Music

 Yeah, I play the guitar. It was very cool in the 60's to be able to strum and croon ,'The Rising Sun' or 'Bogangles'. And I sure wanted to be cool.

In truth, my meager song writing and guitar playing abilities is likely how I enraptured my wife, the most significant, the most fortuitous event of my life. She had music in her and she was attracted to someone who shared the muse. 

But I never learned music. It's all by ear for me. And it was so for my dad, Frank. He played guitar a little, but more, the ukelele. It worked so much better at the church talent shows.

I passed on a passion for playing instrumental music to my kids, especially my sons, and Connie passed on her singing gift to our daughter. The boys both wanted to play the saxaphone and, in 5th grade ,we rented two alto saxes from Al Corey. About 9 months into it, I called them to the living room for a serious discussion. "You are not spending time practicing your saxaphones. Should I send them back?" They both broke down in tears. And so it began.

They joined Band. And Marching Band, And Jazz Band. They went to Jazz Camp. They were awarded State Jazz Band honors. Eric learned to play the drums and bought a set with his own money. He joined several bands and they all practiced in our bassement...where the drums were.

These were grunge bands. "Captain Suck". "Bung Monkey". "Statistical Density". Loud. Edgey. The girls loved it. I used to pass the band members hearing protection on their way to the basement and flicker the lights when it was too late...or too loud.

They both took the music with they when they went off to college and they jammed whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

We know that Eric played drums and sax at  Ormond College. in Australia. He shared his music and they loved it. Such an intimate connection.

At his funeral we played "Off He Goes" by Pearl Jam. It is my connection.

Ryan grew musically. He was elected "Best Jazz Musician", in high school, in Portland, in the press. He played locally. at clubs, with bands, walk on. The music was in him. And he understood the music. Like I never did...or  ever will.

And now, they are both gone. So, did the music die with them? I did my best, brought it to the peak of excellence with my prodgeny.

It will go on.

Just not my job any more to make it so.

Energy

I have less of it these days. My gas tank always used to be full. Sure, when I worked hard, I would sleep hard and magically the tank was full again. I was able to juggle many balls in the air at the same time, figure things out on the fly, achieve whatever I set my mind and body to achieve.

Age and wear and tear has changed the recharge schedule. I spend more time sitting and idyling my engine. I've been ridden hard and put away wet, become more of a spectator and less a participant.

I don't like it. Like an old war horse, I want to be in the action. I just don't have it like I used to. It feels like laziness, but it's not. It's a distasteful, grudging acceptance of a slower pace. I've rounded third base and am ambling into home. Might as well, because we will all be thrown out at home plate.

Unless we go into extra innings. Never enjoyed that part of the game. Usually boring and ending in "sudden death".

Faith

 My quandry is not with the existence of God. It is with the nature of God. My "faith" is in the order of the Universe and of the quantum world. The magnificent Non-Randomness evidences something behind it all. But to humanize that Cosmic Force, to expect favors and protection, to claim an understanding and to constuct dogma and religion and edifices is pure folly. 

Surely, something is going on. What? The true mystery of our faith. Unknowable. So stop pretending. Stop manipulating. Stop killing in the name of God.

My Bright Abyss

 "Human love can reach right into death. Such a realization should ease loneliness-even for the griever who is left alone; it should also, in time, help to propel one back into life. Nothing is served by following someone into a grave. Somehow, even deep with extreme grief, the worst pain is knowing that your grief will pass, all the sharp particulars of life than one person's presence made possible will fade into mere memory, and then not even that. Consequently, many people fight hard to keep their wound fresh, for in that wound, at least, is the loss, and in the loss the life you shared. Or so it seems. In truth the life you shared, because it was shared, was marked by joy, by light. Cradled in loneliness, it becomes pure grief, pure shadow, which is a problem not simply for the present and the future, but for the past as well. Excessive grief, the kind that paralyzes a person, the kind that eventually becomes an entire personality- in the end this does not honor the love that is its origin. Is, not was: our dead have presence. You don't need to believe in some literal heaven to feel the ways in which the dead inhabit us-for good, if we let them do that, which means, paradoxically,...letting them go."

