The Bearded Man Beholds The Autumn

[Photo is mine.]

He sits on the front deck of his home. Despite recent chilly weather, this particular Wednesday proved to be mild…even warm. He has spent the last half-hour watching a red squirrel scurry about a pile of chipped wood. Doubtless, this is to be his winter den.

The bearded man is sitting like countless other men and women like him. He spends his idle hours either writing or thinking of odd topics to comment on. At the moment, he is musing on the science that explains the breakdown of the Chlorophyll that is necessary for the tree to reveal the true color of it’s leaves.

[Photo is mine.]

He scratches the whiskers on his cheek. He is fully aware that before he can say Blitzen all this foliage will be composting beneath two feet of powder-white snow,

The relentless challenges of winter will keep the old man close by the fireplace. He will likely be typing about the awesome beauty of the North Country winter.

Some Sunday afternoon in mid-January he will find himself in the icy garage staring at ski poles and snowshoes. He’ll recall times when pain didn’t accompany a simple walk in the woods.

Soon, he will be sitting in his favorite leather wingback chair. His fingers will linger with the buttons of his treasured L.L Bean plaid flannel shirt

Like many old men who sit and think, he’ll ponder his youth, wonder what happened to his middle years and doubtless dread the future left to him.

Then, without a doubt, he’ll reach for a good book.

[Photo credit: Google search.]

Snow

Dec8

The woods are pleasant, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

–Robert Frost

[Our tiny forest. Our front yard. Photo is mine.]

I can think of nothing in nature more calming, soothing and tranquil than standing in a forest while snowflakes nearly the size of marbles drift slowly downward through the trees.

I’ve sat by gurgling brooks. I’ve felt the winds of the prairie whistle in my ears. With a mug of Oolong tea laced with local honey at my side, I’ve sat and listened to the rain fall, sometimes heavy and in waves…sometimes only a dribble. These are all transcendent. And you need only one good sense, hearing.

Snow, on the other hand is silent. You can’t hear a flake settle on a pine needle. A rainfall doesn’t lend itself to a visual experience, unless you count thunder and lightening. A snowstorm, in its aftermath, can leave you breathless…the absolute whiteness of it all. Well, not all. A mere three weeks can separate the dazzling colors of late autumn to a black and white world where only a hint of dull green marks the presence of coniferous trees and a cluster of brown Aspen leaves that have not yet fallen from the mother tree.

But snow is a superb example of what could be a blessing to one but can be a curse to another. Yes, I appreciate the quiet solitude that snowstorms bring, but I can also see darkness that lies beneath the ten inches of the white fluffy stuff.

It wasn’t always like this for me. I skated when I was young. Tobogganed every hill around Owego, NY and skied Whiteface Mountain. I spent five summers living on glaciers of the Juneau Icefield in Alaska. I knew ice. I knew snow.

Then I aged. Snowshoeing became difficult. X-Country skiing became problematic and downhill alpine skiing presented its own set of dangers to my body.

Blame it on my Lumbar region (L4 & L5) for my falling out of love for the winter season.

[Me shoveling. You can’t see my L4 & L5, but I can feel them. Photo credit: Mariam Voutsis.]

SIDEBAR A few facts about snow.

It is a myth, often repeated, that the Inuit (Eskimos) have dozens of words describing snow. There is no way to determine the real facts here because of the multitudes of Northern Native People. Different country…different way of viewing snow. There are however, researchers who study snow and keep track of these sort of things. The latest list contains 121 different types of snowflakes.

Is it true that no two snowflakes can be the same? This is mostly true, but recently scientists have found ways to practically duplicate a snowflake pattern.

Most snowflakes that we are familiar with are hexagons. There are thirty-five common types in all. Here is a short list:

Stellaar Dendrites (pictured below)
Columns & Needles
Capped Columns
Fern-like Stellar Dendrites
Diamond Dust Crystals
Triangular Crystals
Twelve-branched Snowflakes.

