Finding the Right Balance

Have you ever experienced waking from a dream with the sensation of pulling out of a fall?  Not quite fully awake the feeling of falling abates replaced by an equilibrium. Even though your body lies atop a supportive mattress with a safe distance to the edge where a short, but real, fall could actually occur, breathing stabilizes and you feel relief because you found the right balance. If only life were so simple.

Our pool now sparkles with clear water.

I remember as a boy discovering a sign with a formula for achieving such balance. It read: sleep 8 hours, work 8 hours, fun and recreation 8 hours.  The sign was posted in some business establishments. Then, someone who thought he knew better than the person responsible for the original draft added, “but not the same 8 hours.”  Apparently, this person didn’t believe in multitasking.

World renowned counselor and soothsayer,
Senor Opus--created by Berke Breathed

When I was 8 years old I broke my leg. It was a corkscrew fracture that didn’t involve the shin or any surgery.  The young intern who worked with the specialist who put my leg in a cast was so impressive I decided I wanted to become a doctor. My mother was pleased. Not having all the information necessary to make a life changing decision of this magnitude my career path remained in tact until I reached high school and realized a quality grasp of chemistry was required to attend medical school, which unfortunately is a precursor to becoming a doctor. It made little sense to me since no chemicals were involved in the setting of my leg. Not only did I not make it through chemistry in either high school or college, but I struggled in biology, another requirement for those medical schools. Again, I contend there were no plants or animals involved in the doctoring of my injury. My plan was thrown asunder.  A more determined personality might have charged on in pursuit of a career in medicine recognizing the imbalance between the instructional design and the actual practice. Many people I know consider “bedside manner” an important trait in a physician. I am certain I could have weighed heavily on the attributes needed to project a congenial bedside manner as a means of countering my limited proficiency in chemical and biological applications to bring the right balance to my career.  Unfortunately, especially for my mother, I lacked such vision.

Some of the chemicals used to achieve the right balance.

This week I did however find a way to find the right balance to rid myself of a problem that so many of us encounter lurking in our backyard.  Yes, I’m talking about algae in the pool.  While striving to find a balance between the amount of time I spend writing, sleeping and recreating, I noticed the little yellow creatures that cling to the plaster at the bottom of our pool were not being sucked up by our robot.  My lovely wife, Debbie, who is dying to get in the pool and exercise her broken ankle, told me I could call upon Paul, our former employee who prior to our retirement came by weekly to clean our pool.  Possibly influenced by watching the first few episodes of Breaking Bad I determined to take the challenge of ridding our environ of the invaders and restoring the right balance to the water.  After a short lesson on chlorine and phosphorous at our local pool store and consulting my aura counselor—Senor Opus,  I proceeded to brush the sides of the pool, run the pump through a backwash procedure, recharge my filter with DE and add copious amounts of chemicals to the cloudy water.  Amazingly, it worked. Order has been restored and I have achieved the right balance. Now, if I can just do the same for the rest of my life the direction I am headed may appear as clear as the water in the pool.

An End to Liberalism

When I was in college during the Vietnam War era, those protesting the conservative tradition of fighting for your country whether it is right or wrong were labeled liberals.  As I grew older and looked at definitions both in and outside the dictionary, it became apparent liberal also meant a broad or generous application of some commodity or resource.  Conservatives proclaimed those with a liberal agenda wanted to “tax and spend” copious amounts of other people’s money.

It's just yellow laces.
Maybe, it will start a new tradition.

Recently, the need to end liberalism came into sharp focus when my old college roommate, himself a college liberal, noted I was a conservative but just wasn’t willing to admit it, yet. Looking around and assessing my lifestyle I concluded he was absolutely right. Outside of yellow laces in my black gym shoes and a pair of brown and gray saddle shoes my wardrobe is very mundane.  To be honest, I wore a tie nearly every day of my teaching career, a tradition that died out a long time ago.

Really, they're just wingtips
with suede.

Although I enjoy traveling and eating out, we spend most nights preparing our own meals and clearing off our own table. I drive one of two cars the newest of which is 13 years old. No matter how open-minded I attempt to be I do not partake in anything where copious amounts of something are consumed.

I guess I am conservative.  That’s why I’m so concerned about the liberalism showing up in what had previously been deemed conservative individuals.  Probably, nowhere is it more evident than in the political process itself.  For years good solid conservative citizens have fought against the liberal practice of forming special interest groups to raise millions of dollars to buy elections and influence legislative agendas. They claimed unions and other communist infested organizations perpetuated this practice, which was antithetical to democracy. Yet, it is these same conservative citizens who fought to get the Citizens United policy of money as free speech that led to these well-intentioned conservatives spending liberal amounts of money to purchase elections.