My Bright Abyss; Meditation of a Modern Believer

Christian Wiman

Happy Birthday Norma Mae

 

Aunt Connie

 

May 12, 1934 - September 1, 2021

She loved and was loved. She will be missed.

Happy Anniversary Morris and Mabelle

 

Married Sept. 2, 1927

A Taste of Normalcy

The local art center here in Natick is the bomb! It's just a short walk from our 3rd floor condo unit down Main Street. They call it TCAN.

It's located in an old historic fire house. The lower level is the performing arts stage. Small venue, good seats, sound and lights. Not a bad seat in the house. And the concession stand serves local brew IPAs. The upper level is a movie theater.

On Thurdsay evening we watched the Anthony Bourdain documentary, Roadruner. Intense and thought provoking.

On Friday I enjoyed a Pousette-Dart Band performance. Who? said my daughter and son-in-law. Great band from the 70s. Great show. Had to show a Covid Vac Card and mask to get in. 

Have also seen the James Montgomery Blues Band and Mark Cohn.

A little Covid safe oasis. Almost feels normal...
 

Happy Birthday Nellie Jane

 

notes from the waterfront

 Bill lives at Dave's house, dates his mulato daughter... went to alternative school in Windham with Mikey... worked as a form carpenter, foundations, concrete. Drank too much, got hurt and started taking pain killers, moved onto Oxy, moved onto heroine, convicted of aggrivated assault on a drug dealer, spent 2 years at Warren. When he got out, found his girlfriend had left him, his friend had sold his vehicles, his tools had been stolen. Wants to get his head up, buy back some tools, get back to construction. Worked as a mover for awhile.

 Opened up to me on the second day. "Only people in Windham are Skinners and Rats... (pedophiles and snitches). Skinners do hard time. The other inmates abuse them. Brian was labeled a skinner because he stayed in his cell and read. "The inmates and the guards hated me and I hated them. Hard time."

 The brakes were fixed on the forktruck. Watching Skully do donuts with a full exacta of fish on the forks, skidding on the slimy floor, screaming like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, Ralph said, "Well Skully's got brakes. All he needs now are brains." 

Story about coaching Ralph to ask for a raise and how to deal with the rejection and the ultimate success when he got it. Story about Skully's tote. 

Sent down to spy on the competition. if they were receiving a pogie truck that was promised to us. sent to run an errand across town. felt like I had been promoted until I was told that I was the only one with a license... 

My position as a coffe bitch. Skully calls from his forktruck across the shop to ask me to bring him his coffe which is closer to him than to me. I threw up my hands in disbelief as the crew laughed, then I got him his coffee. Later when the crew was all around the desk I yelled across the floor to him and told him to bring me my soda... which was arms lenght from me on the desk... they all laughed. 

Skully was showing off his numerous scars and stitch marks. " 54 here from a bar bottle at Ricky's... 26 here from a pool que at Bubba's... 2 in my eye lid from a fist... Not to be left out I showed him my surgical scar on my neck from parotid surgery... He said, Where'd you get that..." I lied "Knife fight... New Orleans". My stock went way up...

Conversations with Craig

 Conversation with Craig. 

"I've worked down here on the waterfront for 30 years now. I don't know what normal is any more. This is the only place I feel comfortable... like I fit in my own skin. So when I get together with regular people I find myself thinking "What would normal people say in a situation like this?" I'll say "So, how's the family..." And then they go on and I try to look interested."

"Don't tell anyone I said that..."

my God

 My God is bigger than your God.

My God embraces all religions/philosophies; Christians, Catholics, Protestants, Fundamentalists, Mormons, Jehovah Witnesses,  Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Sikhs, Buddhists,  Atheists, Agnostics, Cosmismists, Darwinists ,New Age thinking, .... everyone, everything, every idea.  My God embraces scientists, sinners, sailors, sociopaths... all the s words and all the words beginning with every letter in the alphabet. Yes, even the homosexuals.