[A Stellar Dendrite flake. Very common. Photo source: Google search.]

There is even a Field Guide to Snowflakes available. I tried to examine snowflakes one afternoon a few winters ago. I wore a dark jacket and held my geologic hand lens in my frozen fingers. A flake landed on my dark sleeve. But when I put the hand lens to my right eye and leaned forward to examine the flake, my warm breath melted it, leaving me to examine a small drop of water. This is something I could do in my kitchen. I learned nothing. I’ll learn the technique, someday, perhaps.

So, I believe it can be stated that there is a snowflake for every taste. It would be an understatement to say that snow is the engine that runs empires, so to speak. What would winter TV every four years be like if it weren’t for the Winter Olympics. Hallmark Movies? Who would know about Tanya Harding? (I’m including ice as a sub-set of snow). How could we live without the likes of Lindsey Vonn? If you’re old enough your heart stopped for a few moments when Franz Klammer won the men’s downhill in 1976. And of course, who can’t forget the aerial flights of Shawn White?

[Alpine skiing. Awesome. Photo credit: Google search]

I celebrate winter. I love snow. But, these days it’s a visual thing. I must leave you now to contemplate my winter landscape. I’ve sat long enough. I need another heat patch placed on my L4 & L5 region. I will make another mug of Oolong tea and add a tad of honey.

[Winter on our road. Photo is mine.]

[All of the factual information about snow came from several Google searches.]

A Cemetery With a View

Sep9

[The grave of Sa Sa Na Loft. Evergreen Cemetery, Owego, NY.

Photo credit is my own.]

I’m back in my home town of Owego, NY for a reason. I have no one to visit. Nothing to purchase (I did buy two books at River Row Book Store), but I was there on an early September afternoon for a sad occasion. I was there to attend a memorial service for a long time friend of mine, Teri Ware Bramlett. It was held at the Hickories Park under a glorious sky. The Susquehanna River flowed slowly behind my chair. It was the color of an olive.

But this post is not about that. Perhaps I’ll post my memories of Teri at a later date. I had errands to attend to. The top of my list was going to TOPS and buying flowers for my family’s grave at St. Patrick’s Cemetery. Then I had to center myself. Find the place where I can take in the whole of my early life. And there is no other place than the “Indian Girl’s Monument” on Cemetery Hill (Evergreen Cemetery). From there I can scan the valley below. I can oversee my hometown like a king rules from the highest castle tower.

Certain places are obvious, other less so. The trees are still full and green block some of what I wanted to see.

I sit on the bench with my wife. I can see St. Patrick’s Church…where I was baptized and where most of my family’s funerals were held. I can’t make out my old home, too many trees. I can barely see the backyard of my childhood girlfriend’s house. I see the Susquehanna, entering the view from the far left and fading off toward Pennsylvania to the right. I can see the Court House. There’s Lake Street where I hung out with my friends in the 50’s and 60’s. All of us overwhelmed by the power of hormones we never knew about until we bacame adults.

It’s all below me, but so far out of reach. My youth was spent on these streets. Memories began to flood my mind.

It’s time to go.

I realize I’m no longer a physical presence in this village, but I can never fully find myself free from the chains of the past.

Staring Down at 72

May21

[A post card image from Inkognito.]

As I write this post the weather here at Rainbow Lake is unsettled. Windy with thunder in the distance. I fell asleep in the screened-in porch last night listening to heavy rains falling. I’m staring at a calendar (The kitchen wall calendar…this year: Japanese prints). I see that I have eleven days until I turn 72.

[My photo.]

72!

When I was a young boy of perhaps nine or ten years of age, I used to play Wiffle Ball with my older brother, Denny. After many swings and hitting little or nothing, I asked him something that worried me:

“Denny, how many fouls make an out?”

Without hesitating he replied: “72”.

I had no reason to not believe him…I was young.

But that number, 72, kept echoing in my mind over the many years since I sat in our backyard with my older brother. I decided to do a little research. Google was smoking for me two nights ago as I found many references to that magic number.