For most of our country’s history these conservative individuals have fought to keep federal money and policy out of education, demanding local autonomy. Today, some of these same conservatives want funds at all levels to support a voucher system that would allow the free flow of liberal amounts of money to flow to private and parochial schools.

How liberal can you be with $18 in your pocket?

Finally, the one item that concerns me the most about the move of conservatives to more liberalism is their desire to move from a platform of law and order to one supporting the proliferation of weapons.  Not only have more states broadened their policy toward concealed weapons, but also the number of places where a person can wear his gun on his hip has risen to a point that exceeds the gunslinger days of the Wild West.  My college roommate explained to me that when everyone has a gun there is less chance anyone will attempt to use it.  Knowing how well everyone drives, supposedly after having to learn how to operate a vehicle and passing a stringent test, I’m not sure I would want to be inside a store, restaurant or bank when somebody purposefully stepped forward to rob the place and a bunch of well-intentioned citizens drew their weapons and attempted to apprehend the perpetrator.  My sense is the liberal amount of gunfire would probably result in a liberal amount of injuries.  It’s time to put an end to liberalism.

Back Home

Four Generations

The past two weeks I have been wandering various portions of southeastern Wisconsin. My main purpose in traveling to the place of my birth was to meet and hold my grandson, Simon born to my oldest daughter, Beth and her husband Matthew four weeks ago today. From the moment we stepped in the door of their colonial three blocks from the shores of Lake Michigan, even before he was laid in my awaiting arms, while he slept—his preferred regiment throughout the day, ate—sometimes not providing the two to three hours interim needed to replenish the nutritional supply or shit—supposedly breast-fed babies fecal material tends toward less than solid form with little to no odor, he never lacked for love and attention. Eye contact is not his strong suit. When they were open they gravitated toward windows and shiny objects.

Who can resist the Simonster?

Our first home-away-from-home was my cousin’s lake cottage. Several whitetail deer bounded fifty yards in front of our rental car as we drove along the farmer’s road leading to the cottage. We watched in amazement as Simon’s attention span grew from seconds to minutes as he engaged the world around him. The thirty-minute drive from the cottage to the colonial breezed by those first few days.

Then, we drove north a hundred miles to spend the first week with my in-laws. Debbie has three sisters she left behind when we moved to California seventeen years ago. Our first night away from our grandson we took part in a Wisconsin tradition. We went to Tanner’s, a friendly dining establishment in Kimberly for Friday night fish fry. While cod was available, the lightly breaded lake perch (which bears no resemblance to ocean perch) was delicious.  Other highlights of the weekend included karaoke at a local tavern, a house warming for the new home my nephew bought and a visit with my old college roommate, Mike, in Black Creek. Before we parted company he assured me the country and world’s problems could be easily resolved: “Just exterminate the Democrats.”

Simon helped heal Debbie's broken ankle.

Our return to the Milwaukee area and the joys of grand parenting was punctuated by two unlikely events. I made a third and final visit to my daughter’s chiropractor to improve my back’s health after a sudden move of luggage in a car trunk while still in California had rendered it bent over and hurting. The second event occurred when Debbie went to capture a fabulous sunrise along the beach on the eighth of our sixteen-day trip.  She caught her foot on some seaweed and tripped fracturing her ankle. An ATV was used to convey her to the ambulance once the paramedics were able to properly splint the wound. The orthopedic surgeon explained she suffered a trimalleolar fracture and he set it with a number of plates and screws. The before and after x-rays proved quite remarkable.

We moved to a friend’s home about half the distance away from Simon and his parents. Beth brought Simon for a visit the next day, and by the following day I was picking up Friday night fish fry to share in the house. By Sunday morning Debbie was laying off the painkillers and she rode out to the town near the cottage to have brunch with my cousin and his family. She gained enough mobility by Tuesday we were able to travel thirty miles across the city to have dinner with a friend of mine from my days in graduate school in Madison.  Coincidentally, his son, who just graduated from St. Norbert College, is moving to Madison to start his career.  I think it’s a sign of what’s ahead for Simon.