My God is bigger than infinity, stronger than Superman, smarter than the Singularity. And silent. My God is All That Is. It (not he or she; It is not made in our image or we in It's) does not hate, is not jealous, does not reward or punish, does not judge, doesn't care if I eat meat on Friday or recite the Apostles Creed. My God is Love, Compassion, Tolerance, Understanding, Acceptance, Forgiving, The Cosmic Consciousness, The Non-Random Force of the Universe. My God is not religious dogma, intolerance, controlling, political or Republican. My God does not take sides, establish right over wrong, protect the innocent from disaster or punish the guilty. My God is more than words, can not be understood. My God is seen and heard and felt in everything and in nothing.

My God is Life. My God is non-life. It flows through everything. It exists in the space between neutrinos and the Higgs-Boson particles and between the billions and billions of galaxies and among the infinite Universes and beyond that. It  lives in ETs, DNA, UFOs and in me.

My God is bigger than your God.

Warriors

Timing is everything. 

We are the sons and daughters of warriors.  Fosses have blood on our hands and souls. We only know the “recent” history.  John Fosse fought the Dutch in naval battles in the 1600's and the Indians in King Philip’s War in the Colonies, as did his sons, Samuel and Ichabod. Isaiah Foss fought the British in the Revolutionary War at Saratoga and perhaps at Bunker Hill. 

William H Foss fought in the Civil War at Bull Run and Fredericksburg. Elfin J Foss, 1^st cousin of William,  died on Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Andrew Foss, brother of Hiram, was a merchant marine, on a ship torpedoed during WWII and survived by swimming under burning pools of oil. Uncle Bob Foss served in the Army during Korea.

But Frank was too young for WWII by a scant couple years. And Glen drew a high lottery number in the draft of 1970 for the Vietnam War and did not serve. Ryan and Eric grew up during a relatively calm period of history and missed the Mid-East Conflicts, Kuwait and Iraq and Afghanistan.

On my mother’s side, our family fought in the Spanish American War and WWI. Uncle Stan was in the Coast Guard off Africa in WWII. Uncle Dick was a Marine in the 50s.

On Connie's side, Joe Murphy served in WWII in England and Germany and later in Korea. So did his three brothers and three brothers-in-law and one brother-in-law, Edward Barrows, the son of the Maine Governor, died in France.  Joey Murphy and later, his brother, Noah Murphy served in the Air National Guard.

We have violence in our DNA. We have war in our veins. Those of us who “missed” the opportunity to fight somehow feel guilty that we did not serve our country...other than pay our taxes.

 And now the focus is on our potential future warriors, Davis, age 6 and Isaac, age 4 (assuming Maya chooses not to serve...) and all the nieces and nephews. The world is so different now. War is so different. Technology has advanced exponentially at the same time humanity continues to demonstrate it's disgusting inhumanity. I know their world will not be peaceful.

 I just hope their timing is good. 

Close Calls

 

We can all recall those adrenalin pumping close calls in our lives. A narrowly avoided car accident. A slip on a rocky precipice. A close lightning strike. Sliding off an icy ski slope at a high rate of speed into the woods. The list goes on. There have been more than a few for me, but one especially comes to mind.

My best man, Gordie, was back in Maine one chilly October week and we decided to go duck hunting in the marshes on the north end of East Pond in Smithfield. Gordie lived in Fairbanks Alaska where winter had already arrived, but Maine weather was comparitively mild and the waters were still cool, but not freezing.

We loaded up my 12 foot alumicraft duck boat complete with a new 12 hp Evinrude outboard at the south end boat ramp. Guns and ammo boxes, decoys, paddles, materials to construct a blind. We were anxious to head out in the early morning mist and I wanted to try out my new motor. Perhaps that is why I neglected to attach the motor kill strap to my wrist.

We were half way up the lake and the motor was performing well. We were flying. The bailing bucket was rolling around on the bottom of the boat and I let go of the tiller to secure it. As I discovered later, the motor tiller tensioning screw had not been tightened. The motor turned sharply to the right.

I was thrown out of the boat. When I fought my way to the surface I was shocked to find the boat racing around me at full speed (no kill switch) with Gordie clinging to the gunnells, half in the water as the boat swamped and filled with water. I'll never forget the look on Gordie's face. In Alaska in October this mishap would have been a hypothermic fatality. 

