Hobbling Through The GeezGeist

Finding A New Leash On Life

2011-12-17T13:25:00.002-06:00

I know an older gentleman - or so he thinks - who upon arriving on the front porch of sixty-five - began to wonder whether what he done in life had any meaning whatsoever. A lifelong bachelor, he had tried several careers, none of which had appeared to suit him for very long, although he had happy times in most of them. He had lived alone for many years but always had a dog or two around to keep him company. The last two had departed at about the same time his hip pain arrived and worsened, so he had chosen to remain dogless for a time.

Eventually, he had a hip replacement (three hours in a sawmill, several months of getting back to normal, and the balance of a lifetime full of worry about falling down). But it went very well, and very soon he resumed his usual schedule.

About ten months later, he got a call from a woman who ran one of the local humane societies. The man had been on the board of the society and had now been without an animal for several years. She said that a scottish terrier had shown up at the shelter, and would he be interested in having a look? That was the man’s favorite breed of all, and he had enjoyed the companionship of several over the decades, so almost immediately he drove down to the shelter.

Behind a plexiglass wall licking all the hands that came over to pat her, there "She" was, loving all the attention. The dog had been found by Animal Control wandering in the city, had gone unclaimed, and was now eligible for adoption.

She - that is, the dog, pranced and cavorted, and the man knew instantly that he would adopt her, and he also understood that this wild, less-than-a-year-old creature was about change his life a little.

There was a “period of adjustment,” as the two-legged and the four-legged got to know each other, gain trust in each other, and learned to live together with a degree of understanding. Her wildness calmed over time, and he continued to be fully engaged by this bright-eyed creature, whose movement communicated joy, commitment, and enormous curiosity - and, in the way of terriers, a modicum of restrained affection. Good enough for him, thought the man.

Over time their routines developed - getting up, going for walks, going to the office, going in short trips, and the like. She let him know when she needed to go out, when she wanted to play, when food was at the top of her list. Both of them learned by her leaps and bounds.

When she was around, he seemed calmer; when she was in the same room, he spoke to her quietly and laughed out loud at her antics. When he would go somewhere else in the house, she would be nearby, and when she was outside, he would check on her every few minutes to make sure she was all right. Quite a pair, those two - at home or on the road.

When the two were getting their exercise, near the house or in the town where the man worked, the elegance of the dog, her inquisitiveness, and her willingness to be patted by hands large and small, meant that she produced a conversation...sometimes about her breed, sometimes about her origins, and occasionally she would inspire memories, stories, and often tears about a new friend’s much loved dog no longer alive. The man’s dog seemed to help the passing strangers - and him, too, and he was touched by the effect she had an others...of all ages.

In turn, the dog seemed to understand the man’s moods - when he needed her nearby, there she was; when he didn’t, she found other forms of entertainment - watching the traffic on the nearby road, observing the loons, ducks, geese, swans, and - one night - a pregnant raccoon waddling across the lawn at 3:00 a.m.

In her early months, the dog did not “play well with others,” but over time her terrierist impulses moderated, and she became quite social, enjoying the chance to receive and to send “p-mail” during the daily walk.

One day, the man woke up and realized that his dog was a “once in a lifetime dog,” an animal who came into his life almost as though some unseen hand or force had made it happen. He knew that while she was a dog, she was more than an eating and eliminating quadruped. She was a participant in much of his daily life, and she had made her presence felt deep in his soul. He came to think of her as a kind of mediator between the irrationality of everyday life in our country and the quiet time which most of us do not get enough of any more.

He knew that she had changed his life in important ways, and now, each morning, he looks forward to the new adventures he and she will have that day, along with the routines which are now taken for granted in their relationship.

And he is enormously grateful for this eighteen pound energetic bundle of energy, curiosity, and joy.

In fact, she’s helped him develop and maintain a new leash on life. His own. He’s a lucky guy, and believe me, he knows it.

So from Islay the scottish terrier and me, a double "woof of greeting" and best wishes for a Happy Christmas and a New Year full of sunshine and joy.

A Tale Told By Not Quite An Idiot, Full Of Sound and Fury....

2011-08-15T19:23:00.003-05:00

I was wasting away the tail end of an evening as the new Minnesota season I call "Hell," because it was very hot and very humid for several weeks, far beyond what we northerners deem appropriate in that short stretch from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

So the tv was on, and a news story passed by about all the deafness which adults are suffering from for all the reasons we should know - music too loud on headphones or in earbuds, artificial sound reinforcement at athletic events (I notice it most at college hockey games, and although I've never been to a rock concert, I'm led to believe that they batter the ears continuously.

Last weekend, K and I attended a 45th anniversary party of a couple of old friends - thoughtful, generous, and very smart people, who love nothing more than a good party and who know, better than most, how to pull it off.

Many of the guests were my age a bit older, and we walked inside a big tent for an absolutely superb meal at tables of six. I hadn't seen a couple of table mates for some time, and the other couple K and I see regularly so the conversation was interesting and animated...well, until the musical group began to play.

Loudly, because they were inside the tent, and the amplified sound couldn't find a place to escape. Looking at the musicians, they had accumulated a lot of experience, and I believe that they are no different from radio announcers who wear headphones as they work. Over time, their hearing takes a beating.

Let me summarize: Here is a group of interesting old farts in a magnificent setting about to tear into an exquisite dinner, all of whom would like nothing more than to chat, in spite of the high probability that many of them (us) would lose the mid-range speech because of the conversational din (before music). And at our age, the persistent concentration required to decode what somebody else is saying, is tiring. Very tiring.

When the music started, conversation became impossible, and while the dancers were glad for the music, those who might not be able to dance for whatever reason, really couldn't have a conversation without a good deal of effort.

Once your hearing is impaired, you either find external help with some sort of hearing aid, or you suffer, with all the negative outcomes which you can imagine.

So if you're entertaining, consider the hearing health of your guests. If you're going to a noisy athletic event, buy some earplugs to knock the sound back at least ten decibels. Or you could find a place to cast sound reducers for you - these still allow you to chat with the people in your vicinity. Sure, they look a little goofy, but it's better than having to put you hand to your ear all the time to focus whatever sound somebody might be aiming in your direction. I bought mine a couple of years ago, and they've been really helpful.

You have been warned....

About Our Neural Synapses

2011-03-31T18:18:00.003-05:00

It was in 1979 I bought my first computer - an Osborne. Some of you chronologically qualified may remember this smallish, portable, DOS based machine. I ended up taking it to work, and writing and producing my own correspondence. I learned typing at the age of 13 and had spent much of my life since in front of a typewriter (a wonderful Olympia still here in the house), so I could print out my first draft, do the edit, print the final version and get the letter out the door.

Turned out this upset the higher ups in my work place...after all, I had a secretary. True enough, but she was wonderfully bright and capable, and I figured that I might lose a few minutes and give her more and more interesting things to do.

I then progressed to an Osborne 2...it's still in the basement and runs, the last time I checked. Don't know where I'd find those floppy disks, though.

In 1985 I acquired a Mac Classic, and it changed my life. With that 64k of RAM, why there was no world I could not conquer. Since then, I don't know how many Macs have run through my life - a bunch, that's for sure. Nowadays I have a computer at home, one in the office, an iPhone, and a first generation iPad.

I can run the office computer from any computer in the world, so I can be somewhat untethered when I travel, and I spend hours doing what I like to call "research," and what "she who would command" labels "playing around."

True enough. But play, in its highest form can be the most exhilarating kind of learning anywhere around.

Whether I'm spending time in The National Gallery in London via Google's Art Project, or reading the downmarket Daily Mail in London, some kind of learning is going on.

And then there are the problems, some of which I can solve myself. Last night I had to reformat an external hard drive for the Mac, and the instructions from the manufacturer were created by the writing team of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie (you have to be a certain age to understand that). I struggled for a bit, found some help elsewhere on the web), solved the problem and got the hard drive formatted and the computer's hard drive backed up.

So the neural synapses have gotten a bit of a work out - and that beats the hell out of an evening of solitaire or high school reminiscences....

Art Museums You Can Visit In Your Pajamas

2011-03-30T08:02:00.005-05:00

Those clever scamps at Google have done it again, especially for those of us whose age and diminished physical capacities have crimped our travels but not our imaginations. Google has worked out relationships with seventeen of the world's museums - from the Hermitage in St Petersburg to the Museum of Modern Art in New York - that allow you to walk the galleries and study selected paintings close up, and I do mean "close up."

The first time I looked at Van Gogh's "Starry Night," I was impressed; as I was able to "move closer" to the painting, I was amazed because I could see the individual brush strokes more clearly than I ever could in the museum.

I was gobsmacked (one of my favorite English slang words) and - dare I say it? - moved by this experience, remembering those years in my life when my hip was going downhill and visiting a museum, any museum, was like climbing a mountain. And if I could get to one of my favorite Vermeers at The National Gallery in London, I needed to sit down a lot.

The museums are producing videos to increase your appreciation of the experience, and over time, no doubt more tantalizing goodies will arrive on the site.

If you're about to travel to one of the cities where Google's Art Project has a museum or two, this program is ideal for having a quick look to see how you might want to spend your time in the collection.

You can even create your own gallery of favorites, and as arrangements are made with other museums, your experience is likely to broaden and your appreciation to deepen.

