Category Archives: Personal goals

The Road to 65, Mile 221: Being A Father

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July 7, 2015, Prescott- One of the main reasons I am juxtaposing my travel posts with my thoughts whilst here at home is that, without family and community, there is only the mindless wandering of the unruddered soul.

Twenty-seven years ago today, Penny felt it was time to get to hospital.  In the South Korea of 1988, every encounter between Korean workers and foreign nationals was first an economic one, then a human encounter.  The woman who had been midwifing our child decided, on that day, that we were not helping her enough with her advancing in learning the English language.  She declined to help Penny any further, and called a taxi driver to take us to an English-speaking Obstetrician, who would see to the birth.

Her parents were with us, but could not fit into the taxi, so I quickly hailed another for them, jumped into our taxi, and away we went, with the second taxi following us as best he could.  My father-in-law’s frantic words, “Baby Hospital”, were apparently enough, as they arrived three minutes behind us.

The procedure went very well, and I was holding our newborn son up to the light, welcoming him to this world, three hours later.  It was, all in all, a good life in Korea, and when we were compelled to return to the U.S., four years later, Aram was fairly well-grounded in two cultures.  America was a bit tougher for all of us, but he grew up strong, and through the trials that buffeted the three of us in the 2000’s, and eventually took his mother’s life, our son emerged as a strong, healthy and amazingly resourceful individual.

Sometimes, I felt as though he was raising himself, but there was never a time, and never has been, when I haven’t had his best interests front and center.  That I learned of those interests mainly by talking things through with him is the only way that ever made sense to me.  Kids need steady guidance, but they have more on the ball than many of their insecure elders seem to realize.

The most inane aphorism ever is “Children should be seen and not heard.”  I heard my son being told that, by a family member once, and I had to be physically restrained from hitting the individual.  We need, pure and simple, to listen to one another, across generations.

Fatherhood is my greatest blessing, right after having been a husband.  It will always be so.

The Road to 65, Mile 220: Cross-Bullying

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July 6, 2015, Prescott- I read this morning about the “rising phenomenon” of children bullying their parents.  Then, a short time later, a friend wrote me a message that her parent was referring to her in the most vulgar of terms.

This goes back to how I was raised, and how we tried to raise our son.  No two people always get along, and the permutations of social discourse get more complicated with three, four, or ten, in the mix.  The bottom line, though, is respect, Golden Rule, “how does the shoe feel on your foot?”

It’s a given that children regard having limits set as part of their safety net. Limit-free kids are scared, more often than not, and fearful people strike out.  We raised our son with what common sense we could muster, encouraging his curiosity and exploration, and discouraging any tendency to view, and treat, us as eyeball-to-eyeball peers.

I would not have my wife be subjected to abuse, nor she, me.  Son is a fine human being, and I don’t think he would be comfortable with being able to give too free vent to negative attitudes.  In fact, he has said that, all in all, we set reasonable limits.  Likewise, we did not ridicule or catcall at him, something that I have seen far too many people my age do with their children, in the name of “honesty” or “free speech.”

Millennials speak of “adulting”.  I love that generation dearly, and certainly expect that acting one’s age will be de rigeur for them, as it should be for us, and for “Generation X”.  Perhaps the term is natural, though, as we witness so many, from ages 21- 90, indulging in unseemly public behaviour, again in the name of “self-expression” or “my rights”.  For the adult in the room to have plenty of company is a fine thing, and since it happens more often than the media would have us believe, it should be contagious.

My feeling is that, if children see adults being adults, consistently, and if they feel well- and fairly-attended, which means having limits set for them, then there will be less bullying, in either direction.

The Road to 65, Mile 219: Sizzling

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July 5, 2015, Prescott- I have it in my mind to return to Europe, at some point, probably some time in the second half of 2020, or later, as part of a 1-2 year sojourn, just because I feel I must earn back the money I spent on the trips taken, over these past three or four years.  It’ll all boil down to what seemingly needs to be done, at the time.

That’s all pie in the sky, right now.  I think of it, mainly because the news tells us that it is hotter in Madrid than it is in Dubai, or New Delhi.  Budapest and Zurich are warmer than Istanbul.  The sizzle factor is making things seem topsy-turvy, but don’t say this too loudly, lest someone think we have gone full-on Liberal.

I have to say this, just once:  Name-calling has not, and will not, bring the temperatures back into what we regard as normal range.  If that is even an option, we need to look at everyone’s habits.  What can each of us do, and what is each of us willing to do, to bring the overall climate into a comfortable range?  The areas of focus would include:  Diet, daily cleansing and grooming, animal husbandry and crop rotation, forestry, fishing and manufacturing practices- especially production of technological products.  Ever stop and think about how your smart phone components’ manufacture might relate to the raising of the atmosphere’s temperature?  Didn’t think so.