The fact is, that number is VERY significant in many ways…mostly to Numerologists.

Here’s a small sample of what I found:

–It is known in esoteric numerology as the Master Number.

–72 x 12=864…the diameter of the sun. (www.netfind.com)

–The average human lifespan is 72 years.

–December 21, 2010 (Winter Solstice) was the date of a total lunar eclipse which lasted exactly 72 minutes.

–The human body is 72% water.

–The Zodiac has 12 constellations and 72 secondary ones.

–72 is the par on an 18-hole golf course.

–There are 72 spaces on a Parcheesi board.

–72 Hz is the frequency commonly used to examine the emotional spectrum.

–In the Old Testament, God destroyed the Tower of Babel and divided the people by 72 languages.

–Jesus died for 72 hours.

–Muslims are awarded 72 virgins in heaven.

–The Pentagon in Washington has 5 angles, all of which are 72 degrees.

–WWII lasted 72 months.

–And, in numerology, 72 = tolerance, philanthropy and intuition.

And there is so much more.

So, what does all this mean for me? That’s a good question. All I can say for sure is that I’m not anticipating that day…a week from Friday. There are so many more years behind me than in front of me. Have I done right in all those years on this planet? Have I always made the right choices? (No). Have I lived a moral life? (Mostly). There are so many more questions but so few answers. My only real hope is that I will be here to write about the significance of the number 73.

My dreams at night are those of a young man, not with white hair but merely salt and pepper. I have no aches in my legs and back…in my dreams. The young women in my dreams say to me: “Yes, I could love you tonight.”

In the brightness of day, those same young women think: “He looks just like Grandpa.”

“If I’m here in the morning, baby, I’ll know I’ve survived. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m alive…but without you it doesn’t seem right. Oh, where are you tonight?”

–Bob Dylan

“It is hard to do justice to old pleasures that cannot be revived–we seem half to disown our youthful selves, who loved and treasured them.”

–Alan Hollinghurst The Sparsholt Affair.

[Vitruvian Man. A sketch by Leonardo da Vinci. Source: Google search.]

[Full disclosure: No humans or animals were harmed while writing this post. The facts listed above have not been verified by me. They were found during a Google search. And, most importantly: This post is in no way a shameless and gratuitous plea for LIKES on my Facebook page on May 31. But, don’t let that stop you…]

My Son’s Beard

Oct26

I saw him being born. Later on, I saw peach fuzz on his adolescent chin.

A few years later, when he moved in with us, in New York City, I think he borrowed my razor.

Yesterday, I stood next to him at The Beacon Bar. I sipped a beer, he had something I never heard of.

I was close to him, as I always like to be. He’s a big guy and he’s 31 years old ( Oh, God, how time flies !)

I studied his face, thinking how much I love him. Then I saw them!

I Counted three. My boy had three gray whiskers on his cheek !

I don’t know what his thoughts were, but I felt ten years older. Some would say “that’s life”. That’s not what my words would be.

Why Can’t We Stay Forever Young?

Jul14

[Brian looks out over Galway Bay, Ireland (2015]

As I type this post (3:00 pm Saturday, July 14), I’m thinking of my son, Brian, who, 31 years ago would be about seven hours old. When the OB-GYN turned from his mother, Nancy and asked me what I thought of watching my son being born, all I could do was look out over the parking lot of the Stamford Hospital parking lot and cry.

It was an awesome and overwhelming experience to be the second person to see him enter the world.

In 2015, he joined Mariam and me in Ireland for a quick tour and to meet some “real” Egans. He says he loved the trip…and I believe him.

Father and son are now 31 years older than we were that hot July day in 1987. He lives and works in New York City now and Mariam and I sit and listen to the loons in the middle of the North Country.

He is entering the prime of his life. I’m a ‘senior’ citizen and have more gray hair than I did yesterday.

From a father who loves his son…more than words can describe, I’m wishing him a very Happy Birthday.