Yes, I know it's not the same as really being there, but with this approach, there's no searching for a viewing spot in a crowded gallery, no need to suss out where the bathroom is, no need to purchase a guide, no need to hunt for a place to sit.

Just click here to start your art adventure.

Our National Debating Society

2011-03-25T18:24:00.005-05:00

On a recent "Real Time," HBO's show starring Bill Maher, Carl Bernstein was a member of the panel.

Yup, that Carl Bernstein. You know, Nixon, Watergate, I am not a crook, that reporter.

He said something that stopped me cold, and here is my paraphrase:

For the last thirty years Congress has been nothing more than a debating society.

All that money spent to elect debaters, and so little to show for it.

As the world we know appears to be crumbling, increasingly conflicted, rife with poverty, the politicians have excelled at one thing - that is, opening their pie holes and filling our ears with codswallop (look it up...it's one of my favorite English words).

Our complex world becomes black and white; the poor are completely responsible for their own circumstances; the rich are overtaxed, and our revolution began in New Hampshire and not Vermont, according to one of our Minnesota representatives; and politicians talk about the needs of the body politic, but basically they're just running for re-election.

My nature suggests that I find a cave, fill it with whisky and books (the three dimensional kind) and try to hold on, but my mind says it's time to start holding these master debaters' feet to the fire to encourage them to solve a problem or two...and sooner rather than later.

Good luck to us all.

Not Only Short People

2011-01-12T20:57:00.003-06:00

I've known for some time that as one ages, one's height changes. This compacting process occurs very slowly; I didn't take much note of it until I realized that the cuffs of my pants were frequently under my shoes. This made walking something of a challenge, and eventually the material would divide - where the young have rips at the knees of their pants,we seniors have them at the level of the cuff....

I came up with a guy decision and just rolled my pants legs up a titch and joined that large cadre of old men who look absolutely weird to people under thirty-five...you know, the geezers you used to see in the hardware store in the tool department looking as though they were out on a day pass and potentially dangerous. But after all, the pants are mostly pretty near shot anyway, and why spend $12 bucks to have them hemmed?

I had just figured all this out, when I discovered something which accompanies increased shortness - that is, most of the furniture you sit in has suddenly gotten closer to the floor...so much closer that getting out of a chair or sofa has become a regular lesson in the geometry of getting up and out.

Finally, once you are up and have your bearings, the first steps tend to be reminiscent of Popeye's rolling gait (you remember Popeye, don't you?). Once you have the feet moving, and once momentum reaches a certain point, then walking becomes almost fun - well, OK, it becomes bearable.

So much fun that you'd damn well have an ibuprofen or two close to hand and not be sitting down when you realize you need it. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.

New Geezer Rule

2010-08-11T14:43:00.002-05:00

It's been very hot and humid in these parts lately, and at times like these we take a far more sympathetic attitude towards those who endure climates like this for much of the year.

Our agemates continue on their merry social way, taking no note of shirts that soak through about three steps outside the front door or that feeling of being really unfocussed when asked a questions like, "How are you?" or the fact that at some fancy social events women can wear next to nothing while men strap on their black wool dinner jackets, bow ties, and long sleeved shirts because they believe they can grin and bear it through damn near anything.

So K and I came up with a new rule - we call it the 70/90 rule - that is, if you're over seventy and the temperature is over ninety degrees (Fahrenheit) you can do or wear anything you want.

Anything.

We know that the accumulation of years tends to provide one with sufficient inner fortitude to behave as outlined above anyway. But we live in a world of rules, so why not play the game - a little?

Our 70/90 rule is completely flexible. Invited to a benefit for a worthy organization on a snowy night in January? Invoke the 70/0 degree rule, accompanied by a "snow and ice rider."

Asked to bring you two left feet to a dinner dance on a May evening? Just remind the host that you follow the 70/60 rule and are unable to attend.

He'll probably be envious.

Doing something you don't want to do isn't fun, may be a waste of time, and there are those rare occasions (c.f., Command Performances) where the rule(s) must be suspended.

Mind you, I said suspended, and nothing more.

Our rule is a gift to you, and may it help guide you to more quiet evenings at home with a movie, popcorn, and a wee dram of a nice single malt.

Cold Water & A Dog

2010-07-24T22:01:00.006-05:00

A week ago we had high winds and rain move through the neighborhood in the evening, followed by the loss of power for around six hours - nothing like having the lights pop on at 4:00 am both to surprise and disorient you.

The experience made me realize that I wasn't very well prepared for these irregular occurrences, so the next day I created a "lost power box," which included a crank radio, flashlights, batteries, candles, matches - come to think of it - I should have added a bottle of single malt for purposes of emotional adjustment.

The next day I realized that something had gone wrong with the supply of hot water in the house, so I wandered down to the basement (my own version of Dante's Hell) and noted the boiler pressure was lower than usual. I took the necessary steps to add a little water to bring the pressure up and was startled when the relief valve blew and water started pouring into the basement...and I couldn't stop it.

Ultimately, I cut all the power to the boiler and closed every valve within reach, and the flooding ceased. For a variety of reasons, mainly having to do with a very complicated schedule, I postponed the appointment with the boiler repair person for several days.

In the hot and humid July we've had, the cool water "bath" next to the sink wasn't effective but it was sporadically amusing, and Islay the scotty and I coped reasonably well. As the week wore on I became accountably grumpy - wet basement, uncomfortable weather, no hot water - oh, and I'm not getting any younger, by the way.

The morning I was my grumpiest, I dragged myself out to the car with Islay in tow. As we got underway, she took up one of her favorite positions, sitting on the console, facing front, and ears up, her eyes sweeping from left to right on the lookout for barking opportunities and the like.

I might be bummed, but Islay was not.

In fact, she never is. Life is a smorgasbord of opportunities for her, and she wants to take advantage of as many as she can. She addresses life with perpetual enthusiasm and good humor and reminds me of a friend who has had more than his share of troubles and who if you inquire about his well-being always responds, "Excellent!" Once I asked him about his response, and he asked me, "What choice is there?"

Good questions, and the dog had a better answer than I did. For the moment, I've realized that I'll be better off, if I just follow the precepts by which the Islay the Scotty lives. What's more, I think she knows full well that she is a good model for me and no doubt is pleased that I finally figured it out.

Turns out learning can take place in the oddest places and circumstances...for which I am grateful.

Anticipating The Inevitable

2010-07-08T15:07:00.003-05:00

It is said that old age is not for sissies; it is equally true that it is not for the unprepared.

How many people who slip through their forties, decide to remodel the house, and in doing so take no note whatsoever of the possibility that, in just a few years, the toilets in the house may be too "low," grab bars are needed in the bath, even a ramped alternative to the front or back door might make sense.

The infirmity which preceded my hip replacement and the recuperative limitations which followed it made a number of things very clear. But as I looked around the house, I saw that I had done a pretty good job of anticipating many aspects of old age and making some design adjustments.

During a major remodeling of my more than a century old farmhouse about fifteen years ago, the architect balked when I insisted on a ground floor guest bath with a walk-in shower and a sink which could deal with a wheelchair. The slightly higher toilet was a no brainer, as was the wider door for the wheelchair. I emerged victorious, and it's made quite a difference.

On the other hand, I didn't think to add hand rails to the stairs upstairs and to the basement, much less hand rails which made coming up the outside steps easier. But that's been down now, and two things are left.

Because we're redoing the upstairs bath, I'm thinking seriously about a regular bathtub with a side door - if I ever get to the point where I can't step over the edge of the tub. That's not a big deal.

My other ambition is to find some genius who can construct an aluminum dock for use in the lake during the summer; at other times it might be able to be configured as a ramp to one of the entry doors at other times.

These days there are lots of solutions to the challenges which accompany ageing. They are not all expensive - that is until you don't have them and not having them causes a problem which leads to the Emergency Room.

In this instance, when you have plenty of time, you might put "Geriatric Planning" on your schedule.

Geezer Driving Class

2010-03-17T19:16:00.004-05:00

Nothing like spending a Saturday morning in a snowy Minnesota February with a group of my generation taking the four hour geezer refresher driving class. All classroom, nothing behind the wheel (probably just as well).

I assume this is done nationwide, but I haven't fact checked that. When you hit double nickels you can sign up for the course, and by showing up and staying awake, you get a certificate that gets you a ten per cent discount on your car insurance. The first round is eight hours in two four hour blocks (just think that you're flying coach to Vladivostok, but the flight attendant speaks English).

Then every three years you take a four hour refresher for around twenty bucks.

Over the years, I have had some average instructors and some quite good ones, and this time my luck continued.

But here's what has surprised me at every round of the geezer course - I learn something very useful. This time it was that in Minnesota my gps can now be positioned low on the windshield - before it was illegal to do that. And you know those handicapped parking thingies that hang off the mirror? Well, not while you're driving - they're obstructing your vision. Probably goes for the pine tree smeller and the pair of dice you sometimes see, but perhaps geezers have moved beyond that sort of thing.

And here in Minnesota, when a police person has got some poor schlub pulled over on the side of the road, you'd damn well better clear the adjacent lane, or you will see all kinds of colored lights, and your wallet will go on a diet.

And I was startled to find a new way to aim your side mirrors to improve your field of view...dismayed to learn what I had begun to accept - that I don't see particularly well at night because of the impact of ageing.

