THINGS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN?

 [Special note: I am changing the nature of this blog to a different style of writing. I realize that it may not appeal to everyone, but I think it’s time for me to make a shift for several personal reasons, including the desire to do something new.]

           I once had the idea that I should write a book, become famous and rich, buy a nice old rustic house in Bucks County, PA, and live the life of a prolific literary genius of sorts. Then I began to try to think up some clever titles and imagine my name on the front cover with an intriguing illustration. I further imagined that I would be asked to speak in college classrooms and in libraries on what it was like to be a best-selling author. Where did I get my ideas? How did I go about the craft of writing? What advice do you have to offer for those who wished to do the same thing?

          Then another time I had the romantic thought of being the writer of classic, practically nonviolent mysteries, living in an old house on the coast of Maine, with the sound of the sea splashing with a loud, but nonthreatening roar against the ruggedness of the rocks. But there would also be a beach that I could walk along, kissed by the salty mist sweeping into shore, while I considered the plots and who-done-its of my next novel. Then in the afternoon I would sit on the front porch in my favorite cushioned wicker chair, my cup of tea on the somewhat rickety wicker table, and think about going into town for dinner to my favorite seafood restaurant.

          Oh, yes. There was also the idea of living on a quaint old farm with chickens and horses and other forms of livestock, writing children’s books about wonderful childhood adventures like Timothy’s Front Porch in which, as Timothy played on the front porch of his house one rainy day, suddenly strange things began to happen: vines grew around the posts, weird jungle noises like the sounds that monkeys and parrots make came alive, and a man dressed up in a jungle outfit walked up the front steps and announced that he was being followed by a lion. Or Benjamin and the Pirates about a family on vacation in Lake George, NY and were at the Fort William Henry Museum, and as Benjamin looked through those binoculars they have there (the ones you pay 25 cents to look through) he sees a pirate ship coming down the lake, and he’s the only one who can see it, and no one believes him. There would be more to the story than that, of course.

          Being a poet and living in a small New England fishing village along the Long Island Sound, maybe in Connecticut is also appealing. There would be a favorite coffee shop along the water, and a place to sit and think about my next poetry collection. The poems would probably be about the artistry of the neatly stacked stone walls in the country, the characters of people who lived in the village, the sights and sounds and smells of village life, the quirkiness of human interaction, and so on. I would write early in the morning on a typewriter (not on a computer) over the first cup of coffee, on the table on the brick patio in the back, just overlooking the garden.

          Why all this? I haven’t the slightest idea other than these have all been the ongoing, albeit, occasional longings of the heart of my other self that exists somewhere deep within. Maybe my next life if such a thing is how it works. Or was it that it already has been?

           

THE TIMES ARE A-CHAGIN' OR ARE THEY?

It cost 15¢ to get into the Saturday afternoon matinee at the Medford movies. But, then, there came a time when they raised it to 20¢, and my friends and I were pretty upset about that. It’s not like we couldn’t afford it. It was the principle of the thing. Of course, we paid for it from our allowances, or at least, I did. Five more cents meant that much less candy, I suppose, might have been a factor. It’s hard to say now—especially with today’s prices for seeing a single feature versus a multitude of cartoons, three or four short subjects, the Three Stooges, and a double feature. i.e.-a whole afternoon of kid entertainment.

When I think about that, I can’t help but wish that something like that were available today (and at the same price—that would be good). They could do it as a kind and thoughtful gesture for old people like me to relive a part of our lives and reminisce for just an afternoon. They could call it “Saturday Matinees Remembered,” or something along those lines. I know that I would go to it. It should be in an old theater, though—not in one of those huge movie complexes. Atmosphere would be important.

In her book, Mindfulness, Ellen Langer talks about a study that was done to see how environment effects our state of mind.  It consisted of changing the décor of a nursing home and filling it with everything that was reminiscent of the residents’ days of youth—music, styles of furniture, miscellaneous household items that were of that era, etc. The effect was that the residents began to be livelier and happier and even more youthful in their state of mind than they had previously been in the old environment of the home.

There is a school of thought in theoretical physics that says that the past, present, and future are all happening at the same time. Mindboggling, to say the least, and further, what does that imply?

Maybe it means that our lives are already a complete story, the ending of which has already happened, but the information to which we are not privy. Weird concept, I know. Or, maybe it means that we are as close to yesterday and tomorrow as we are to the present moment. And what does that mean? Maybe it means that we have some kind of very real access mentally, emotionally, and spiritually to all the chapters of our lives almost like in time travel. Maybe they are available for healing in the past, present and future, or a source of joy to be found in the fond remembrances of what has been, and what is now and what shall be.

Just a thought.

