 total to date. Almost one entry per week.

This is number 52.

Why?

What has it all meant?

The blog began as a test for another project. Many of my friends are aware of my interests in social outreach in Eastern Europe - specifically, work with the Roma children in Romania. In discussing with those of like mind on how to get people excited with the programs in place, I was advised to write a blog about the work.

What is a blog? (While I had heard the term, I had no idea of its meaning.)

You know, a lot has changed in the language since Miss Eula’s typing class back in the dark ages. At that point, we had just moved beyond the stone tablet and chisel and adopted Smith-Corona into our language. This is years before Al Gore invented the internet.

The blog was explained and FOMS soon became a “test run” for the website that dealt with the work in Romania.

A year later and this blog has become a regular part of my life. I continue to test the concept. It is something I enjoy on most days. I say this because there has been some guilt when the muse is elusive. Especially so when one of your followers sends a message to “get off your duff and write!”

Guilt comes easy to me. It is a Baptist and a Mom thing!

There are many unfinished entries languishing on my hard drive. Some faltered because of waning interest. Others due to finding the right language to properly treat the theme. And yes, there was some indolence at play from time to time.

So what provides the fodder? What prompts the outpouring of verbiage?

Some days it is just waking up to life. Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone!

Sometimes a look in the mirror can send you rushing to Microsoft Word.

Often it is the morning news.

There is the ongoing disappointment and frustration with our nation’s political life. As recently as yesterday when Senator Kyl announced his wish to delay consideration of the nuclear arms treaty with Russia is an apt example. Senator, are you just really dumb? Does your wish to see President Obama fail outweigh any sensibility?

Obviously so! (To both!)

The whole mid-term election process put me in a sorry state. But I did get laughs regularly from Sarah P - an accident waiting to happen. The girl just can’t help it! She really believes she is “presidential.” I imagine she sees Bristol teaching ballroom dancing in the East Room becoming a cottage industry, “gosh darn it.” And if Washington is hit by another major snowstorm, First Dude can just do the “Iditarod Thing” and fetch milk. An “unreal” show at 1600 PA.

There is always the chance that Oprah will donate something with her name attached in all caps. My prayers for her to discover anonymous altruism are ongoing.

And there is always my family to reflect upon.

Ah family! We’ve all got them!

Memories of my parents have been important to blogging. Anytime someone’s response to “where did I come from” is, “we found you in a hollow log,” you have lots of unaddressed angst upon which to ponder. And yes, I am still working through it.

There is the whole “being born in Mississippi thing” as well. You couple that with the discovery that your best childhood playmate, George, was paid by the hour to be there. Miss Scarlett, let’s just think about that tomorrow, ok?

Stuff in Alabama is always good for a musing. There is much to consider about life among the kudzu. You don’t grow up among circling buzzards without some foreboding.

Blogging as therapy? The jury is still out.

Chicago, especially the traffic, is always tugging to be talked about. So look out, it will happen again. Along with that will be city manners. On some days in the Windy City they are contradictory terms.

Sailing stories will invariably creep in. There is a lot of wisdom to be gained on a sailboat. Some from good company, a lot from dealing with nature. Mariners refer to a “safe harbor” for a reason.

But what has been the most satisfying about blogging?

The joy of writing about the Little Ones – my grandchildren.

I find myself living vicariously through them and yes; I am having the time of my life. My only worry is about living long enough to snatch the three from their parents and take them on a journey to foreign lands. Ten or so more years should do it. Back to rehab on Friday!

It is amazing how many axioms for living spill from such tiny people.

On Halloween, the oldest – the four-year old in Dallas – dressed as Superman for “trick or treating.” The costume was lined with “foam muscles” to give the look of the Man of Steel. When my grandson would try to relax in a chair, the foam would bunch up around his neck causing great discomfort – almost choking him.

“Granddaddy, you can’t sit down when you are Superman!”

Out of the mouths of babes!

Happy Anniversary to us all! Anyone up for “podcasting?”