Funny thing, many of my retired friends can't find the time to take the course...go figure that out.

What I can't change is that my reaction time hasn't improved in the last five decades, nor has my vision, and the fact that I tend to observe the speed limit puts me in the minority, and I understand that I am more at risk on the road than many other drivers.

But more and more, the people on our roads seem to think that they are in some sort of informal NASCAR race - they shift from lane to lane every half minute or so, reject the use of their turn signals, and their preferred speed is way the hell and gone beyond what the law allows.

SO YOU, YES, YOU - HOTSHOT UNDER FORTY IN THE BIG FANCY CAR - GET THE HELL OFF MY BACK BUMPER OR I MIGHT TOUCH MY BRAKES JUST ENOUGH TO SCARE THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF YOU, NOT TO MENTION YOUR COMPANION!!!!

And you, YES YOU, THE ONES UNDER FORTY - BACK OFF, STOP TEXTING, GET OFF THE PHONE, STOP GOSSIPING WITH YOUR FRIENDS, AND GET YOUR KIDS UNDER CONTROL

Thank you very much for thinking about it...anyway.

Recalling Dick Francis

2010-02-15T10:25:00.006-06:00

During my public radio days, a news reporter stopped by my office to ask my advice. It seems that she was scheduled to interview some writer named Dick Francis and didn't know a thing about him. Did I recognize the name?
But of course.

In the early 1970s, my father - who did not like horses - discovered Dick Francis's mystery novels, each of which was based on some aspect of life with horses. He had been a successful jockey, and upon his retirement began writing. It took him a while to turn his pen to mysteries, and he found his work almost immediately popular.

When the mysteries began to arrive in book shops, many of us found ourselves drawn into this unfamiliar world to the degree that we couldn't wait for the next one. The former jockey who, with his wife doing "research," and presumably providing the kind of critiques at which women excel, became widely admired in this new profession. The plots were clever, the characters sufficiently drawn, and the writing vigorous and direct. Each autumn in the UK a new Francis tale would arrive, to be followed by publication in the USA the following Spring.

Anyway, I filled in Linda P., the young reporter, and asked her to bring Mr Francis by the next day so that I could meet him. When they arrived in my office, I was surprised by the author's deep blue eyes and the softness of his handshake. He spoke quietly, and his manner was gentle.

Immediately I thought I could understand how skilled he must have been in managing a horse at full tilt.
His most recent book which I had acquired in London was on my desk top - I hoped for an autograph - he was intrigued that I would have what he called the "English" edition and pointed out with pride that his wife had designed the book's cover.

By a quirk of fate, I had gotten to know a former jockey in Minnesota who had won the Grand National on an American horse named Jay Trump. I mentioned this to Francis, and he lit up - turns out he was the only turf writer in England who had picked that horse to win. I hadn't known that after retiring from riding, he had become a writer for the Daily Express for a number of years, focussing on - surprise, surprise - horse racing.

Some years later when I was involved with a support group for the Veterinary College at the University of Minnesota, I wrote him to invite him to speak to our members during a forthcoming book tour. He wrote a long, thoughtful, chatty, and exceedingly gracious regret, and I treasure it to this day.

His wife died in 2000, but he carried on with his son Felix, and one surmises that Felix will now take on the burden of continuing what has become a most successful literary enterprise, but I fear that it probably won't be quite the same. The father experienced the joys and the pain of succeeding, falling, and failing in the highly competitive world of horse racing, but we can all hope that Felix can push the enterprise forward in his own special way.

Two interesting aspects of Dick Francis's life were his service as a bomber pilot in the British Air Force in World War II and his years spent as the jockey to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. The former he never wrote about, so far as I know, and the second involved a great disappointment when his horse Devon Loch collapsed while in the lead near the end of the famed Grand National - and lost. That event will never been forgotten, but his novels will probably be read for decades to come.

His was a life of varied outcomes, and he seemed to manage it all with equanimity and grace - the kind of ride one would expect from a good jockey.

Conversation At The Concert

2010-02-12T12:18:00.004-06:00

My father was at his happiest in a museum, at a ballet performance, song recital, symphony concert, opera performance, and the theatre - especially the theater. In a museum, he would wander happily by himself and find enormous refreshment in the process.

The other arts required him to sit amongst other people, and this circumstance was a challenge for him. People open cellophane wrapped candies, they cough, they stamp their feet, they arrive late, but worst of all, they talk....before the performance (often) and sometimes during the performance (less frequently).

He required some stillness, probably to allow him to focus on what he was about to watch, and that focus ran from the history of the piece, his knowledge of it (generally considerable), other performances he had seen over the years, and when he was done, he considered himself prepared.

God help you if you were a chatterbox. First you got the turn of the head, then the turn and stare, then the clear the throat, turn, and long stare, and that didn't shut you up, you got a succinct sentence. One night in Boston at the Shubert theatre, he and I, on a high school tour to look at colleges) saw a pre-Broadway performance of "The Most Happy Fella." Sitting behind us were three local dowagers, who chattered on through the overture, so my father went into his drill, finally finishing with the following statement: Will you old broads please shut the XXXX up, so that I can enjoy the performance?"

I sunk into my seat, but for the rest of the evening with Robert Goode and Jo Sullivan and the rest of the cast, we had absolute quiet in the row behind us.

Afterwards, I asked him about what I had witnessed, and he pointed out that he had paid good money for the seats and was entitled to enjoy all of the performance.

For the last several decades, I have employed the same behavior continuum in similar situations. Yesterday, at a morning concert of the Minnesota Orchestra (yeah, I'm that old) three Twin Cities dowagers chatted right up to the first note of the Sibelius, the Grieg, and the two Mozart pieces. I wanted to repeat verbatim what my father had said forty-five years ago on a night in Boston, but here in the midwest our niceness is based on a thick passive aggressive mode, and all I could manage was "And now, we'll all be quiet for Mozart."

OK, so it wasn't dramatic, but it worked, and it reminded me that though my father has been gone for many years, this apple didn't roll very far from that tree.

Keeping One's Balance

2010-01-02T14:50:00.003-06:00

My doctor tells me that - at my age - I need to concentrate on maintaining my balance - a polite way of encouraging me not to fall down a lot.

He says that falling often is the first in a short sequence of events which can lead to one's dropping off one's limb on the tree of life. Most of us want to defer that result as long as possible.

Long ago I learned to fall frequently - first on the skating rink and subsequently on the hockey rink. Playing hockey is an education in falling down and getting hit and falling down. After a while, you don't think much about it.

Time passes, and one morning you wake up and find that you are middle-aged, so you set about trying to defer the inevitable impact of ageing...a process very much like trying to defy gravity. More years go by, and then the day arrives when you look into the mirror and wonder, "Who the hell is the old guy looking back at me?"

About a decade ago when I was on the cusp of advanced middle age, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice near our offices and landed smack on the back of my head. I think I was unconscious for a few seconds and subsquently discovered I couldn't get back on my feet. So I crawled into the building and down the hall to the only business open, a tea room.

As I crawled in, the ladies were very amused at this unique attempt at humor, but when I told them what had happened, they brought a chair forthwith and helped me into it. They were most solicitous, and when I felt better, I returned to the office and called my doctor who gave me a brief interview and told me to go home and make no important decisions for the next three days. I asked him about this recommendation; he told me that I would be "goofy" until about the fourth day. Naturally, I thought he was kidding, but it turned out that he was oh so very right. My hockey "intuition' was long gone; there was no doubt about that.

After that fall, I changed my views about walking in the winter in Minnesota and acquired a variety of shoes, boots, and attachments to same to help me navigate the snowy and icy periods typical during our long winter. After the hip was replaced, I was especially cautious, and the winter after the replacement, I got too confident and slipped on the ice seven times during the winter. This led to a further review of walking accessories, and I acquired two molybdenum tipped walking poles and rubbers with the same kind of tips on the soles.

And then I discovered the Nintend Wii game system and their "Fit" program, now called "Fit Plus." One part of the exercises have to do with balance, and I began to do those exercises with a passion. My balance improved, as did my confidence, and my episodes of entertaining strangers in the out of doors diminished.

This winter, we began with heaps of snow followed by rain, yes, rain. So walking and driving have become perpetual exercises in paying attention ('though I still see people on their cell phones - go figure!).

For the time being, it's back to the treadmill and the hiking sticks for Islay the beloved scotty and me, along with even more time on the Wii in my attempts to defer that which needs to be deferred.

Good luck to us all this winter!

I still approach the winter environment with great caution and still do my Wii exercises, as well as occasional stretches on the treadmill when outdoors is just too awful for words other than those of the four letter variety.

Walking in winter is like many of other challenges which face us throughout our lives - questions of balance.

A Close Shave

2009-12-08T07:38:00.005-06:00

Over the years, I've observed that men are on a perpetual search for perfect sex, a perfect cup of coffee, and a perfect shave, and we'll settle for one out of three.

So let me make some observations about one of the other two - namely, a perfect shave.

As a teenager, I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror looking for something, anything, that resembled a beard. When it finally appeared, I learned about shaving from my father. Pretty simple in those days - shaving soap, a shaving brush, and a Gillette "Safety Razor." (The idea of using a straight edge just scared the hell out of me, so the double edged blade was the only choice. Lathering up from the hard shaving soap in the wooden bowl was easy, even fun, but It took a lot longer than I thought it should to learn to navigate the razor around my face. So I also learned about little pieces of toilet paper stuck on a cheek to stop the bleeding and the sticks (called styptic pencils) in the medicine cabinet to accomplish the same thing.