Each of us has the role to play.  Me? I drive with the windows down, when alone.  With others in the car, AC is usually a must, but that is most often for short distances.  Showers?  Have to say, I keep them to 5 or 6 minutes, and there is no “eeeww” factor, of which I am aware.  I drink small smoothies, when possible, though I don’t really go in for the idea that smoothies use more water than hamburgers, from start to finish.

These are just things to consider, next time your town hits an uncomfortable heat level.

The Road to 65, Mile 218: Independence

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July 4, 2015, Prescott- It is a strange twist of fate that, on this 239th anniversary of the issuance of the Declaration of Independence, many Americans’ minds, and those of others around the world, are on Athens, the Birthplace of Democracy and now a seeming hotbed of rebellion against a global system that emphasizes money and profit as indicators of responsible behaviour.

There are several schools of thought about this global system.  Many here in the United States are convinced that it is the work of a tightly-knit group of families, whose specific identities are unknown and are called, collectively, Illuminati.  Dozens of TV series,and a few movies, have featured this entity, in various configurations, as their Archvillain.  Christians immediately identify it as serving the Antichrist, or maybe being It.

I only know that such a controlling presence, if real, would only suffocate and oppress the human spirit.  Working for wages has never been liberating, and only adopting an ethic of work as an act of worship, of service to humanity, has given most of us any kind of fulfillment.  My best years of working were when I was a school counselor, followed, oddly enough, by my years as a substitute teacher.  Most prospective employers who’ve looked at my resume have shaken their heads at this, and the selection process has ended for me, then and there.

Work, though, has to be an act of service, because our humanity is what we take with us, and besides, acts of service, in the long run, are what make us independent.  Money can be taken from a person, by the government, by creditors, and, in the form of lost investments, by a collapsing economy in a place far away. One’s accomplishments and relationships, however, can never be taken away.

I thought about all this tonight, as my good friend was driving us back from viewing the fireworks at Pioneer Park, on the northwest corner of town.  Her concerns are with an imposed world government, and contrived financial collapse.  These things are possible, but study of the teachings of various faiths and some secular philosophies tells us that they are not the End Game.  Each of us has individual DNA and each of us has a distinct soul.  We are, by nature, independent and will only successfully act in a collective manner, if  our acts of service lead to a collective consciousness.

As I saw the other night, on “The Celestine Prophecies”, that consciousness, and not an externally-imposed mindset or false world order, represents the next step in the evolution of the human spirit.  This is chosen by each of us, in healthy independence.

The Road to 65, Mile 217: More Than

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July 3, 2015-   I encountered two online posts by women, today.  One was a TED Talk, by a fashion model.  The other was a blog post by a young friend, part of her ongoing exploration of who, and what, she is.

We thrive on the superficial, many of us, because it seems easier.  Men ogle attractive females, from girls not even old enough to drive a car, or hold down a job to those women deemed by society to have “preserved well with age.”  Women have their share of “Magic Mike” and Chippendales moments.  There is not much difference, in such as we do in that regard, from a trip to the zoo.  Now, to fend off any troll who may be sharpening his rhetorical knife as he reads this- Yes, I have had my share of such superficiality.

It’s time to move up the evolutionary scale, a few notches, however.  I was married to a physically lovely woman, with a winsome personality, who was also several points higher than I, in terms of intelligence.  Since she passed on, my friendships with women have been varied.  In each case, I have learned to place their sense of self-worth, first and foremost.  I was not a perfect husband, but Penny taught me that much about friendship across the much vaunted Gender Divide.  We were best friends, as well as spouses.  Anticipation of the other’s needs is part of it, and direct communication, another.

Of the utmost importance, though, as the young model and my blogging friend both attest, is that there is always more, far more, to any given human being, than the pretty face, lithe figure and statuesque bearing that seem to mean so much, to so many in society.  I thought of this, constantly, during a recent visit to Spokane.  As I walked from my motel to downtown, I passed a billboard featuring the singer/actress Taylor Swift.  The ad stressed her features, and makeup.  My immediate thought was “There is so much more to you than this, precious soul.”

Those dismissed as “eye candy” may buy into that shallow assessment.  The human spirit, however, is a hard taskmaster.  A pigeonholed person will act in restless fashion, and will either: Seek attention in unhealthy ways; will meekly submit and then fade into obscurity,  as the feckless lose interest; or will, as the late, and estimable, Hedy Lamarr did, combine a healthy respect for her natural beauty with a vigourous pursuit of her intellectual skills.  The same is true for men, though on a lesser scale.

