Time Enough To Be Late

Time is odd. The astrophysicists theorize that at the moment before the Big Bang neither time nor space existed. Well, it sure does today, at least on planet Earth.

We live by the clock. It dictates when to eat, sleep, work, when we attend school, when we get married. Some people practice punctuality, Others… not so much. And when two people of opposite persuasions do get married…fireworks. It drives my wife slightly insane when I’m ready to go and she is not. Rather than die on that hill, yet again, I simple say “I’ll be in the car.” Where I sit and fume, watching the clock, counting the minutes.

Daylight Savings Time, DST, was introduced in the United States on 1918 under President Woodrow Wilson. The idea was that as the solar cycle changes, we would adjust the clocks to provide more work time in the sunshine and, as noted by Benjamin Franklin, save on candles. And today we continue the practice to safeguard our kids walking to school or the bus stop in the dark. More recently, DST has become a political football with no clear consensus.

This morning we turned back the clocks. But our biological clock disregarded the edict and awakened us regardless. What will we do with our “extra hour”? James Taylor wrote “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” I suppose that is exactly what we will do,

Besides, we still have time to be late.

Halloween

 Until I was 11 years old, Halloween was an unremarkable event. Living in the countryside, miles from our nearest neighbors, there were no trick-or-treaters knocking at the door. We carved pumpkins and roasted the seeds, which was pleasant enough, but hardly memorable.

Then we moved to the city.

Suddenly, Halloween became a spectacle of costumes, candy, and excitement. Hordes of children of every age, dressed in homemade outfits, raced through the darkened streets carrying pillowcases that gradually filled with sugary treasure, candied apples, popcorn balls.

By my teenage years, the holiday had become less about candy and more about mischief. Bands of boys armed with eggs and rolls of toilet paper roamed the neighborhood looking for pumpkins to smash, trees to decorate, and occasionally cars and houses to pelt. Looking back, it was not our finest tradition. Hooligans,

Fast forward sixty years, and Halloween has changed once again.

Our grandchildren's experience is vastly different from mine. The costumes are elaborate, expensive, and usually store-bought. This year, our grandson has chosen to be Alexander Hamilton after memorizing every song from the Broadway musical. Our granddaughter looks adorable in a white kitty costume, shipped all the way from China. Meanwhile, our teenage grandson in Maine will dress as an axolotl, an unusual amphibian native to Mexico. I had to look it up.

The decorations have also become more extravagant. Homes are transformed into spooky displays filled with skeletons, werewolves, and eerie figures equipped with lights, sound effects, and motion sensors. The candy haul can be astonishing, if carefully rationed by parents, enough to last for months.

According to AI-generated estimates, about 74 percent of Americans plan to celebrate Halloween this year, spending an average of $115 per person. Total spending is expected to reach $13.5 billion, a remarkable increase from $3.3 billion in 2005. Strangely, adults are projected to spend more on costumes than children, and nearly $1 billion will be devoted to costumes for pets. Candy alone accounts for approximately $4.1 billion in spending, with Americans purchasing some 750 million pounds of it.

The whole phenomenon is a little hard to comprehend.

Bizarre.

Ski

 His birthday was October 6^th. Born in 1962, he died in February of 2025 at the age of 62. Too young, too soon. Michael J Skoczenski.

I remember when I first noticed him in a busy, noisy hallway at Waterville High School. I was standing outside my classroom monitoring the halls during class change. I was a new teacher and was used to lots of students walking by and checking me out. But Michael approached me directly.

“Good Morning, Mr. Foss.” He spoke with a deep radio announcer’s voice and a smile on his face. He was well dressed in tan kakis and a button-down collared shirt, so distinct from the tee shirt and blue jean horde. And he walked with a bounce, more like a strut. He exuded confidence and good humor. And when he laughed, which he often did, he threw his head back and cackled loudly. A delightful laugh.

I did not have him in class. He was a high achiever, and my students were middle/low achievers. But, between classes, he would frequently wander into my room. I felt like he had adopted me, which was fine by me. I liked him.

When I moved to a new job in the paper industry, I lost track of him. He graduated, went on to college studying accounting, got married and raised a family, got divorced and lost him job. All details I learned after the fact. I hired him as a summer intern and gave him rides to work. So did my sons who were also working summer jobs at the mill.

He was a small, thin man and did not handle alcohol very well. Yet he drank a lot. And smoked lots of pot.

He moved to Portland and worked at a biotech startup. He was content. Until he was mugged at an ATM machine late one night on Commercial Street. A crowbar to the skull, in the hospital for months and persistent seizures.