After I absorbed the basic vocabulary, I began the search for improvement. The first was the arrival of the Wilkinson razor blade, and then a parade of different razors followed - single blade, razors with vibrating motors, double blades, triple blades, electric razors (totally unsatisfactory for me), and once I settled on inexpensive razors from my local Target store, I began to review the "soap option." After decades with the brush and hard soap swirled into lather, I tried a succession of "brushless soaps."

Not the same, although I did conclude that some of them - the ones in a tube - were appropriate for use during travel when one wishes to reduce the impedimenta to a minimum. In my sixth decade of shaving, with ageing and dry skin, I finally left behind the hard soap in a bowl for soft soap in a bowl, but with the shaving brush.

If you haven't shaved with a brush, you've missed one of the great pleasures of life. Generally English, typically made with badger hair, the shaving brush transports and foams the soap on the face. It feels good, very good in truth, and when properly applied makes shaving a literal breeze.

When the shaving is done, getting the soap off your face with hot water and running your hands over the skin reminds you that you are now ready for the day, knowing that on some days, shaving might well be the high point.

A couple of days ago, while shaving, I realized that the shaving brush I was using was the same one my father used for many years. Made by Kent, a fine English brush manufacturer, its brown handle has had a few knocks, and the brush hairs are shorter and less "spread" than they once were. But it still works fine.

Each morning, when I shave, I am reminded that although my father has been gone for over two decades, there remains a complex web of connections between us. Most of them lie in memory or in objects which he enjoyed and which I inherited.

The brush is a different kind of link with its physical connection to my father, and it brings me more pleasure than I might ever have guessed. I like that in a very small way, I'm carrying on what I learned from him about something as elementary as the morning shave.

I have become an "e patient!"

2009-10-22T14:53:00.004-05:00

On a very rainy Monday couple of weeks ago, I woke up and felt that I had a problem in my right lower eyelid. The choice was to get in the car and drive through the pelting rain to a distant suburb and see my ophthalmologist or to find a more sensible strategy.

After a period of quiet contemplation in the smallest room in my house, I searched out my cell phone and using the bathroom mirror to allow me to see the image I was about to take, I snapped an image of my right eye. Then I e-mailed it to my doctor with a note saying words to the effect of do I need to see you for this or can you tell me what it is and what to do about it so that I can stay home and keep dry?

Within a half-hour, I had his response - what I had was not a particularly big deal, and I could take care of it at home without ointments or other medication just the application of hot water on a regular basis to the affected eye lid.

I had a couple of follow-up questions, so I rang the doctor, and we had a very pleasant chat, during which he observed that he had already filed electronically a "low-level" claim with Medicare. Well, that surprised me -- that is, that Medicare was sufficiently up-to-date that they could handle something like this. The doctor said that with my image and e-mail long with his e-mail response, he had enough to file a claim. Fine with me.

In finishing up the conversation he said with some apparent delight that I was his first e-patient and that I was beginning to catch a glimpse of part of our medical future... remote diagnosis and treatment done electronically.

Now obviously one cannot do this sort of thing with a doctor when you've fallen down on the floor and broken a leg, but when some of the niggling problems either aren't worth driving to the doctor's office or can possibly be dealt with over the telephone, even with the technology as simple as a cell phone image, well then maybe this brave new electronic world isn't going to be so awful after all.

At this stage of the game, I've given up updating my resume, but I do think it would be fun to have listed among my few accomplishments that of my newly found status as an e-patient.

(I have been learning a new computer-based dictation program, and this blog entry is the first to use that software. I have made a number of mistakes as I've gone along but all in all, I'm really amazed at how relatively easy dictating this rather than typing it has been. My thumbs, overworked after 50 some years of typing almost every day, welcome the respite.... If future entries seem to have been created by someone else, you can blame the software. That's what I plan on doing.)

Seventy...? You Can't Be Serious

2009-06-22T15:21:00.004-05:00

Getting old sucks. Plain and simple. Relief at reading the obituaries of other and younger people is tempered by the realization that there's no way to stop the process of being edged out to the end of your limb on the tree of life, and the time will come will a large hand will descend from a passing cloud and take you off to another place.

Frankly, I'd prefer to be in Scotland, but the hand probably won't reveal one's destination. I would like the hand to know that I like moderate climates with a healthy amount of rain and that I find locations in the warmer climes completely unsuitable. OK, so I'm lobbying, but just a little.

A couple of weeks ago I left the world of the 6s and entered the world of the 7s, and as I look around me, I find that most of my friends are retired, enjoy leisurely lunches, trips to various places on the planet, and try to persuade each other that their array of golf or tennis games, board meetings of worthy organizations, and concerts at 11 o'clock in the morning are their preferred bill of fare.

Me...I'd rather go to the office and put in a few hours on the modest enterprise which has entertained me for the last several decades. I don't abhor the "r" word (retirement for you youthful readers), but it doesn't seem to suit me particularly well, so I like to say that I am changing gears, downshifting, you get the idea.

Such available time as there is will be devoted to some projects, ranging from traffic management on the road which runs by my house to the history of the Christmas Eve service at King's College, Cambridge, family genealogy, and to learn some of the lore about the highland place in Scotland where I've spent a week each May for the last few years. Nothing too serious, except for trying to catch up on the reading I fell behind on in fourth grade - a hill the summit of which will always be unreachable, I'm afraid. No harm in trying, as long as the eyes can manage.

Between that and dealing with Islay, the scottish terrier (the Empress Of My Universe) and trying to keep ahead of the weeds at home, I expect I'll be pretty busy.

By doing so, perhaps the hand will focus on others whose stillness may attract it more than a man who cannot quite accept the image facing him in the bathroom mirror every day. Excelsior, and let the race continue!

Retirement or Shifting Gears....

2009-04-14T06:43:00.003-05:00

My little business has been running me for almost the last quarter century, and about a year ago, I began to plan for its future.

Retirement is a word I've never liked because it suggests that one is leaving life's competition in order to contemplate the meaning of this and that before one drops off the perch. So when I'm asked whether I'm "retired," I prefer to say that I'm not, but I am "changing gears," probably because that description conveys a sense of action, of moving forward, of not departing the field of play...yet.

About a year ago, I started to think about what might be best for me and my business, and the first decision I reached was that I would not close it down so that I could go to some island off the west coast of Scotland and hike paths both old and new. No, I decided that I would re-design the business so that I could carry on those parts of it which are unique and run it from my office, my living room, or from some island on the west coast of Scotland.

When we stopped printing catalogues and focussed on selling on-line, I began learning a whole lot about contemporary technology, and that stream of new stuff banging around in my brain has been enormously helpful in keeping me both alert and growing. I don't want that to stop.

Nor am I ready to give up contacts with customers. Even though our contacts are by email and phone, I feel that we've been helpful to them in small ways beyond providing a product. I remember the guy in London who couldn't find the baton he wanted in London, so he called us, and we were able to get him what he wanted in time for his event....the son in Alberta whose father was a noted musician who wanted custom printed instruction cards for his dad's memorial service, so that the congregation could play together...the band members who found us for that special gift baton for their teacher upon his or her retirement...the speech therapists who taught us that nose flutes are not only fun but also helpful in working with youngsters with speech difficiulties.

So, in the next three months, there will be changes in the enterprise, the most notable of which will be the elimination of music gifts from our offerings so that we can focus on conducting batons from plain to fancy. We'll be selling some items through Amazon, and they'll handle shipping those orders for us. The volume imprinted batons and custom work will be handled by George, our baton maker.

George is a remarkable man. I've worked with him for over two decades, and in that time, he has provided a quality product at a fair price, first-rate customer service, and in spite of the pain he lives with after surviving a serious automobile crash, he does not hesitate to go the extra mile both for us and for our customers. We are grateful to him and his colleagues at the workshop every week. I don't want to give up that relationship either - the jokes and stories are too good to walk away from.

Over the years, a number of people have worked with me to keep things going. Anne, Susan, and Cynthia have been major contributors over the years, and Tom and Vicki provided important support at critical times. I am grateful to them all for their hard work.

After June 30th, it will be Islay the scottish terrier and me in the office. Islay has worked for me since she arrived in my home from the Humane Society and will ontinue to greet visitors and remind me about treats, walks, and lunch, among other things.

Beyond work, I have some projects I want to work on and finish up and some places to visit. It will be an interesting next step in my journey, and I hope you'll stick around and watch what happens....

Noise

2009-02-26T11:57:00.005-06:00

When I was in college, back just before the end of the dark ages, I attended Boston Bruin hockey games in the old Boston Garden. On a typical night, the haze of tobacco smoke overwhelmed the building, and aside from announcements for goals and penalties, the only other sound, outside of the very occasional cheers for the local lads (always in last place in the NHL in those days) there wasn't much in the way of sound. I never thought much about it, because the pauses in the action provided the group of us who went an opportunity to talk.

Nowadays, I've given up professional hockey (way too expensive) and attend college hockey games at the University of Minnesota (both men's and women's versions, by the way). The hockey is quite good, but the artificial noise produced is almost unbearable, and sometimes it is unbearable.