An Old Box Of Accreted Stuff

I am sitting in the early morning quietness of the house in Alabama. There is only the sound of ceiling fans and some crickets – they are actively chattering. The rooster from the distant neighbor has yet to decide to announce the dawn. I should be asleep, but instead I am awake with the sounds of my thoughts. They are a bit louder than usual this morning.

I am considering a phrase from one of The Dream Songs of John Berryman: “sometimes in the dark of night I am forced to perform operations of great delicacy upon myself.” Ok, this blog may get a bit heavy – be forewarned!

I flew down to Alabama on Tuesday and arrived, as you may already know, without my luggage. It has since been reunited with me and that has eased some tensions with my person and the world outside. Visits to Alabama are always tense only because it brings together two worlds that sometimes feel to me like polar opposites. I want to belong to both and would like that to be a seamless merge. However, there are lifestyles and emotions which make the merge more difficult.

I read a column by Dick Cavett in the New York Times. I am not always a fan of Cavett. I find him to be very “full of himself.” However, I was drawn to the column today by the mention of Arthur Godfrey in the online pitch. Arthur is distinctly tied to my past and my life in Alabama since it was to see him that my father decided to broach the world of television one Monday of my childhood.

But I am not thinking about Arthur Godfrey but of a bit of wording Cavett used in his column. I was struck by the phrase, “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is an apt description of my life: “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is most appropriate in the concrete since my visits to Alabama often mean looking through photos and documents that are stowed in various drawers and closets of the house there. Just last night I was looking at photos that will remain forever a mystery since my only link to their identity was my parents – both now gone. Who are these people? What is my debt to them?

It is also appropriate in the abstract, since thoughts, memories, directions are shaped by the “stuff” of our past. Alabama often jars me; jostles my equilibrium.

This has been a weekend of reunions – you might even say it has been about being re-united with extremes.

The easiest was, of course, the visit from my son and his family. Remember this means time with the youngest of the “Little ones” – the granddaughter who is now two. I had not seen them since February.

When she was told she was going on a trip. She immediately thought she was going to Bethlehem since her concept of a journey involved a donkey and Mary and Joseph. Her book of The Christmas Story is one of her favorites, the other being Curious George. Talk about extremes.

Her father hastened to remind her that this journey was to see her Granddaddy, not the Baby Jesus. The only donkey that would be involved would be at the zoo on Friday. I know what you are thinking - do not even go there!

It has been fun to watch her become acquainted with the Alabama house; roaming through its spaces, beginning to form her own memories. I have even attempted to begin a toy chest for her.

The beginnings of her accreted stuff.

Even as I did I remembered the toy chest in the ill-used attic of my grandfather’s house in Mississippi. There was a drum and an old bugle. There was other stuff that has escaped my memory, but I recall the trek upstairs on each visit.

It is generational. My son discovered toys from his childhood tucked away in the back of the closet of the Alabama house and began sharing them with the little one.

I visited with my sister and her family. We recalled the past often. - remembered stories of our parents.

I lunched with friends from my college days on Friday. Most I had not seen in over 45 years. Time has been good for some; less so for others. I am probably in the “less so” group since I recently had a birthday that was so significant it frightened me. My looks in the mirror each morning reveal an old man.

The reunion was a congenial gathering: thirty or so people who had a shared admiration of a particular professor. One or two seemed ill at ease. The rest of us just laughed it off at the time. But this morning, their discomfort has become part of the “box of stuff.” It is an eye opener to discover that there are old acquaintances – yes, old girlfriends – who requested to be seated as far away as possible. And to think, I was looking forward to catching up on details of lives that had diverged. But instead, I encountered a wall of obvious awkwardness. I was not a cad in college, I promise.

I had thought of returning to a brunch today, but I remember the wisdom of my purple-haired mother. “Don’t impose yourself, it is bad manners.”

I have always regarded myself as inconspicuous on the horizon of life, even shy.

Of the thirty-six or so present, only one or two would be uncomfortable, but that is enough to make me think that my time would be best spent with my granddaughter.

Her box of accreted stuff is relatively empty.

Growing old is no fun! The body sometimes aches and the mind oftentimes does a lot of dissecting. However, if you think about it, the other alternative has far more serious ramifications.