We visited often at his public housing one room apartment until the seizures became too frequent and too severe. He moved to a Traumatic Brain Injury home up country, but we stayed in touch with visits, phone calls and postcards. Until he died.

The kid never quit, He would not complain, but he would rage, venting his anger at this “rat bastard” or that. His favorite saying, “Hahd tellin, not knowin.” At the end of every phone call, he would say ,“I’ll let you be. Tell Mutha (my wife) I love her.”

I miss the little rat bastahd.

The Gratitude Rock

 I am a rock and, at this moment in my very long history, I live in Natick Massachusetts. Previously, for the past many million years, I lived at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Or not. I may have arrived on a glacier from up North as recently as 20,000 years ago, dropped off Fortune Rocks Beach on the coast of what is now called Maine. As the Mainer’s say “Hahd tellin, not knowin.”

But several years ago, I washed up on the beach.  I enjoyed beach life; seagulls squawking, surf pounding, wide open skies. The sand and tides polished my rough edges. I was content. And then this older, gray-haired guy picked me up and took me home.

He keeps me on the windowsill next to his reading chair among pictures of family and departed loved ones. He likes the weight of me, the smoothness shaped by time, the striations that mark my long journey. Every morning he picks me up from my place, positions me just so in his palm and sits quietly for a time looking at the photos and the dawning of a new day.  He calls me his “Gratitude Rock”.

The rock identification app on his iPhone says I am Green Jasper formed between 3.5 billion and 35 million years ago.. But, as they say, age is just a number. In my case, a really big number.

Simon and Garfunkel once sang, “I am a rock…and a rock feels no pain.” True enough, but like the old dude, I feel grateful—for the warmth of my sunny windowsill. I feel the gentle pressure of a human hand that lifts me with intention. I feel the quiet appreciation of being chosen, noticed, held.

Gratitude, it turns out, is not limited to beings with beating hearts.

And so, as he sits each morning reflecting on what has been and what may come, I sit with him—steady, ancient, and grateful.

 That makes two of us.

Delayed Ambition

He grew up in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont until age 10. Enrolled in first grade at age 5, always smaller, always slower. The drive up the snowy mountain dirt road in a 4-wheel drive Suburban to a 4 room schoolhouse; 1^st thru 8^th, 2 grades in each room. Farm kids. Ambitions? Drive the tractor instead of throwing hay bales. Milk the herd instead of mucking stalls,

The nearest town,10 miles, the closest neighbor, 2. At home, the only boy, he spent his time alone in the woods and swamps, fishing, frogging, building forts, snow tunnels, tree stands. Crafting stone hand axes, bows and arrows, spears. Catching snakes, bugs, butterflies. He was happy, insular, unchallenged. Ambitions/interests: Comic books, picking on an old guitar.

The move to Portland, Maine was life altering in so many ways. So much to navigate. Taking the city bus into the YMCA with tough City kids. Getting his first library card and exploring a huge, quiet edifice filled with books. Being picked last in any sports activity because he had no skills. Having to brawl to establish his place in the pecking order. Competing with peers who all seemed to have ambitions.

By age 11 he had discovered his niche. As a worker, he felt fierce pride in being the best at picking beet greens, mowing lawns, shoveling snow. Later working at A&W Root Beer filling mugs with sweet, brown, delicious beverage; at Howard Johnsons scooping 28 distinctive flavors of ice cream, washing dishes, bussing tables; grounds-keeping for several local motels. In school and sports, he got by. In Boy Scouts and at Church, he got by. But in the workplace, he excelled.

In college he stumbled from major to major. Forestry, Wildlife Biology, Environmental Science; always looking for a path that would lead him back to the woods and the swamps.

And then he met Her.

And they bought a little house and started a family.

And that is when he discovered the fire of true ambition.

Days of Our Lives

 Remember the soap opera "Days of our Lives?" It got me thinking. How many days are there in our lives. Well, that depends.

American women live on average 81.4 years or 29,711 days. American men, 76.5 years or 27,922 days. Things that impact these averages include ethnicity, profession, geographic location, genetics, lifestyle, diet, etc.

So I looked back at the Family Foss. Mom lived 25,819 days. Dad lived 27,264. as of tomorrow I will have outlived them both.

My grandfather, lived, Hiram, lived 10,353 days. His father, Arthur, 14,887. His father, William who fought in the Civil War, 31,936.  William's great grandfather, Isaiah who fought in the Revolutionary War, 34,849. And Isaiah's great grandfather, John who fought on a British war ship and escaped to the Colonies in 1654, lived 28,185days.

My sons. Ryan lived 15,209 days. Eric lived 7,647 days. Too young, too soon.

The saying goes "it's not the days in your life, but the life in your days that matter." But then, there is no way to measure that. 