You Asked For It…Not Really, But Here It Goes, Anyway

One of the great sages, symbols of an era, and arguably the finest singer of the twentieth century, Francis Albert Sinatra, came out of retirement on several occasions to treat his fans to another dose of his impeccable style.  During one of these lapses, I had the good fortune to obtain tickets to see one of those final performances. Though his range had contracted and his rasp was thicker with years of cigarette smoke coated vocal chords, the evening remains memorable nearly forty years later. The question remains, however, why would anyone give up even one day of retirement?

Authors Jane Porter, Suzanne Redfearn and Anita Hughes
at Canyon Hills Library in Anaheim.

I’m glad you asked that question. Since my retirement nearly two years ago in the spring of 2012, I spent a year substitute teaching, volunteered to lead along with my wife a reading club for adults with down syndrome, tutored a high school junior to improve his writing skills, served as a judge of youth writing at the county fair and am slated to be a board member of my synagogue for the coming year. A year ago I gave up the substitute teaching to focus on my writing.

I looked up from my book to snap this sunset.

Last month I had the privilege of attending the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at the University of Southern California campus. After one of the panel sessions, I introduced myself to one of the authors, James Magnuson, who in addition to being the director of the Michener Center for Writing at the University of Texas is a native of Wisconsin and fellow graduate of the university in Madison. His warmth and congenial discussion of the homeland and becoming grandparents was a treat, but he topped it off by having me send a copy of my manuscript to him.

Simon

Last Saturday, we attended an author’s forum at a local library. Three authors, who write mainly women’s romance and suspense, discussed the writing process, getting published, and their books.  While their genre is different from my own, the steps they took to become authors, their journeys to find a literary agent and getting their books published, as well as the motivation necessary to continue the craft were all the same as what I find myself mired in currently.  One thing they all stressed was the need to continue to write.  A goal I had heard before and was repeated several times that day is to write a thousand words a day.  That’s about twice the length of my usual post at this blog or between three and four double spaced pages.

Another important area they said writers need to focus their energies on is reading.  So, while Debbie snapped her photos of the sunset at Laguna that evening I read a portion of Magnuson’s latest novel, Famous Writers I Have Known. It also led me to the decision that while we are in Wisconsin I will focus my efforts on reading and relaxing, while getting to know our new grandson (see last week’s post).  When we return on May 29^th I will catch up on writing this blog.   

Everything You Always Wanted to Know and We’re Afraid to Ask

To find the meaning of life some people
say you must read between the lines.

Many people search for the meaning of life.  Some find it through religion, whether that’s a personal connection with a Deity or a spiritual awakening following rituals with or without clergy assisting. Others find it through nature, which could be a breathtaking sunset or an ant carrying a peanut shell ten times its size back to its home in the crack in the sidewalk.  Still others, like those of us who participate in the blogosphere, find it in the miracle of creation.  Stunned by the fact intelligent beings actually derive satisfaction from spending their time reading or viewing the dribble we blogafile pundits spew into the social mediated world, we discipline ourselves to tap away on our keyboards with determined inspiration.

Simon's parents
await his arrival.

So, since you found yourself here, either out of habit, because one of my three followers recommended you give us a look, or perhaps you accidentally clicked on a link your niece warned you not to go near, I am going to share with you the actual meaning of life. It’s birth. For some of you existentialists this answer probably seems quite ineffectual.  You’re saying, “But birth is just a point on the continuum of life; he could just have well said death or reincarnation.”  Sorry, I know we are all headed there, but even if, as some believe, our salvation can only be realized through death, or you plan to come back as an even greater being in the next life, these are but attributes and not the ah-hah moment. Birth is the ah-hah moment.

My grandson Simon.

Like most of you, well all of you if you’re being honest, I don’t recall my birth.  We search for it, or something like it, when we meditate in my yoga class.  My mother informs me my uncle took her to the hospital because my father could not get back from work on time. The weather was misty and my grandmother slipped on some black ice—not uncommon in Milwaukee in February.  The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, but I understand that, too, is not that uncommon. However, the moment I slid down the birth canal or was pushed out is less than a blur—it’s lost.

As you might have guessed, there’s a reason for all this meaning and birth story.  While we don’t remember our own birth, we remember the birth of our children, even decades later.  Hopefully women only have a limited recollection of labor, because if men were required to be the sex giving birth world population would soon reach zero.  As the partner who stood around and played “coach” for the delivery of my three daughters, I marvel at the miracle.  A few hours ago, my oldest delivered a 7 pound 8 ounce 20 incher named Simon.  In due course we’ll discuss what he remembers about the experience. But, when the phone rang and his mother told me I had a grandson, and tears ran down the cheeks of his grandmother as we heard some of his first cries, I knew why I am alive.