Brian, you’ve grown up to be an amazing man.

Try to stay “forever young.”

[Brian bids me good-bye at Shannon Airport, Ireland 2015]

My MRI: The Awful Truth

May28

SONY DSC [Image from Wikipedia]

I have lower back pain. I’ve had it for years. Many of my readers will be saying:

“What’s he complaining about now? I’ve had it for years.”

Point taken. But, I moved to the North Country for a reason…I wanted to hike and climb more mountains. Now, this back pain makes those dreams a bit unattainable. And, besides, I already had back surgery for spinal stenosis back in December of 2013. So, why the pain now?

I can think of several reasons:

-I lean too far forward when I change the spark plugs in my Ford Escape. (Joke)

-I spend too much time on my knees, with a hand lens, bending over in my small Adirondack lawn, and examining the next insect that will bite the crap out of my forearm and make me bleed like a leaky garden hose. (Joke, but our hose does leak)

-I spend too much time sanding the back deck in order to paint it, yet again, with a paint that is guaranteed to last at least five years. (True)

-I spend too much time bending over, when I visit New York City, to read the headlines of the New York Times without having to pay $2.50 for a copy. (Pretty much true)

-I spent too much time sitting behind the wheel of our Ford Escape on the recent 13,589 mile road trip and not enough time hiking in the Mojave Desert or Joshua Tree National Park. (True, but if you haven’t read all those blogs, then shame on you)

-I spent too much time bending over my laptop writing about forty blogs about the trip. (True)

So, I make an appointment with my neurosurgeon in Manhattan to get an MRI to see if my left side needs surgery to repair the damage from whatever.

On May 18th, I went to my appointment at Mount Sinai to get the truth, the truth that only an MRI can tell you.

I was laid out and tucked in on the moveable bed. I looked up and saw how much smaller and narrower this “tube” was than the last time I had the procedure done. I knew I was going to become like a Coney Island Kielbasa or a Nathan’s Hot Dog. That is, if this thing had a mind of its own and somehow squeezed in on me.

The technician asked if I’d like to hear anything on the earphones.

“Anything but JZ or Big Daddy”, I said. “How about some Mozart?”

“Fine”, he said.

“I’d like to hear Mozart. Can you find Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Adagio and Fugue, KV 546?”, is that possible?”, I asked.

“Not a problem,” he said.

And I began to feel the bed slide me inside the stainless steel tube.

I heard the opening notes…and then all I heard for the next ninety minutes was either a soundtrack from Star Wars or a Phillip Glass piece…repeating chords and noise.

When it was all over, the guy helped me stand up straight, which was nearly impossible, and informed me where the nearest bathroom was located.

I knew that my Neurosurgeon was going to see me in several days to discuss the results. Well, I demanded to speak with the Radiologist on duty that day…I wanted a quick read of the images so I could make future plans, if I had any to make.

Once he heard my name, and that I was a famous blogger from Owego, NY, he readily agreed to give me a quick summary of what he had on his computer monitor.

“Well”, he said, “see these little pinches in between your L-4 and L-5?”

[This is not my spine. Image from Wikipedia]

“Of course I see them”, I said looking at a screen that resembled a NASA image of the far side of Charon, a moon orbiting Pluto.

“But, something worrisome is showing up here,” he said. “See the area just to right of my pencil point?”

“I see,” I said.

“Well, right down here near the end of your endothelial membrane, I see a disturbing sequence beginning to take form.”

“Give it to me straight, Doc, I can handle it.”

“Well, I see a growing sense of self-doubt and insecurity,” he said. “See here?”

I looked and said “yes”.

“Over here, near your Lumbo-sacral spine, is a large mass of guilt and misgivings. Alongside that is a well of worry and loneliness.”

“I think I see,” I said.

“But there is also a distinct lack of morality, pleasure and sincerity,” he said, “and over here, see, there is growing sense of self-doubt, a mass of existentialism and nihilistic thought, as well as an approaching feeling of fear and trembling.”