The purpose seems to be to whip the customers into some sort of seated frenzy, to convince them that they are being entertained, and to prevent any meaningful discussion between seatmates throughout the event. If it's not a goal or penalty announcement, then it's the band. If it's not a pathetic in between period competition involving a racing game or the singing of a lyric of a rock song, then it's a commercial blasting from the scoreboard and all the speakers in the building.

But sometimes you find your fingers in your ears to keep the blast of sound out, because if you don't, you will feel real pain. So I have become convinced that the by-product of all this noisy "fun" is a significantly higher probability that all of us in attendance will become deaf much earlier in our lives.

As a geezer, I understand that my high frequency hearing is somewhat impaired because of my years on the planet, but as I watch young parents bringing their infants and young children into the arena, I wonder what's happening to the kiddoes' hearing. No, actually I don't wonder; I know. If the arena sound doesn't make hurt their hearing, attending rock concerts and listening through ear buds to audio players cranked up so those of us across the room can hate the music being played will finish them off.

Because I go to a number of athletic events menaged by members of the same tribe of acoustical neanderthals (no insult intended to neanderthals, as I am sure they were really good neanderthals for their day), I decided to get a pair of fitted noise protectors. I am hopeful that they will allow me to enjoy the important part of the event - the competition and to ignore the rest of the codswallop and frou-frou which both cloud our minds and wreck our hearing.

You have been warned.

Postscript: My noise protectors arrived, and they fit very well and knock 15 decibels off the sound without eliminating its quality and range. What's more, I can hear the conversations around me and can chat with my neighbors without difficulty.

Good for me...still not good for all the others whose hearing is battered routinely at these events. I think I should try to help them, but how? I'll get back to you on that.

Slouching Towards....What, Exactly?

2009-01-24T09:54:00.002-06:00

The long transition between election and the assumption of power is now over, but there is no time for even a single sigh of relief, what with the shredded remnants of our economy strewn all around us.

Recently, a friend from England asked me what I thought the feelings of Americans were about all this. Scared, I answered. He wondered aloud whether perhaps "apprehensive" might be a more appropriate term.

Nope, scared was it as far as I was concerned. Scared and paralyzed, because nobody seems to know exactly what to do about it, and this is one of those rare times when you want all those who can think outside the box to do just that.

So far our elected representatives seem to be repeating the same old mantra about tax cuts and increased subsidies, but I wonder where is the light at the end of that tunnel? The New York Times published an exploration of what Sweden did not all that many years ago when it faced a similar situation: they nationalized the banks, and the taxpayers gained while the banks' investors lost everything.

You can't legislate greed out of capitalism, but you can find ways to trim sails so as to keep the boat upright, but apparently the mantra of "free market" attracted the cynical and manipulative and hypnotized those whose job it was to pay attention to what was going on.

At this late stage of my life, I wonder whether it's time, as K thinks it is to get a couple of large bags of beans and rice and hunker down under a lot of blankets and pray. I prefer to believe that the new occupant of the White House has enough intellectual capacity and curiosity to gather the best and the brightest and the most experienced around him and find strategies which will succeed and will be equitable.

Well, enough. Time for me to get down on my knees and pray both for the righting of the economic ship and for being able to get up off my knees when I'm done.

At My Age, It's Just Our Third Anniversary

2008-10-12T20:19:00.002-05:00

It was love at first sight. She was so bright-eyed and full of life. Young and old couldn't stay away from her, and neither could I.

So the little black scottish terrier came home with me on October 15th, 2005. I named her Islay, after my most favorite Scottish island, pronounced "eye-lah" by the way, and we set about getting to know each other in the way that men who think they know dogs are managed immediately and completely by a four-footed who has a much clearer view of the world.

The three years has gone by in a blink, and without too many ups and downs. Oh, there was the time she took off, and by the time I found her fifteen minutes later, my heart was stuck in my throat...for about two days, as I remember it. Then she had a stay at my favorite kennel and was beginning to have some digestive problems until an old friend dognapped her, pirate style, and kept her with her menagerie of beasts until my return.

When she arrived at my old farmhouse, I thought about putting her in a crate or keeping her in a small room overnight, but that lasted about two, maybe three nano seconds. Now she leaps onto a storage container at the foot of the bed, and then onto the bed itself. Immediately, she finds a place nearby, generally where I have planned to put my feet.

She did this last night, so I moved to the middle of the bed, and when I awoke she had moved to the head of the bed where I normally put mine. d If I slumber too long, she will move herself next to me and then roll gently into me just enough to get me to open my eyes.

Her alternative solution to the problem is to leap down from the bed and walk around it, her nails clicking on the floor, and then I am up like a shot at hearing those sounds.

Quite a few scotties have been part of my life, and I have loved them all, even the paraplegic one I inherited from my mother, but none of them comes close to Islay in energy, creativity, leaps and jumps, showing affection.

Dog lovers will understand what I mean when I write that she makes me a better person, that she brings ineffable joy to my life each and every day, she makes me walk and ride my geezer trike with her trotting alongside. She comes to the office and watches over us, greeting the letter carrier, delivery person, or guest with tail-wags and a sense of excitement.

It is a true statement that I cannot imagine my life without her.

Islay came to me from the local Humane Society. They told me that she was found wandering in Saint Paul by Animal Control staff. I don't know whether that's true or not, but I do know that whatever conspiracy it was which allowed her to become part of my life is a conspiracy for which I am deeply grateful.

So if you think you might be able to help out an animal, dog or cat or gerbil or whatever, visit your local humane society. If you find a new companion, you can be sure that it will open your heart in new ways and make your days full of sunshine, and your gift will be repaid a thousand-fold.

You are hereby warned.

Blowing Your Troubles Away

2008-09-30T16:42:00.004-05:00

I find myself fretting quite a lot about the current economic situation, and I'm asking myself the same questions you are - about having enough money for the rest of the ride, about diversifying my investments, about cutting back on current expenses, and about having a little pile of cash to help us work our way through this new jungle in which we find ourselves.

It has occurred to me that fretting is pretty much a waste of time and that it is better to be proactive. My idea came from something I saw recently on a trip to the North shore of Lake Superior. On a beautiful sunny day, there were some kids blowing bubbles; all it took was a jar of soapy water and a little metal thingie to hold a the liquid in place until it could be blown into a bubble and subsequently into the air. There was much whooping and laughter, and even some gamboling going on.

K reported that a few weeks later, she and a couple of her relatives blew bubbles along a particularly beautiful part of the shore, and it brought them immeasurable pleasure.

She told a friend from church who subsequently took her hiking group to the same spot to blow bubbles, and they, too, found doing that a "hoot."

So, I think we should find ourselves a jar of bubble juice - it comes with the metal thingie inside, and it's very inexpensive, so when you're feeling down about your/our situation, head outside and blow away your troubles with bubbles. Watch them float away on the breeze, sparkle in the light, and then disappear. Get your friends together to blow your troubles away, laugh, and gambol, and have some fun.

Much cheaper than a trip to the shrink, and perhaps even better for your state of mind, even if only for a little while.

Blow away your troubles in bubbles...it's the next participatory fad, and you heard it here first.

Wh-o-o-o-o-o-o-sh.....

The Family Reunion

2008-08-12T08:08:00.002-05:00

Last weekend, eighty-six in our family gathered at a resort in northern Minnesota to, uh, well, you know....If you were under twelve, you were bored, heavily involved in fun, and getting to know relatives you had only heard about.

If you were middle-aged, you watched your children meet other members of the family, swam, golfed, boated, canoed, played tennis, and managed to find your way to the fermented and distilled areas so thoughtfully provided by resort management for refreshments.

If you were in the geezer generation, you talked and talked and talked and talked...mainly about now, but family stories were bubbling up all over the place. You noted family resemblances, admired new spouses, clucked over the occasional divorced, but mainly took pleasure in seeing the family find ways of making new friendships and renewing old ones.

Long ago, many of us lived in Minnesota, but now we have dispersed all over the place, and getting together is not easy. It's not just the challenge of getting from place A to place B; it's the realization that to maintain a family takes considerable effort, as much an act of will as an act of love.

And it is at such events that one becomes palpably aware of those who preceded us, not only in previous generations who made us possible but also those who have departed more recently - the pain of these departures has not yet been eased by time.

So the stories and the pictures we brought to share take on another dimension, because if we do not do these things, who will there be to tell them at some future reunion?

Giving & Receiving

2008-08-02T16:28:00.003-05:00

As one ages, there are three phases of stuff which arrives in the daily mail. The "introductory" phases is that first mailing from the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) which arrives around one's fiftieth birthday. This is a great opportunity to stomp around the room sermonizing about several topics - I'm too young, how did they know I was about to become fifty, why would I ever belong to that, and lastly and reluctantly, well perhaps I ought to consider joining...later.

Phase two begins with innumerable invitations to discuss your retirement with a veritable cascade of organizations and people, all deeply interested in helping you surmount the reality of your failing cash flow, your failing health, your failing abilities to manage yourself in your home, and your inevitable final trip after you have tumbled off your perch. This phase runs from the early sixties to the late sixties.

The third phase has to do with giving to worthy organizations, none of which will be able to survive another week without your committing to a bequest giving program, a big check now, an annuity deal, a charitable remainder trust, or some other device to empty your exchequer on behalf of some worthy organization. Comely lasses will chat with you for yours about your uniqueness and special relationship to their organizations and how long you will be remembered for having shifted a little something in the direction of their organizations.

