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.

THE JOY AND PAIN OF PRETENDING

I have always imagined things differently than they actually are, which, in part, is responsible for the name of my blog, nonordinarytime [also titled: nonordinaryreality in a former setting]. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember. I suppose on some level we call it fantasy. Maybe I’m missing a reality gene that other people seem to have—sensible people and not-so-sensible people. It poses the ongoing question for me: what is real after all?

          When I was a kid, I did a lot of pretending. Make believe came naturally to me. As a small child of 4 or 5 or 6, I had imaginary friends—or were they real? For instance, there was my Native American friend, Magua—which I found out later (in college, in fact) was the name of a Native American in James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. There was no way for me to know that at that early childhood stage of my life.  

          There were others, good guys and bad guys—but mostly good guys because I have never liked the dark side of people or things (which is an irony considering the days we’re living in now, politically and culturally). To this day, I’d rather not watch movies or TV shows that are too heavy with dark themes unless there is a guarantee of a happy ending of some kind. That’s me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.  

          I had real friends too, and they were always great fun to be with. But when they weren’t around or before I knew them, I made friends up and I made life up. Maybe it was a Disney influence on me. I don’t know. Something.

          When I was in the 4^th grade, my parents bought me a set of World Book Encyclopedias. I loved them from the very beginning when my father and I picked them up at the train station, took them home, opened the boxes, and the aroma of fresh new books came wafting into the air of the living room. I remember them so well, and I had that same set until we moved out of the parsonage in Cranbury in 2009, and we were, by necessity, downsizing.  I remember their red covers, the color plates of birds and flowers and fish and well-known paintings, the pictures of famous and infamous people of history, and the general themes of almost anything in the whole wide world. I’m not sure just how accurate they were with their information, but I took them to be true and that’s all I needed to know.

          In these days, I’m inclined to want to pretend about so many things: pretend that I’m younger, pretend that the world is a completely friendly place, pretend that there is no such thing as a pandemic or cancer or any other kind of illness, pretend that money is no object for anyone for buying food, clothing, and shelter, pretend that our government has kindness and goodwill and the interest of all people as its main objective, and the list goes on.

          Of course that would also be even better as a reality rather than a fantasy.