He glanced at a copy of Kafka in my shoulder bag.

“But, I care about people,” I protested.

“You’d never know it from this,” he said, leaning back on his IKEA office chair. “But, there’s more. Can you take it?”

“Hit me, Doc,” I said. “Give me your best shot.”

“There is a large mass of growing dread and fear over here near your nerve-fibrillae. You fear that your real active life and vigor of youth are gone,” he said. “Am I right?”

“But, I’m going to be celebrating my 69th birthday in a few days…people will send me cards and letters.”

“Cards and letters? Where have you been, guy, off in a desert somewhere?”

“Actually, yes,” I said.

“You’ll be lucky if anyone notices your Facebook page at all. And, your blog site? Well, I’ve seen it. Nothing but pictures of cacti and sand and you posing in a cheap cowboy hat with the Queen of the Sonoran Desert at some rodeo in Yuma.”

“Hey, that hat cost me $14.95 (+ tax)”, I retorted.

“Well, happy birthday, dude, want the real medical story now?”

“Sure.”

“You have age appropriate degeneration of the lower spine. Live with it.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Oz.” I got up to go.

“Oh, one good thing, Patrick, you’re covered by your AARP.”

Trying To Stay Forever Young

Sep18

I’m sitting on the deck of our home at Rainbow Lake. A lone chickadee hops from branch to branch and then vanishes into the thicket of trees. I can see the shimmer of the setting sun reflecting from the water below us. Only patches of the lake can be seen, we need to trim a few trees so I can watch the kayakers splash by on warm afternoons.

I hear the distinct honking of the Canadian Geese as they fly overhead and set their internal compass on south. Their skein is visible for a brief moment above my head through the only patch of open sky on our property.

Just a week ago, I too, headed south. Back to my hometown. Back to a monumental reunion of my classmates, fifty long years after we graduated from Owego Free Academy. At this very hour, one week ago, I was mingling with men and women that were once the boys and girls of my class. Grey hair was dominant. A cane here. A limp there. But, considering the changes that took place in the past half-century, my classmates fared well. Extraordinarily well. Last Friday night was the mixer. I had to read names tags carefully, since I hadn’t seen these people in decades. I did not watch them age because I did not stay in my hometown. I saw them on a day in June 1965, and now I was seeing many of them for the first time since.

The next night was the Big Event. It was the dinner and dance. I found out that I was one of the few speakers on the program to make remarks. I was to follow shortly after the poem that remembered those of us who had passed away. Tough act to follow.

I was very nervous. Many in the ballroom had read my blogs, many had followed my Facebook posts. Many had little idea of who I had become.

My talk seemed a blur to me as I tried to bring humor and nostalgia together. Was I funny? Was I confusing? Was I making a fool of myself? I’ll never know.

I watched, with a wet eye, as Judy walked across the dance floor and became our “Senior Prom Queen”. I learned that she had to move half-way through our senior year to join her mother–she missed the prom. Now, this was her moment. Her gown was that of a princess. Her husband wore a tux. I looked at my wool blazer and felt underdressed.

Across the dinner table were dear old friends, including my childhood sweetheart. She and I and her BFF from elementary school went to the photo booth.

I’ve been dreading this reunion in a way. I knew it was going to be a splash of cold water–something to force me to face the fearful fact of how fast time goes by and how we succumb to the years and how we face mortality. I had to face the fact that, unpleasant as it is, I may never see some of these people again.

But, that dinner-dance was a moment in the present. Some danced at the oldies like any of the sock hops back in the day.

One can try to “stay forever young”, but everyone in that room was aware of the force that was beyond our control. The ticking of the clock–the pages of the calendar–the rising and setting of the sun.

But, for the moment, everyone was in the present. The only place to be, really.

Someday, a group of people will look back on the weekend of September 11 & 12, 2015 and say: “Those were the days.”

[Photo of a man with a microphone trying to make some sense]

56 Years Along The Blue Trail: Then And Now

Aug23

Like brave mountaineers, we weren’t bothered much by time.