Muhammad Ali said, "Don't count the days. Make the days count." 

Right on, Champ.

Blog Quotes

 For the past 20 years I have been collecting quotes, a collection of ideas and words that resonated. I recently shared them with my sister and she understood immediately they were more than quotes. They are a map of my evolution of thought during a difficult time of intense questioning and introspection. They are special to me. And I share them with you.

Blog Quotes D.docx

ICELAND !! 2025

Iceland 

Click on Iceland for video

Locker Room Humor

 We joined a gym/health club a year and a half ago. Connie loves the yoga classes (me too) and I have been following an exercise routine to deal with knee, back and shoulder pain. And it has worked beyond my expectations. No more pain. I try to go 3 times a week.

Haven't made any gym buddies. Everyone just does their own thing. Fine by me. But I pay attention to who is there and there are some regulars. Like this one baseball cap wearing, 70 something older guy who wears long sleeve tee shirt, has a beard and rides the stationary bike with his arms crossed. I read the body language. Don't bother me. Connie on the other hand engages with him whenever she walks by. And he is cordial in return.

Today, as I was leaving the locker room for my workout,  he was standing near this locker as a dozen 8 year old boys came out of the pool area and totally surrounded him. The boys were busy talking it up and paid him no mind. I stopped to watch his reaction and couldn't help but laugh as his head swiveled side to side looking for an escape. He looked over at me as I laughed hilariously and, for the first time, he flashed me a great big smile.

Nice. 

Dock Chronicles

 Dock Chronicles

New Year's Eve 2024

Happy Birthday Eric and Ryan.

Thanks for the music..

Compliments

I'll take compliments when they are true and genuine...all day long. 

We have been going to a local health club since January. It was one of those perennial New Years resolutions, the difference being our Aetna health insurance provided us with a substantial fitness benefit (which they have just rescinded for 2025...why?). So we had no more excuse for not going. Plus we deal with all those things that come with being "older". Backs and knees and hips and shoulders. They call it the organ recital whenever we get together with our peers.

We enjoy the yoga and I have been using the treadmills, bikes and weight machines, committed to starting slow and easing up, and not injuring ourselves further. Which is typically what we do. And remarkable it's working! 

My wife has been complementing me about not looking as pregnant anymore and an improving physique. The other day as we were laying side by side, stretching out on the mats in front of floor to ceiling mirrors she said, "You know, we really do look better laying down... do you ever look at the bald spot on top of your head?" And yesterday she complimented me yet again as I was putting on my underwear. "Look at you balancing and not having to sit on the bed! You don't even fall over!" True and genuine.

So it was on my mind as I showered up at the gym. Mostly old dogs when I go. But we're still competitive. As I walked the dressing area there they were, struggling to put on their underwear. One foot in, reach for the wall to keep from falling down , both feet in the same leg hole, sitting on the bench the safest method. I was feeling pretty cocky comparatively.

That's when I walked by that guy in his wheelchair and his aid helping him pull on the jockeys. And not 5 steps later the guy on his walker using a mechanical grabber to snag and haul his skivvies up over his knees. Cocky no more. Replaced by humble and grateful.

Full disclosure. I'm proud, not stupid. I lean against the wall...

Making Sweet Memories

 There was a pleasant cool breeze and I wandered aimlessly through the Natick neighborhoods enjoying the sounds of kids playing and the smell of Memorial Day Weekend barbeque. Stumbled right onto the trail head of Coolidge Hill and up to the top. Made me remember.

I've always been a hiker and a climber. Never wanted to hike the AT like my remarkable buddy Ron, but enjoyed lots of great hikes and climbs.  

I remember the first; Mt Pisgah, Willoughby Lake, Vermont. I must have been 3rd or 4th grade. My friend and I (Mark Zeiner?) climbed up to the cliffs and scrambled all the way to the bottom, bouncing from rock to rock in the dry streambed. It was one of the most dangerous and exciting things I had ever done. Then we stood in the back seats sticking our upper bodies out the window, grabbing leaves as they flew by, while my Dad drove fast down the dirt, mountain roads. Good memories. Happy memories.

So as I "scrambled" down the Coolidge Hill trail, I remembered, my body remembered, the skills I had learned over my lifetime. Muscle memory. And I started remembering my adventures.

 Katahdin five times. Others in the Baxter Range; North Brother, Hamlin Peak; in Maine, Tumbledown, Cadilac, Dorr, Otter Cliffs, the Precipice, Bradburry, Mt Battie, Gulf Hagis, Old Speck. Each one elicits a special memory. 