The motor was still wide open but the boat's wild circles had slowed being half filled with water. On the third cycle I was able to lunge into the boat and pull the kill switch at which point the motor went under water and all our gear started floating on the surface. We were about 100 yards off shore, but it seemed like a mile.

The styrofoam floats under the seats kept the boat from sinking completely. We quickly made a plan. Gordie stayed in the water at the bow preventing the boat from flipping over. I grabbed our guns and ammo boxes floating in their cases and stuffed them under the seats, grabbed a paddle and stood in the boat with water to my waist. I paddled like hell for the shore.

Twenty minutes later we beached the boat. Gordie was blue and shaking. Hypothermia was setting in. I knew we had to act fast. There were unoccupied camps along the lake at that time of year. We would have to break into a camp, get out of our wet clothes and warm up...quickly.

I scanned the camps and fortunately identified one that looked familiar, my buddy Kenny's place. We were about to break the glass in the door when I thought maybe Kenny had a hidden key. Sure enough, it was hanging on a nail under the deck. When we opened the door we knew we were saved. The wood stove was loaded and we quickly started a roaring fire. We stripped off our wet clothes and wrapped ourselves in blankets. And in the middle of the kitchen table was an unopened handle of Scorsby's scotch.

By 9:00 am we were toasty and toasted. By noon time, we had bailed the boat, stowed the gear and were trailering back to the house. We stopped for lunch in Oakland at our frat brother, Art's, greasy spoon where I called Kenny. No answer, so on his answering machine I left a criptic message.

"Kenny, just wanted to thank you for saving our asses. I owe you a bottle of scotch. Talk soon, my friend."

Gordie has never gone duck hunting with me since...

The Man

 

Is it so, as time goes by, that I admire and miss you more? I do.

Love you Dad.

Walking Wounded

Life ain't for sissies.

As much as we want to believe the "happily ever after" view of life, it does not exist. Life is trauma differing only in degree. No one is spared; not the rich or the religious, not the successful or the privileged, not the young and certainly not the aged.

The ancient sages recognized this. Some offered philosophies, the Stoics. Some offered heavenly reward and eternal bliss. Some hedonism or nihilism. But, in the end, we exist as walking wounded. Only joy provides solace and comfort. Only love sooths the pain and blunts the devastating losses. Only courage gets us through the dark night of the soul.

Realize this and gain compassion for humanity and for ourselves.

One of the Great Ones

 

David Blackshear. Georgia boy, WWII vet (navigator on a B24 in the Pacific Theather), musician extraordinare, CEO, husband, brother, father, grandfather, friend. One of the great ones. So blessed to have known him.

There is no course on how to age well. You can get plenty of input on what foods to eat, medicines to take, investments to make. But in order to truly wrap your head and your heart around the whole "living life fully" thing, you have to find a mentor. Someone who has walked the walk, who teaches by example.

On Saint Simons Island, my sensi, my gurus, were Russ, Perry and David. Each was unique. Each was extraordinary. All that was required to matriculate into their Master Class was to show up, pay attention and ask questions. The "Old Dogs" were not shy. They would tell you what they thought.

The only downside to having "chronologically challenged" teachers is that they keep dying off. But that event is precisely the lesson to be learned. It is the final exam.

Dying well, managing the indignities of a failing body, a slower mind, meeting these insults with grace and humor and compasion. Suffering Life's losses stoicly, without self pity or recrimination.

The lessons: This is not a dress rehersal. Give it your best. Take nothing personally. Enjoy that which can be enjoyed (and that's most of it). Endure that which must be endured. No whining. Laugh. Smile. Say hello and make new friends. Say goodbye.

Goodbye David. I'll miss you and remember you. Much peace, old friend.

Storage Units

 It seems everywhere you look there are clusters of white metal storage unit complexes. They are ubiquitous. We never had need for one until we sold our house and didn't know what to do with all the stuff we thought we or our family might need or want in the future. Plus the boxes and boxes of old photos, videos, family heirlooms that we just couldn't throw away. That was in 2007.