The closest of my friends, both female and male, are those with whom I can carry on meaningful conversation, can engage in interesting activities or just sit in one another’s presence, each doing what is foremost in their personal realm.  The key is mutual regard, a belief in the ability of the friend to reach whatever heights one’s soul seeks and a willingness to let go of limiting personal agendas.  There are those in my life, conversely, who are often calculating what I might do FOR them.  They see little of me.  I have enough to do, to pay back those who have shown me great kindness, but that’s a topic for another post.

To each, falls the task of scaling one’s own mountain, and triumphantly setting foot on one’s own moon.

The Road to 65, Mile 216: Celestine

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July 2, 2015, Prescott- I am grounded.  The Nissan’s dash says “Service Engine Soon”, so it will sit in the carport until my mechanic, and everyone else, has gotten the holiday out of their system.  It may stay there longer, if the money that I am expecting shows up in my account, tomorrow morning or Saturday.  Then, I will catch a shuttle to Phoenix, and a plane to San Diego, and honour my son as his birthday approaches-on Sunday of course, and I would stay in SoCal until Wednesday evening.

I have personal and civic obligations here at base on Independence Day, and these, too, are labours of love.  A parade, in which I will be in the Red Cross contingent, a gathering at the American Legion, and the rest of the day with my best friend in Prescott, all of which brought me back here on the 29th of June.

Last night, after I watched “The Celestine Prophecy”, about which more in a moment, I was upbraided on social media, for not being willing to conduct an online dalliance, with someone I’ve never met.  What a change, from two years ago, when I was all over the place, trying to figure out what my emotions were and how to deal with them.  Most of the people who were in on the mental anguish I was enduring at the time, are still my friends, and God bless every one of them.

This brings me back to “The Celestine Prophecy”.  Every American film, it seems, has to have a romantic twist.  In this one, Marjorie is pursued by John, captivated by both her beauty and her aura of mystery (he saw her in a vision, that appeared to have taken place in the year 1622).  John learns, quickly, to give the lady her space, and eventually sees that it is not the time for them to be together, though they certainly endure a lot- especially at the hands of Jensen, a cartoonish villain (whom John also sees in his vision, replete with wispy, handlebar mustache.)

“Celestine”, a film adaptation of the first of a series of novels by James Redfield, explores the growth of human consciousness and postulates nine principles, revealed in a series of scrolls in ancient times.  John, and a group of like-minded souls, seek to find the ninth scroll, which Jensen, representing The Powers That Be (an Illuminati-like entity, who, of course, remain unseen), wants to find first and destroy, lest it tear asunder the power structure.

The upshot of the film is that the quest for power, by  the Illuminati and everyone else, is a chimera.  Human consciousness is moving steadily to a far deeper level than any materially-oriented force an ever appreciate.  It is emerging, regardless of the quibbling, death and destruction that The Powers That Be are visiting upon us, and will continue to visit upon this planet, for a certain time.  Real power, however, is spiritual and collective.  It is as present in the most humble, vulnerable child, as it is in the person of a brutish, swaggering general ( such as Jensen’s chief minion in the film), and perhaps more so.

So, I sit in a safe, comfortable room, and contemplate my blessings:  A strong, hard-working son, a good woman who is a steadfast friend ( and who, much like the film’s Marjorie, is given the space she needs to process all that is going on in her own, considerably complex life), a community that stands firm together, in spite of the callow local government, and a Faith which can carry me through anything at all, and does.

The Road to 65, Mile 205: Father’s Day

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Personal goals, Travel

June 21, 2015, Monroe, WA- I woke , to a bit late today, around 7:15, to speak with my son on this Hallmark morning.  It’s always good to hear his voice, contrived occasion or not.  I was in the suburban clime of Mount Vernon, had been wished “Happy Father’s Day” by the waitress at Farm House Restaurant, in this city’s La Conner neighbourhood, after getting off the ferry last night, and got a somewhat more subdued greeting from the server at Riverside Cafe, near the motel, during breakfast this morning.  Racial politics, Hispanic vs. Anglo, seems to be playing out a bit in this community, which is always a hard thing.  I was given my breakfast, and two cups of coffee, then expected to leave.  Riverside will not see me again., though Farm House would be a pleasure.

I was in a funk, not knowing which direction to head, yet after reclaiming some items I had left at Holiday Motel, the day before, and enjoying some coffee and a treat at Johnny Picasso’s, in Anacortes, I had an idea.  Heading to Arlington, and Oso, the site of a horrible mudslide in March, 2014, I took some time for prayer towards racial healing, as several people back in Arizona were gathering to pray for the same, with the Charleston Massacre as their focal point.  There is no one group that does not need a healing balm.