–Gordon Lightfoot

It’s late August in the North Country. The green of the leaves and shrubs are looking tired. Some hints of the colors of autumn are emerging from the maples and oaks. Late summer flowers like Black-Eyed Susans and Ragweed are everywhere. The quarter moon rises after dark for a brief time before setting in the west. The recent heat wave has broken, leaving the nights cool and breezy for sleeping.

In the Adirondack Park there is a region a few miles out from Lake Placid that is designated by the DEC as the “High Peaks Wilderness Area”. I first hefted a pack and took to the trails as a twelve-year-old in 1959. I’m still hiking these paths today…my pack is newer and my boots are better. In those days, one could walk for hours and never see anyone else. Now, the trails are crowded with climbers and people just out for a short time in the forest.

I owned a Sierra Club cup. It’s wire loop handle of aluminum allowed you to carry it on your belt. At every stream I’d cross, in those early years of hiking, I would stop and fill the cup with cold clear mountain water. Soon my urine would change from deep yellow to a clear fluid. Then, I felt, I was less filled with the toxic substances of normal life. I was cleansing my body.

Now, I would never do such a thing without fear of getting the dreaded Giardia, resulting in extreme gastric pain, vomiting and diarrhea. I carry bottled water from the Price Chopper supermarket in Lake Placid. Price: $1.15 for 16 ounces.

I am on the Van Hovenburg Trail, the main highway to the summit of Mt. Marcy, the highest peak in New York State. I’m not intending to go to the top today, I would have had to be on the trail at 6:00 am. That was a climb I’ve made perhaps twenty-five times. No, not today. Today, I was only hiking with my wife and another couple to Marcy Dam. It’s a 2.3 mile walk that I’ve done in the heat of summer, the chill of autumn with dazzling colors of the leaves against a sky so blue it hurts your eyes. I’ve been on this trail in the dark, with friends, alone, and on snowshoes in -5° F weather.

This is the Blue Trail. I’ve been on nearly all the trails of the High Peaks. The trail markers show you the way. The Red Trail goes up this mountain. The Yellow Trail goes up that mountain, and the Blue Trail is now what I follow.

When I was a teenager, I would often be found hiking in these hills. I was fifteen…sixteen, full of vigor and carried a full Kelty packframe on my strong back. Usually, I would prefer to let my brother, Chris or my friends hike ahead of me so I could walk in solitude. I would often sing to myself, only to myself, the popular songs of the day. Sometimes it was Moody River, sometimes it was Running Bear. My songs led me to think about our return to Owego. Hopefully, there would be a dance on the night we arrived home. I thought of my girlfriend. I would sing Teen Angel and think the dark thoughts of death and youth.

I don’t remember being tired.

Today, I’m not expecting a high school dance or my girlfriend. I’m thinking of very different things now. I think of my older brother, Chris, who first showed me the way to the top of the mountain. His ashes were scattered in the forest only a few miles from where I’m walking.

In 1962, my legs were strong and the days would never end. Now, my legs are that of a man who has had back surgery, leg surgery and foot surgery. I’ll not be dancing tonight. I’ll be home and sitting with a book on my lap…but, not without irony, still thinking dark thoughts…this time not of youth but of age.

I am carrying my load on 68 year-old legs. I can feel how the years and miles have damaged my bones, my ankles and my lower back.

But, still I walk, stumbling over the same crazy pattern of tree roots that I tripped on fifty-six years ago. I’ll cross the same streams, but on different wooden bridges. Those old planks have long since rotted away.

Even when the bridges are no longer replaced and people stop walking these woods and begin to forget the cloud covered summits, there will always be a way to cross the stream.

I would search for a few large rocks and, taking great care, step from one to another.

Then I would find myself on the other side. Then I would have to find that old trail again.