 

THOUGHTS ON A SUMMER DAY

          The “Minnie Hole” is what we called the place where all the kids in town went swimming on summer days. I actually don’t recall seeing any minnows there, if that’s what the word “minnie,” I think, refers to.  Or maybe it refers to a “small” swimming area. I never thought about it before today, after all these many years. I sure went swimming there a lot—sometimes twice or three times a day. I just assumed that the name had something to do with those little fish that people use for bait.

          It was just a wide area of the creek (Sharps Run) that ran through Medford. To get there you had to take the “main path” that cut through the middle of the woods just off Allen Avenue or by way of one of the many paths that led past the frog ponds until you reached the reddish brown waters of the creek. There was a dock, the pilings of which were heavily coated with creosote, and there was a diving board. Some of the big kids hung a Tarzan rope in a tree just by the water so you could swing out and drop “into the deep” so to speak.

          It was crowded every day, and you could hear the joyful commotion from a distance as you made your way there. The anticipation sometimes made you walk faster or even run, forgetting all about trying to “play it cool.” This was serious kid business—no time for false dignity. That sort of thing was for adults—not kids.

          I always thought I was a better swimmer than I suspect I really was. I could swim well enough to play water tag or Marco Polo, but I don’t remember if I ever won, if that’s what you were supposed to do. Too long ago to say. Swimming under water was fun and somebody once in a while would ask if you kept your eyes open—I don’t know why—they just did. There were a few dares now and then—particularly having to do with the diving board. “Jackknife,” “front flip,” “back flip”-“betcha can’t.”

          One of the things that stands out is that there were very few adults who ever went there, except for some who came to lie or sit on the small beach. It was mostly all kids, no adult supervision, and no one trying to organize us or get us to be better behaved. We were just kids who understood kid rules and mostly played by them. That is not to say that there was never any kind of disagreements, but whatever they were usually over quickly and we went on as if it wasn’t that important.

          As I think of those days in these elderly years of my existence, I am tempted to call them by that all-too-familiar name—“the good old days.” But their so-called goodness has left me wondering: Will these be the “good old days” for some of the children of today? Probably in some way because they have nothing to compare it with and because they are living out their own days of innocence and play.

          However I suspect that they may be much more aware of what’s happening in the world than I was. I also suspect that, especially during this trying time we’re all going through on many fronts, that a little cynicism may be quietly and slowly creeping into their psyche to color their outlook on life—a more harsh reality than I remember ever experiencing. If only such a word could get around, and move us adults to the awareness of how our words and interactions effect the hearts and minds of children. Just a thought.

Mini Retreats

View from the Adironcak Chairs

          Girls read Nancy Drew, boys read The Hardy Boys. Great summer reading, imagining yourself as one of the main characters. I, personally, never read any Nancy Drew books so I don’t know much about them, but I devoured the Hardy Boys when I was growing up, written they said by Franklin W. Dixon, who actually never existed. Instead, in reality, they were written by a team of writers who took turns.

          I still have an almost complete collection of them, and enjoy reading one once in a while, sitting down, reminiscing over simpler themes of life. Notice that I didn’t say simpler “times” of life because life has always been complicated on some level. After more than 7 ½ decades in this realm of existence, I have come to realize that some times are more intense than others, but still require deciphering truth from untruth.

          The times we’re in now are definitely not simple nor quaint nor encouraging. There’s very little to feel inspired by unless you are determined not to get pulled down into the swamp of depression and anxiety—which can happen for any one of us any day of the week. I have to say, though, that there are sources that we can turn to if we start to feel overwhelmed by politics (not going to mention names here, though I’m tempted to) and social unrest.

          For instance, leisurely reading the poetry of Robert Frost or Billy Collins on an afternoon or morning break in your schedule can take you to a quieting, sometimes amusing, place. There are many other poets that can also do that, but those two happen to be my favorite. I call the experience “spiritual” even though many might disagree with that, but at 77 I don’t care.

          At other times I like to just sit and listen to music—yes, just listen to music—not as background or with video—just listen. My choices vary according to my particular mood. Once in a while it’s healing to allow myself to listen to something sad. It’s okay to be sad—just don’t live there. But mostly at other times, I want to listen to something uplifting or mood-shifting like jazz or big band or folk or pop among others. I have Pandora on my IPad and so the variety available to me is amazing!

          And at other times I like to go out into the yard and sit in the Adirondacks and meditate or just be, or speak to God as I would speak to a close personal friend—that, by the way, is my favorite form of praying—no struggle to pray “correctly” or to sound holy, as it were, as if I would be otherwise offending God.

          All of us have our own personal sensibilities that would help us to keep calm, renew our spirits, and help us to get more grounded. Those that I have mentioned may already be a part of your life, yet maybe you don’t think they are fitting in these troubling times—that you must always be thinking about life seriously. I think that they are not only fitting, but something quite necessary that we should give ourselves permission to do and to do so very intentionally.