The message was clearer to me after that, and I drove east on Highway 2, finding the small town of Monroe to be a good place to rest.  The Monroe Motel lies alongside Woods Creek, so there was no finer place for me to observe today, thinking of fatherhood-how it affected me as a son, as a son-in-law, as a spouse and as a parent. 158

I was not an easy son.  My happy-go-lucky, but hard-working father did not know what to make of me, half the time.  I did not know what to make of me, half the time.  I wonder if he knew how much he was loved, back then.  He knows now.

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My role with my father-in-law was part good-natured foil for his jokes, and part guarantor of his family line’s continuing on in safety.  We gave him his only grandson, and that guaranteed my safety. He knows now, how important it was to me that Aram actively knew his grandfather.  Both of mine were dead before I emerged from toddlerhood.

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Penny and I were close to nature, as individuals and as a pair.  She would sometimes, in the throes of her progressive decline, say that she felt she was in my way.  In truth, she WAS my way.  She knows that now.

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I have gone through a fair number of personal struggles, in my late teens, in my twenties, and in the buffeting called my fifties.  Somehow, I have emerged.  Fatherhood happened for me, in the best way I knew at the time.  There was a lot more I could have provided, for my son’s stability.  I realize that now.

He’s okay, thanks to the discipline of the Navy, and his grandfather’s guiding hands of steel and velvet.  I am here for him, and can finally show a solid example of how to move through life, come hell or high water.  Aram knows that now.

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I went into this lovely, if cavernous, establishment in downtown Monroe.  A Caesar salad, meat lasagna and a bowl of spumoni were my Father’s Day meal.  Half the lasagna was saved for tomorrow, and my drive to Wenatchee, where I will reconnect with friends from three  years ago.

I end this with Monroe’s comment on the whole race issue.

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My spirit guides are with me, still.

The Road to 65, Mile 215: Challenges/Opportunities

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July 1, 2015, Prescott- As is always the case when I return from a wandering, there were lots of base camp tasks in front of me.  Not the least of these was tracking down my pile of mail, so as to get two pay checks deposited and thus stave off NSF.  I have had a good track record, since recovering from the Great Recession, and aim to keep it that way.

Finance has neither been my strong suit, nor has it been an Achilles heel.  The best way, for me, to go about life is with cash and check.  Work will be quite constant this coming academic year, and that’s a great thing.

My yard project was pretty much done for me, by the landlord himself, while I was away. He is a trouper:  That work was done during the period that Prescott, and much of the continent, endured 100+ ,for nearly three weeks.  I will keep at the process of building raised beds, so that next year, seeds may be planted.  At least the onion bulbs will go in shortly, and we’ll see how they do.

July will be prime time for volunteering, I can sense, so I will show up at things like the Fourth of July Parade, and the Red Cross float, the Hope Fest kickoff event on July 18, and whatever things Slow Food and Yavapai County Angels have going.  Then, too, there would be any disasters that happen, but we will let sleeping dogs lie, for now.

The travels?  Yes, I have gotten to be the Poster Child for wanderlust.  As another friend recently remarked, this seems to be a Sagittarrian thing.  This Sagittarian will be more inclined to short, focused bursts, for the next five years at least. There may be a faith-based trip down to Chile, late in 2016, but my primary focus is on family and friends:  My son, and a couple of good friends, in southern California; my paternal uncle, in Colorado; my soon-to-be hexagenarian brother, in Atlanta; and the bulk of my biological family, at Christmas-time, in New England.  I want to do more day trips from here, that could draw in a good friend. Finally, there are my long-neglected Native American friends in northeast Arizona, and at least one weekend in early August will see me up there.

This day finds me in a very relaxed frame of mind, ready for whatever life sends.  It’s just too hot and languid to be otherwise.

The Road to 65, Mile 214: The Black Tiles

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June 30, 2015, Prescott- This is where I resume the practice of writing two posts a day.  Morning will feature a reminiscence of the day just prior.  Evening will bring a post related to a just-completed journey to the Pacific Northwest and southeast Alaska.  Thus, you will not a juxtaposition in the “Miles” referenced.

On June 30, 2013, I was returning from a visit to the Navajo community of Dinebito and the Hopi village of Polacca.  Whilst driving through Leupp, on the way back, a bulletin came on KNAU.  19 wildland fire fighters had been killed in a windblown firestorm, at Yarnell, west of Prescott.  The team had been based in Prescott itself.  The communities of Yarnell and Peeples Valley had been evacuated, thus giving me an exact message as to what had to be done next.  I went directly to the Red Cross shelter, at Yavapai College, and served, as needed, there for the next four days, while working around a family event in San Diego.