In New Hampshire; Washington twice, once in Winter, once with my sons, Mt. Jefferson in the snow, Mt Madison, Crawford Notch. In Massachusetts, Mt Wachusett. In Vermont, Smugglers Notch.

I climbed a volcanic plug on Lamma Island in Hong Kong. Climbed down into The Grand Canyon, North and South rims, and up Angels Landing in Zion, into the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon and the slot canyons off the Burr Trail, along the rim of Canyon de Chelly, across a glacier in Valdez and snowy climbs in the Chugach and Brooks Range in Alaska.

 Kayaked the Okefenokee, rafting the Gulkana, whitewater canoeing the Dead, the Allagash, the Kennebec, Narriguagus, The Penobscot, explored the Coastal Georgia Barrier Islands and the sandstone arches in Utah and cliffs of Sedona Arizona and an unnamed mound in Iceland. Glencoe in Scottland, The jungle in Malasia, Tahquitz Canyon in Palm Springs. Calf Creek in the Escalante's.

It would be impossible for me to rank order these adventures, each one different and memorable in its own way. But a few stronger memories do stand out. It was only luck (and maybe skill) that kept me unharmed. Winter climbing on a shear cliff face, alone in winter, on Otter Cliffs in Mount Desert and a slab of rockface spawled into my lap, 50 feet up. I took stupid chances and fortunately never paid the price.  My last foolhardy move was dancing, scrambling along a knife edge on Angels Landing. The drop would have been 1000 feet straight down and I felt no fear, only exhilaration. I had never been so close to the edge. I craved it. It was odd. Perhaps for me a better understanding of the Risk Takers among us. 

So now I have to get my thrills driving Rt 128 in Boston. Plenty of exhilaration there. That and hiking up Coolidge Hill and scrambling down in the twilight.  The risks seem to make the memories sweeter.  

Carlton Littlefield Goodwin

Born August 15, 1910 

Died February 8, 1973

Such a good man.

Essay by Sam Toperoff

 Truly excellent essay.

https://sundaylongread.com/2024/01/23/in-the-land-of-the-very-old/?utm_source=join1440&utm_medium=emai

Eric Bungee Jumping in NZ Dec. 6, 1999

https://youtu.be/WNHAd_Wrp7E

December 8th.

 https://youtu.be/w-TWgZ7dym0?si=M5vz_yubsUCWp58q

Mabelle Christine Willard Davis

 Remembering and missing her.

Off He Goes

 https://youtu.be/Hthj9KZrgpo?si=-nsLLOQUHVJ9Ck8O

The Neighborhood

Natick is pretty cool. Different from anyplace we have ever lived. It was an Indian settlement in the early 1600s... after the indigenous people were subjugated by the Puritans in Boston and driven out of Cambridge. Bunch of sweethearts those Puritans, just looking for religious freedom, right?  Actually, brutal thugs. So, in 1675 when another group of Indians attacked the Colonists, they immediately rounded up the Natick tribe, who, by the way, had all converted to Christianity, and shipped them out to an island in Boston harbor... in the winter,,,with no food or shelter,,, for 6 months. Most of them died. And the rest just disappeared in as much as the Colonists stole their land when they were imprisoned. Genocide. No other name for it.

Anyhow, auspicious beginnings notwithstanding, the town we live in is older, well to do, largely white Irish/Italian with a strong Jewish and Indian population. Proximity to Rte 128 Technology Industrial and Research and the top-level University System provides for a highly educated and creative workforce. Crime is low. Spending on police. fire, public works, education, libraries, town government is high. Liberal. Woke. Very privileged. 

K&E bought a nice starter home (for half a million $s) in a diverse neighborhood close to the train station and Rte 90, a direct shot, though very highly trafficked main route, to Boston. Lots of kids. Indian, Chinese, Pakistani, Ukranian, Russian, German, Irish, Black, Albanian. Isaac came home from school one day and said "Mom, were getting a new boy in class. He's from Pennsylvania. What language do the speak in Pennsylvania?" 

I know many of the older neighbors and we lend each other tools, share garden crops, talk about the weather, covid, politics etc. Yesterday I was talking with Bob. Odd, but good natured. Kinda like me. He said "Well, today is my 40th Korean birthday." I'm all ears.

"40 years ago today, I received my 3rd kidney from a 24-year-old Korean woman. Prior to that I had to have dialysis 3 or 4 days a week, for 4 1/2 years. The Doctor says it is doing fine and, if needed I can have another transplant, actually 2 if needed." He said the science is progressing so quickly that it is likely a mechanical implant or genetic manipulation will be the treatment of the future. Or genetically altered pig organs.

That's another thing about Middlesex County Massachusetts. The quality of healthcare is some of the best in the world.

I guess there are a lot of worse places to be.