Not long before my mother died, she decided to make her "bequest gifts" while she was still on deck. She asked me to write letters to accompany her check asking only that the gift be acknowledged in the way that the IRS required and that no matter how long she lived, all she wanted to hear from the organization was an annual report. All of the organizations she supported complied with her request, and there was one young woman from the University Museum in Chapel Hill who would take Mother out to lunch and never mention anything to do with money, for which act of personal charity she has been widely admired by my family.

My mail box is full of attractive invitations to benefits, projects to support, organizations on the boards of which I have served over the years, and frankly, the plethora of paper is beginning to wear me and the guy who picks up the recycling box every week out.

Better, i think, to look to the youngsters in their forties, tasting success, full of energy, in their peak earning years, and still unaware that the great American giant of Ageing, the AARP, is readying the first warning that the end is approaching. Leave the rest of us aged souls to think on the sins of our youths as we approach the end of our perch, without the accumulated guilt of not supporting organizations with which we were associated three or more decades ago.

Where The Hell Are We Going?

2008-07-28T13:13:00.003-05:00

The heat and humidity are late arrivals this summer, but the merest intimations of them remind us that forms of suffocation pervade our lives these days. Air conditioning or a fan will help us deal with hot damp weather, but I don't have a clue what will help us deal with the national angst which drips from every news channel, newspaper, radio talk show, Potomac-Gas-Bag-Observers-And-Experts, and political compaign ad. All of it oozes around us and sucks our independent intelligence from us through sports, "reality tv," and the natural human tendency to ignore bad news.

Over the weekend I heard an expert point out that the taxes we pay from January through the end of April just about cover the interest on the national debt; military losses in Afghanistan exceed those in Irac; Iran pees on the leg of every western country as it pursues its nuclear strategies; the cost of food and fuel rises unabated; one presidential candidate doesn't seem to have a clue, and the other finds it challenging to provide specific proposals to move us forward.

It's not just curmudgeons like me who are cranky; it's everybody, and with good reason.

Most of us, and I include myself here, have not been paying attention to the fracturing of our constitution, the larcenous behavior of fat-cats (and a nearly invisible Vice-President), and a White House administration which has had as its most notable accomplishment ineptitude on an inter-galactic scale.

Even my conservative friends are counting the days, minutes, hours, and seconds until "this lot" departs in January, 2009. There is no guarantee that what follows will be better.

But it could hardly be worse....could it?

Playing Games for Better Health

2008-07-08T17:41:00.003-05:00

About a year ago, I acquired a Nintendo Wii game system. My stated rationale was that I needed to have some sort of target practice game to help improve my vision after a bout of retinal surgery, but as any man knows, you invent all sorts of stuff to justify getting a new toy.

I had been to an educational technology conference a while back and spent part of one evening watching some adolescent boys and girls playing on several of the available "platforms." I realized then that I had completely misunderstood what today's games were about in terms of subtlety, strategy, and just plain fun. And I was marginally involved in a project which involved some applications of these technologies, and I thought finding out more about these things would be, well, fun - there's that word again.

After nine months of shooting balloons, targets, clay pigeons, pop cans (soda cans for those of you outside the American midwest) and aliens trying to capture miniature versions of a character whom I created and looks very like me, except much thinner [of course]), my scores increased, and I think my reaction time sped up some. Or I prefer to think so.

A couple of months ago, Wii came out with a game called Wii "Fit." It comes with a balance board which collects all sorts of data about the person using it, and it has games involving yoga, strength, aerobics, and balance. I managed to find one at a local store, took it home, and set it up immediately.

Two years ago I had a hip replaced, so there had been several years of gimping around before surgery but a good recovery thereafter. That said, I also felt that I wasn't walking as efficiently as I would like. So in the ten days of working with "Fit," I have focussed on games related to balance, along with some yoga. (I figure that in time, I'll begin messing around with the other two areas, but balance has been a big concern, especially after an icy winter year before last when I found myself on the pavement seven - count 'em - seven times.

In a short period of time, I have improved my balance both statistically and in the way I feel about my moving through my every day life. Even K has jumped on the balance board and we are now in direct competition, especially in the slalom race where she has led from the git-go. I am determined to catch up, no matter how long it takes.

No, I don't think that using this game alone will make me fit. But it will make me a healthier person in some important ways, and when I read that rehab centers are using the Wii for patients recovering from strokes, I understand. Just walking more efficiently has helped heaps.

The Wii may be a game system, but if you approach it in the right way, it will add new dimensions to your life which you may never have imagined.

I never expected to compete with K in the slalom, nor she with me, but this is seriously fun stuff, and good for both of us. You might want to park your talent for prejudging things and have a look. I'm very glad I did.

The Old Cottonwood Tree

2008-07-08T17:28:00.004-05:00

A storm came through last night, and we had quite a lot of rain...a good old-fashioned midwestern rain; it went on for nearly an hour and then moved east to pester our neighbors in Wisconsin.

Islay the scottish terrier and I met the dawn well before six and started around the north end of the lake on our morning constitutional, she trotting companionably besides me in my semi-recumbent "geezer" trike, and I pedalling at the speed she requires.

Generally, we go half a mile on the bikeway/walkway next to the road to the first intersection before turning around to head back home. On the way back today, I was startled to discover that the giant cottonwood located a hundred yards from my house had snapped close to the base, and most of it was now resting in the water, about where the youngish and oldish fisherpersons often convene to take it the mighty walleye and bass which lurk in our small lake.

"Damn," I said to Islay, while I wondered why I had taken no note of this significant event on the first leg of our jaunt. I explained to myself that it was early, I was concentrating on Islay, and that my neural processing had not moved from the idling gear it had been in through the night.

That tree was the tallest one near the shore on the north end of the lake. It was mighty when I moved into my house thirty years ago, and it marked a good fishing spot where in midday, there was some shade; it also had become a home for the occasional bald eagle which stopped by to fish in his or her own way; it was, in every respect, a tree one just enjoyed looking at (or at which one enjoyed looking, if you prefer your usage of the classic sort).

I am not going to dig deeply into metaphorical jabs about the passing of mighty trees and how that might apply to those of us whose bark is beginning to peel back and whose center of gravity has shifted a bit. But I shall observe that when something has become part of your visual history every day for three decades, its sudden departure vibrates well past the eyes.

That landscape will never be the same now, and each of us who has driven, walked, jogged, cycled, or boated past that tree will miss it - our deciduous friend has departed, and a small part of us will mourn this change, as we mourn other changes in the daily rhythms of our lives.

We know about such changes, but that doesn't mean we have to like them.

And we don't.

It's About Poo, and I Don't Mean Winnie....

2008-07-01T18:15:00.003-05:00

Islay the Scotty and I go out nearly every morning - I ride my semi-recumbent "geezer trike," and she trots along beside me, marking territory, trying to chase wildlife, and greeting two- and four-footed fellow travellers on the path next to the road.

Along our way, we pass by several refuse containers with dispensers of smallish plastic bags for use in cleaning up after one's dog. These are provided by the city of White Bear Lake, and those of us who occasionally forget to bring our own are grateful for this modest urban indulgence by our town.

Judging by our trip this morning, Islay and I conclude that there are others who live here who seem to believe that the droppings of their pet are valuable as fertilizer or as works of art or as a quadrupedal "gang sign" to others of that ilk. Or they believe that the "poop fairy" comes along in the dew of early evening and scoops up the remains and carries them off to some sweet smelling abode where they can reside for eternity. (The English seem to like the word "poo," better than the word I used a few lines ago, and I agree it has a touch more innocence and might be used in the mixed company of very good friends.)

Oddly enough, it appears that it is only owners of larger dogs who succumb to these fantasies about the impact of their forgetfulness. Once or twice, I could have sworn that a horse with diarrhea had come down our road several hours after a particularly large meal.

Yes, it's not a pleasant topic, but after a certain age, matters biological take on the same sort of fascination they did when you were three or four, and it simply can't be helped. Better to focus on the misbehavior of neighborhood dogs than anything which might be, shall we say, closer to home.

Gone Away

2008-03-17T07:09:00.002-05:00

Some years back, during my radio days, I got to know a retired BBC Radio manager who lived with his wife in a thatched cottage in rural Suffolk. Frank was in his eighties when we met, and his Irish wife Maureen was one of those women who could have been almost any age.

They were both strong people, both opinionated, and I liked them both very much for quite different reasons. Frank died some years ago now, and we were lucky to see him a couple of months before his death on one of his "good" days. He had not lost any of his wit or sense of irony, and we have always been glad we made the effort.

Not long after Frank died, Maureen went into a "care home," and we lost contact...partly because it was Frank that drove the relationship and partly because it was hard to figure out how to get in touch with her, except by mail.

So every year thereafter, I sent a Christmas card along with a note. I never heard anything back, but I never had any expectation that I would.

Until this year.

In early March, my Christmas card was returned to me, and on it was a sticker with a variety of explanations next to little boxes, one of which was "ticked," as our British colleagues would say.

It read, "Addressee Has Gone Away." Not died, not departed, not moved house, not on vacation, not forwarding order expired, just "gone away." I feared the worst and wondered how to find out what really had happened to Maureen.