CarryTrailSlang:LongPond

Let It Be

Dec30

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea

Sometimes I turn, theres someone there, other times its only me…

–Bob Dylan “Every Grain of Sand”

Parents, send your children to bed (or the media room). Men, if your wives are of a delicate nature, take them away from your laptop.

I am going to expose myself, my soul, fears and hopes in this, my 200th blog post on WordPress. Yet again, I will fall into the bitter pit of memories—some bad and some good. That has become my blog “theme”, I guess; trading in on old dusty thoughts, lovers long gone and the cracks in my heart. Here I am again, standing in the rain at the corner of Bittersweet and Nostalgia. It always rains here. There’s no atmosphere without some discomfort. It could be rain, snow or tears. Doesn’t really matter, though. I turn my collar against the wind and go back to the Hi-Ho Motel to wait for the next train for El Paso. Then I remember. There’s probably no more trains to anywhere anymore except some open-pit coal mine providing good clean green energy for us all. No more whistles that broke the heart of Hank Williams or Box Car Willie. Now, it’s the next Short Line coach to Toledo.

Last year, on the RV trip to Orting, Washington, I did hear the occasional train whistle. But the long line of flat-cars never stopped. They only slowed down to obey the speed limit as the tracks crossed empty streets and country roads.

Yes, there’s no authentic atmosphere without some discomfort. No one lives in a world of warmth and protection (except, hopefully, children) without living through periods of self-doubt and a tablespoon of dread. I once had a great deal of faith that got me through the night terrors, but after heart-breaking losses, deaths and illnesses, I often feel like I live in a city populated by millions…alone.

I fall in love quickly and easily and that is a serious fault. That has led to too many broken hearts in my chest cavity. When a very close friend died in my arms (he had lived all of twenty-three years), I realized that there really isn’t a lot of time for us, on the earth, to wait for the most perfect choices. So, I made decisions based on the old trusty phrase: Carpe diem.

But, as usual, I digress.

It’s change that obsesses me now. Yes, our house could burn down tonight…that’s a big change. But, it’s the slow insidious change that happens to you during life that frightens me. I was born on May 31, 1947. That is 67 years and 6 months ago. I never was a victim of amnesia. I was never abducted by aliens (that I recall). But, I look at a childhood photograph of myself and then quickly stare into a mirror. I have changed. But I haven’t gone anywhere to undergo this change. I can’t say it happened when I wasn’t looking, because I always looked. I look different and I think different (I used to be a Conservative, for God’s sake). And, all this happened without a break in the flow of my life! All the changes I see happened during a day to night to day flow that was never broken. The lines on my face came slowly, never overnight.

There are years I lived and yet somehow missed. Students I loved, taught and counseled…I can see their 6th grade faces but do not remember their names. Women I have slept with are memories now…not out of disrespect…just the passage of time. I was numb with shock when I heard that one of my long-ago lovers is now dead. I know that this is trivial and self-serving to many of you, my friends, who have lost a spouse or future partner. I can only speak to my own experiences.

Somehow, it would make more sense to me if all these changes happened one night. I’d wake up and be middle-aged. But, it didn’t. It happened as I was looking—but I never noticed a thing until one day…

“Hey, that’s life.” This is what is going through the minds of many of you who are reading this.

I taught with someone many years ago. Her husband died part way into the school year. She was the Head of the Middle School and it fell on her to give the graduation speech that would send the 8th grade girls onto the high school. One sentence will remain with me forever. She said: “Change is inevitable. Growth is optional.”

I stood there with the other faculty members. I cried. I knew what she had been through even though I had not lost anyone in my life…yet.

What she said was absolutely true. I knew that then, but I was into my early 40’s and had no idea what was in store for me in a few short years.

I guess I catch on slowly—just like when your hair starts to turn gray.

It’s never overnight.

ME AND MY BROTHERS—AGING SLOWLY

[Circa 1954]

[Circa 1970’s]

[Circa late 1970’s]

[Circa early 1990’s]

patrickjegan

Respect your ancestors, for you are the result of a thousand loves….

Tag Archives: aging