All of that is now a blur, but the suffering of the “Hot Shot’s” families, ever since, is all too real.  Their day-to-day recovery has been undermined by the crusty attitude of many here in the area- “The men knew what they were getting into, when they signed on. Don’t give the survivors a dime more than they’re due already.”  Fortunately, enough of us Prescottonians can look beyond that benighted view of life, so that the surviving families have prevailed, in the courts and in every day life.  A foundation has been established, to handle the most pressing long-term needs.

There is a tradition, in the firehouse, that a rookie does not step on the set of black tiles that lines the middle of the floor, until he or she has been through a major blaze.  The tiles in Station 17, where the Hot Shots were housed, are now enshrined.  No one steps on them.

This leads me to thinking. Years ago, my father-in-law took me aside and said, “You have had some fine experiences as a couple, already.  You have not, though,as yet, been through more than a minor bump or two.  That was in 1985.  Since then, everyone who knows me, has witnessed the real rough patches.  The years from 2003-2011 were enough for any person’s life education.  I have stepped on the black tiles of my own life house.  It is a humbling place, and not often  a lonely one- thanks to those who have stayed as true friends.

As I stood this afternoon, on the Court House lawn, listening to the Fire Marshall offer words of respect for the fallen, the thought came that, while there is no guarantee that a fresh calamity won’t come our way, tomorrow, the sense of community that transcends even the differences of opinion,which sometime threaten to tear us asunder, will be what lifts us in a healing and forward-moving direction.  Yes, love is the secret.

The Road to 65, Mile 202: Southeast IS Northwest, Day 11, Reflections While On The Inland Passage

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June 18, 2015, Off Campbell River, BC-  On a full day of being ferried through the Canadian section of the Inland Passage, the focus turned inward.  Fleeting glimpses of places like Bella Bella were more a diversion than the main attraction, on this misty day.

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Three central issues in my life flowed along today:  Worthiness, safety and perseverance.

In my late teens and in my twenties, I was a train wreck. I was taught social skills in my childhood, but never quite internalized them, until about age 30.  The less said about all my missteps and accidents in that decade or so, the better.  Things went along well, in my thirties and forties, the prime years of our marriage, and of careers.  My fifties were another rough patch, yet there I did learn perseverance, and that it is the natural outgrowth of commitment.  My family and friends have stuck with me, through all of it, and each of these years passed before me, in reflection, during the course of this day.

I have had a hard row, in feeling safe, in certain places, during the course of my life.  I felt alternately safe and threatened, growing up in my hometown, but learning to face adversaries is an all-too-common part of life.  I certainly feel secure, when in Saugus, now, of course.  So, too, has the list of places where I feel at ease and free from harm, been growing, over the past few years.

Maybe that’s the real reason why I have been in so many places, since 2011.  I have always wandered, as has been mentioned before, but perhaps the only way to know for sure as to security, is to go to a place, follow the normal protocols of safety and courtesy expected there, and prove to myself that all is okay.

Now, on my way back to the more contiguous reaches of North America, I am reminded of perseverance.  There is much ahead, in Prescott and vicinity, across Arizona, and around the southwest quadrant of the United States, over the next many months.  Family events will take me away, for a few days here and there, but the main focus will be the life of community.

So, as I read “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Book Store”, and “Crota”, my mind considered the sacrifices made by the protagonists of both stories, the triumph over almost insurmountable challenges, and the three-dimensional nature of the antagonists.  My mind considered what I had overcome, when I had been a protagonist of sorts, and when I have been cast as the antagonist in an event- which has happened, more to my chagrin than I sometimes care to think.  Nothing beyond the mist is as foggy, or as clearcut, as we sometimes like to think.

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Many things go on, like the lives of whales, largely beneath the surface.

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Then, the truth surfaces, and distant realities also have to be considered, even as we marvel at the sight closest to our eyes.

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I started to refer to the town visible from our port as “Port Hardy”.  A gentleman who is more seasoned on these cruises calmly stated the town was Campbell River, and that he had camped there in his RV, on a few occasions.

Oh, the joy, and humility, of seeing illusions evaporate.  I placed the freshly-completed copy of “Crota” back in the Purser’s library, and donated “Mr. Penumbra” to that collection.  It will appeal to at least a couple of inquiring minds among the ship’s crew.  In the morning, I would see the sight of Fairhaven, the ferry port at Bellingham, WA.  It is time for filling in the gaps, of my map of the Evergreen State.