In an old address book, I found the name and address of one of Frank and Maureen's closest friends in their village, and via the internet, I found his telephone number, so I rang him up. He very kindly remembered who I was and explained that Maureen had died last May, that he was seeing to her estate, and that the rumpled old cottage in which she and Frank had lived had not yet been sold - it would require a lot of renovation, but they had loved it just the way it was.

I was saddened by the news and moved to reconsider my obviously quite unsatisfactory attempts to keep in touch with friends and acquaintances who may have, for whatever reasons, meandered into an orbit different from my own.

Once upon a time, we took pleasure in each other's company, and while circumstances may have changed, whether in proximity, interest, or commonality of purpose or belief, when we reach a certain age, we must make special efforts to keep our networks knitted together for as long as we can.

It's another tactic to keep us here just a bit longer....and the effort requires no large carbon footprint or great expenditure of money. Just a bit of thought and a sense of kindness.

I'd better get with it and improve my performance in this department of living.

Day Trip

2008-03-08T10:23:00.002-06:00

There comes a point in any winter, when one must say, "Enough, already." When this occurs, some go to Florida, Mexico, California, the Caribbean, but I stay here in the belief that a brief holiday in the sun will end, but upon one's return to Minnesota, your view of the rest of the winter will help you redefine the meaning of the word "eternity."

After attacks of heavier than usual colds, me at the end of one and K at the beginning of another, she observed the sunrise yesterday morning and said that she wanted to go for a ride. She had had enough of the cold's onset and winter's length. We bundled up and put Islay, the therapy scotty, in the back seat and headed in an easterly direction, toward Wisconsin.

We crossed over the frozen St Croix River between Minnesota and Wisconsin, headed to the top of the bluffs, left the freeway, and headed north, hoping that without too many navigatory tools (compass, map, previous experience) we could have a pleasant day meandering. As the suburbs gave way to more open countryside, beauty surrounded us, interrupted only by the occasional housing development plunked down on open land without a tree in sight. One gathers that largeish houses characterized by the incessant repetition of triangular shapes organized around a lump of three garages is the style of today. After a while, our eyes began to yearn for good old American four-squares, bungalows, and converted cabins.

Far better were the older residential areas with lots of mature trees and houses which seemed to be designed to nestle into the rolling landscape. As the sun worked its way across the sky, the play of light and shadows on the forests and the snow were a constant delight to the eye.

But the most important element was the sun. The days are lengthening, and although the rough fingers of cold keep their grip firmly on our throats, we know that warmth is just around the corner, and we are reassured by the calls of the cardinals heard each time the front door is opened to let out the dog.

After four hours, we turned on the GPS and requested an interesting route, and the device responded with a recommendation which turned into a smooth road and a novel way home.

The cold remains outside, as do our colds inside, but our spirits were lifted by this little adventure, a kind of moving meditation, and I think the scotty felt exactly as we did.

An Hour In The Therapy Pool

2008-02-12T10:22:00.000-06:00

Before my hip replacement, I was sent off to work with a physical therapist in a therapy pool to prepare for the great event. That experience cut my recovery time in half, and when the incision had healed, I headed right back to that 92 degree (F.) environment, and two years after the operation, I try to get there three times a week.

When I was a newbie, I was unsure what the rules and expectations were, so I spent a lot of time observing when the therapist and I weren't working. For some period of time, my presence in the pool was not acknowledged; then one fine morning, I got a couple of nods. Nods turned to smiles, and eventually one of the old hands smiled and said, "You seem to be coming here quite a lot...." I knew I was on the doorstep of acquaintance.

Pool life was even better after the therapist had trained me to my program, and I was working out alone. Acquaintance led to conversation - sometimes interfering with my workout - and slowly my network of new acquaintances grew.

There was one mediating factor in all this - simply put, when you are surrounded by the able bodied, and those whose body parts don't work well, don't work, or have gone missing, you are grateful for whatever you are able to do...and I believe that's true of everyone in the pool. I've never heard many complaints from others about their problems - it is what it is, we are who we are, and almost everybody seems to want to get on with life as best as he or she can.

After the surgery I was welcomed back. "Where have you been? Long trip, huh? Did we scare you away? Nice to see you." I realized something I should have known for months: The pool turns out to be this odd, ephemeral, constantly changing support group, mainly of strangers, with acquaintances and friends mixed in. For an hour or so, we ignore our troubles while we work on them and then return to the parts of our lives where we are more aware of our physical deficiences.

It's the physically and intellectually handicapped kids you see that alter your perspective the most. Always working with a therapist, they (and their families) are travelling down a hard road. The therapists are infinitely patient and supportive, and over time, one can see improvements even from a distance. One cannot leave the pool without a far greater sense of acceptance of whatever problem one might have.

It's true that most of us are codgers, and from time to time one of us falls off our perch. There are notes, flowers, and sadness, but the work of the pool never stops.

Some of us work out and feel better, some of us chat like geese and feel better, some of us swim laps and feel different - and better.

Without the experience of the pool, most of us would lacked such a clear path to accepting what we can do in our lives and to resolving to become better at it.

With An Emphasis on Hobbling

2008-01-15T09:48:00.000-06:00

Here in the northland, as we like to call it, April is not the cruelest month (cf T.S. Eliot. No, on balance, it's January.

Last year, during a long stretch when all the roads and sidewalks seemed to be coated with ice, I fell down a lot, most memorably in front of a downtown restaurant where I entertained the diners with my struggles to get up...to the point where one started getting up from his seat, motioning with his hands and asking the question with his mouth, "Do you need help?" Being a guy, I refused in order to conquer me by myself.

Several months previous, I tripped over an uneven pavement stone in London on my way home from the theatre. Only my hands stopping my fall kept my face from the emergency room. As I looked up, I saw a queue of people waiting for a bus; most of them had the expression of "Poor old guy - probably drunk." I struggled to my feet, and a fellow in a dark overcoat carrying a briefcase, stopped and asked if I was all right.

"I think so," I said. He asked where I was going, and I named a nearby tube stop, and so we set off together. During those several minutes, he asked me a number of questions, and I soon realized that he was assessing my state to determine whether I should be seen by a doctor. I passed the test, and after thanking him, I turned left and took the stairs, very carefully, to the Monument Underground Station.

I think often of him, how kind it was for him to stop, and how generous it was for him to take subtle steps to see whether I required further assistance. He set a standard for me, and I have tried to find ways to reciprocate for his kindness.

Anyway, when you get to my age, you find your balance somewhat more precarious and you worry a hell of a lot more about falling down. So when I endured last winter and my several failures in traversing icy stretches, I knew I needed to re-evaluate.

I work on my balance through exercises and work in a therapy pool, I am extremely careful about footwear best for ice. In fact, I now have a number of choices, from soft rubber and deeply treaded slip on boots to rubbers from Canada with molybdenum tips sticking out of the bottom for extreme situations.

Once upon a time, I assumed that my years as a somewhat inept hockey player would have taught me to fall. That belief ended a number of years ago when my feet went out from under me on some ice just outside the building where our offices are, and I landed on the back of my head. I was out cold for a few seconds, then found I couldn't get up, so I crawled into the building on my hands and knees and found the first open door to be that at the tea room. They were amused when I crawled in, an occasion when my sense of humor preceded me when I wish it hadn't. The kind ladies got me into a chair until I regained full mobility.

I called my doctor who listened carefully and suggested that I probably had a mild concussion and that I should not make any important decisions for three or four days, because, he said, I would be "goofy." I felt pretty good, but it turned out he was absolutely correct.

In addition to footwear, I have added a hiking stick with a molybdenum top, but most importantly, I have altered my attitude.

These days, I take my time, plan my steps, use a lot of salt and sand around the front of the house and the drive. I get a bit worried about my titanium hip when I should probably worry about its perfectly normal companion, and I know that some of my friends go south for the winter for the warm weather and such, but perhaps because the risks of falling are somewhat diminished.

So if you see somebody trip, slip, or collapse, get involved and ignore any comments about being fine, please don't bother, and the like. You might be in the same pickle some time down the road and will be grateful for the assistance of others.

Seeing But Not Seeing

2007-12-20T15:30:00.000-06:00

At a Christmas party, one of the group violated the first commandment of living through a Minnesota winter: Never leave your car keys in your overcoat. The event was held at a home, and someone else had gone home with Warren's keys. K and I were leaving the event when Warren discovered the problem and had achieved an irascibility level of about 7 on a ten point scale. I had a flashlight and a cellphone, so I was able to help him contact the special service that came with his car. Once the car was open, Warren said, he had a spare key hidden in the console between the front seats.

A minute or two after he spoke with the service, his headlights flashed, and the locks released on all four doors, and Warren was busy examining every part of the center console.

No keys, and the irascibility score was approaching 12 on the ten point scale. Warren did all the logical things men do at such times - he went through the console several times and began looking in other possible places where the key might be. Nothing.

Warren was about to set the all time irascibility scale score when his wife arrived and inquired, "What's the matter?" Warren gave a succinct summary. His wife opened the rear door on the passenger side, pulled up a cup-like thing, opened it up, pulled out a key and asked, "Is this what you're looking for?"

At this point in such a situation, the irascibility scale divides into the public and private sectors of measurement. If you know most men of a certain age, you can do the numbers without any help from me.