Over the past 14 years we culled and threw, gifted and repurposed. The pile has been whittled down but is still formidable. The antiques are all gone and most of the furniture was given away. We have made some space and some progress. Though every year we commit to clearing it out, we never quite do.

Next week we will attempt to clean out another storage unit; Ryan's. I rented it for him almost 3 years ago. We will cull and throw, gift and repurpose, save what might be meaningful to Davis or anyone else until such time as they are ready for it. And we will move the saved items to our bigger storage unit in Fairfield. It will be an arduous and painful process. But it must be done.

I will also take my dad's little red truck out of the storage unit to make room for my niece to store her belongings as she and her 3 kids move back to China. Lockable, secure Space. It's the gift that keeps on giving. 

But it seems to me there is a deeper, more personal metaphore going on here. We have used this place for all of our worldly goods. When mom and then dad passed away we cleaned our Ole Ironside and locked those boxes and those memories in the unit. And likewise with those items from Joe and Tina when they downsized from Harry Street. And now Ryan's stuff. 

The storage unit has become a poignant repository of memories; good and bad, joyful and painful, of deep love and anger, unresolved questions and regrets. It is a lockable, secure place to keep our innermost feelings and emotions. When we turn the key and roll open the overhead door, those feeling flood back. And always will.

It's our lives in a 10 x 30.

What we remember, lives.

 

Minivans

 Is there anything as "uncool" as a senior citizen driving a minivan? I mean, in this day and age of EVs, SUVs, and jacked up pickup trucks, how lame is it that we choose a Chrysler Town and Country? Answer: we are trendsetters.

Our first minivan was a Dodge Voyager way back in the 80s. Three kids, running the roads to school, athletic events, grocery shopping we were among the first "Soccer Mom" practitioners. As the kids got their licenses we evolved into the multi vehicle class; VW Jetta's and Jeeps. For a long time our driveway looked like a used car lot.

And then in 2007 we decided to sell the house and drive around the country. Didn't know our journey would continue to this day. We explored RV's. Too expensive and too burdensome. Really limited flexibility as to where you could go, where you could park, who you could visit, unless, of course, you were towing a car behind you. Not to mention fuel, RV park rental and maintenance costs.

We decided on a Chrysler Town and Country Touring Van. We put a Thule on top in which we packed our tent, sleeping bags and camping gear. And then, for our first trip out and about, we put down the rear seats and packed it full of everything we thought we needed or couldn't live without. Organization was key.

Connie loved being up higher and the reclining, heated seats.  Great road visibility. The dogs settled into the space between the two front seats... on fluffy pillows, of course. I mastered the speed control. It was the perfect Spartan vehicle for our cross country travels. And , since then, it is perfect for schlepping everything from moving the kids to building supplies. And now, grandkids.

I remember sheltering in place in the van in a concrete car wash as a tornado swept through Mobile, Alabama. And sleeping in the back in a truck stop in Katy, Texas. It was the perfect platform for camping in the National Parks, which we did a lot. Diving the PCH from San Diego to Portland, Oregon would have been a nightmare in an RV.

When we returned to Maine for the summer, we thoughtfully reconsidered our "stuff". We offloaded a lot of clothes and extraneous things that no longer seemed necessary and created enough space to upload two additional items. Connie chose her massage table. I packed my guitar. And the driving adventure continues. Six times coast to coast, exploring this amazing country, visiting friends and family.

Three years ago we sold "Big Blue" and purchased... wait for it... another silver Town and Country, a model from the last year they were to be manufactured. Our family laughed at us. But now sweet vindication. Our niece with her young active family loves her new van. Our daughter-in-law's sister bought one after the birth of her second and third children, twins. My sister and her daughter and son all got vans for their growing tribes. My daughter and son-in-law routinely borrow the van to haul cribs, trash, bicycles. Recently he suggested I give the van to our grandson when he is of driving age...in 12 years. 

So now we are cool. Visionaries. Trendsetters. Practicality over style. Versatility over popularity. Minivans and Senior Citizens get a bad rap. Just sayin'.

“Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America