I have thought about this situation often since that cold dark night - mainly about that when we have decided where something is, then that's where we look....and look....and look. Failure leads us to broaden the search to some degree but because we know where something ought to be, it seems difficult to break away from our original perception and to redefine the problem.

Lately, I've been having the same problem around the house, and a good example of this occurred last night. I was getting ready to wrap packages, and I had bought a new roll of Scotch tape. I remembered taking it into the kitchen, got caught up in some other activity, and then couldn't find the damn thing. I looked everywhere in the kitchen, then broadened my search to the stairs, the table in the living room, the table where I had planned to wrap. By now I was nearing a perfect ten on the irascibility scale, and the dog had moved purposefully to another part of the house.

One last shot I thought, knowing that without tape, I was flummoxed. Back into the kitchen. Then I saw it, the little plastic tape dispenser, on its side on the counter. No doubt I had looked at it thirty times but had never seen it.

In much the same way, dishwashing detergent, my own car keys, a pen, disappear from view in plain sight. It's clear that we need to avoid determining what something looks like or where something is, open our minds, and wait for the image to settle in a brain made tranquil by deliberation and not tied up in knots with frustration.

Or maybe that comment I make from time to time about my brains dribbling out my ears is truer than I might have thought.

A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full of Sound and Fury, But Especially Sound

2007-09-03T15:17:00.001-05:00

A couple of weeks ago a cousin's son got married in what was one of the most charming weddings I've ever had the good fortune to attend, and I won't burden you with all the reasons for that - suffice it to say that there was a good deal of deep feeling interspersed with wonderfully supportive chuckles and the occasional guffaw.

An event to remember, in other words.

[Sidebar: As I wandered toward my forties I found myself full of ennui about yet another wedding to attend. Then it occurred to me that I seemed to be making up for it by attending funerals and memorial services (I take them to be not the same thing, but perhaps I am wrong.) At this stage of my life, I look forward to weddings and hope for fewer of the other kind of public ceremony, but I fear my demographic status is against me.]

The reception was held in a fine old building in a nearby town, a place considered the "sticks," when I had hair, and as I walked in, I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Lots of plate glass, an antique tin ceiling, lots of wood, and carpet on the floor, and in one corner, the dreaded sound system to "liven up" the living.

The young man - it is always a young man - already had music going on the sound system, and as the room filled up and the bar went into action, the noise level went up, and up, and up.

It was hard to have a conversation, not just because of the ambient sound but also because a lot of voices fall into the mid-range, and they are the first to get lost in the waves of sound. So, I found myself saying, "What?" about every twenty seconds, wishing I knew how to read lips, and thinking about that restaurant I was always going to open....the one called Old Farts, with thick carpeting, tapestries and the like on the walls, enough light so you could read the damn menu which would be printed IN ALL CAPS IN A VERY LARGE FONT, and not a note of music to be heard anywhere. No more than six at a table, and the tables would be far apart so those of us with really good hearing could not eavesdrop.

By the time dinner was over and the dancing - well, what they call dancing - was about to begin, I decided that my geezer status would allow me to escape, and I did. I headed to the car and drove home in blissful silence.

Now, I'm not criticising the young for enjoying their efficient hearing skills and ability to decode what others are saying and having a great, loud time at these celebrations. They're up to that sort of thing. But as the boomers age and their children remarry, perhaps it will occur to someone that the young should be in the big room, enjoying themselves to the hilt, and those of us who are approaching our sell-by date might have a nice quiet space down the hall - even across the street...one with tables of four, a couple of jig saw puzzles, and some decks of cards, along with a tv showing some sporting event but with no sound, just closed captioning. We could visit the main room in shifts to maintain contact with the primary group of party-goers but not so long as to destroy what's left of our hearing.

You probably thought I forgot to mention the bar. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Of course there should be a bar with an older bartender who can put together an old-fashioned, a sidecar, a manhattan, a rusty nail, or a sloe gin fizz. He'd probably appreciate the quiet atmosphere too.

Now before you open your pie-hole and make a growing sound, remember this is not a criticism, just a suggestion for future consideration ...when and if the topic comes up.

The Older Gent's GPS System

2007-08-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

If you hang around men over sixty - and sometimes younger - you will hear the word "prostate" at some point in the conversation, and you probably won't have to wait to long. You are too young to read this if you think I intended to write the word "prostrate."

Invariably the conversation skips over one of the recurring challenges in the male geezgeist, and that has to do with what the doctors like to call "voiding," but the rest of us use more accessible words and phrases - among them - peeing, whizzing, spending a penny, seeing a man about a dog, a cruise ticket, or almost anything else which has nothing to do with what we're talking about.

For many years I did not acquire a full refined GPS (Geographical Peeing System). It was at a performance of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I had enjoyed a couple of glasses of something before the performance and failed to complete my preparations for the play with what we call a "pit stop." I didn't know that Act One was one hour and fifty-two minutes long, not including applause.

I still hold the intergalactic record for the "loo dash" in that theatre, and that experience taught me what my elders already knew: you have to do a continual assessment of your bladder, your present and immediate future locations, and the distance to an appropriate porcelain appliance.

With a well designed GPS system, along with tending to one's intake and observing the royal custom of always stopping when the opportunity is presented, one can avoid the need to cross one's legs, to bite the lip, to think of the desert, and so on. Such defensive strategies just do in whatever you are doing which keeps you from going down the hall. At the play, I kept thinking, "Why in hell didn't he call it Second Night, why in such flowerly Elizabethan language, doesn't the audience know that laughter delays the onset of my relief, why didn't they break after the scene just ended, why are thirty five year old directors with really healthy bladders putting their male elders through the hell of a such a long first act?" and not about the wonderful performance I was, on the surface, enjoying.

Crossing the trail of the sixties and beyond makes us better planners, and that is probably a good thing.

The Inconvenience of Conveniences

2007-08-25T11:33:00.000-05:00

After a certain age in the male of our species, the word prostate tends to take on a special meaning, and men begin to develop their own internal GPS (Geographical Planning System) based on proximity to a toilet.

At a recent gathering, one of my friends told me he'd seen a local production of the semi-musical comedy "1776."

"How did you like it?" I asked.

"First act was one hour and forty-five minutes long."

He had given me essential information, and I appreciated having it. Then we forged ahead with a chat about the production. His response reminded me of the night in the theatre when the Globe Theatre of London was presenting "Twelfth Night." I had had a couple of drinks beforehand, but when the first act went past an hour and a half, I began to be concerned, and then I went into the standard drill - cross the legs tight, think about anything no liquid, bite the inside of the cheeks, hope, pray...the usual.

At the one hour and fifty two minute mark, the applause began, and I set the Guthrie Theatre World Record for the Men's Room Dash.

Anyway, in geezerhood, one measures one's intake against "porcelain proximity," and one takes advantage of every opportunity to lighten up.

When the my hip was deteriorating, I came to appreciate bathrooms for the handicapped - they are sometimes near than regular conveniences, and thus, more convenient. I have been known to utilize a one person women's facility when the men's was occupied, locked, and the need was great.

It's Our Stupid Memories...Or Is It Memories, Stupid? I Just Can't Remember.

2007-08-25T11:30:00.000-05:00

It's true - your memory becomes unpredictable as you age, especially for the names of things and people. At a recent dinner party, several potentially amusing stories were interrupted by such lapses, and either the story got completely derailed or it dragged out until it collapsed like an unsuccessful souffllé.

Here's an example:

I watched that movie the other night, the one about a princess in Italy, you know....what's her name?

Was it the one with Gregory Peck?

I don't remember, but there was a man riding a bicycle with her, and she had dark hair...it might have been, Cary...um....

Grant.

Brown or black?

No, Grant, G-R-A-N-T.

I meant her hair.

Well, the film was in black and white, so I don't know.

She was also in "My Fair Lady."

Oh, Julie Andrews.

No, the film - and she didn't do her own singing.

Julie Andrews can't sing any more...something about her vocal cords.

Kather...NO, IT WAS AUDREY HEPBURN!

Not Julie Andrews - you're sure?

Absolutely yes I am.

And the man was William Hold...

No! Gregory Peck...it was Greg Peck.

He was good.

And even better in To Kill - what?

A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.

Yeah, right. You're good.

Wait, wait - it was called something Holiday.

Italian....no....no....no....

Roman Holiday!

[Smiles all around]

This happens all the time now, but I have uncovered a solution, and I do not mean this in a humorous way . Each of us in the geezer category needs to create a couple of names, one male and one female who will stand in for the forgotten name, a congenial substitute which will allow the story to move forward without delay. In most cases, this allows the narrating geezer to appear more "with it," informed, and in the current century.

I use the name William Masterson, unless the story is sports-related, in which case he becomes Biff Masterson. The female name I borrowed from the name of a publisher who works with a friend of mine, and she is Enid Harmon.

One should never select such names as Ben Dover, Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, Egbert Souse, Larsen E. Whipsnade, Henry Aldrich or Pneumonia Vanderfeller. If you are among geezers one of them might recognize these, but they would be reasonably safe in crowds of the young.

When I am asked who directed that great production at the (Fill In The Blank) Theatre, I can say knowingly , "One of William Masterson's best efforts in many years." If someone knows the real name and corrects me, all I have to say is, "Well, the old noggin has let me down again," and feign knocking my head with a closed fist.

Darn near foolproof.