Our children, Our future

This won't be a long one.

We hear all the time about discrete personalities with increased electronics. We hear all the time that teens crave stimulation, electronics, don't have values.

We hear all the time the world is going into a handbasket, whatever that is. Archaic term still used.

Well.

I picked my almost 15-year-old from a day of band practice to spend just enough time to pick up her best friend for a lockin overnight at the church. I never had one of those, but I trust them.

I picked up her best friend, and I drove them. In a day of band camp, my granddaughter had learned a new game. She told her friend, "It's even better than Ducky Wucky."

And I smiled. Because I know Ducky Wucky. Been there when they played it. Innocent, silly, laugh-choking fun.

More Money? Bigger Better? My dad can buy all the booze and blow we want?

I think I am seeing some of the richest kids in the world.

They have parents, a home, food, medical care, good and caring teachers, real friendships, passions for art, music, literature, math and science. Even business. Many of them are self-aware.

Wow. Oh, yeah, a lot of them have some deep religious beliefs. I think that is part of the anchor.

I don't know where they are going, but I do know where they are.

And that is wonderful, in the fullness of that word.

Great Britain has a cinema project started years ago called "Up". They started with 14 seven-year-olds they interviewed. They took children from all classes of life. They have re-interviewed every seven years. The "kids" now are 58. Expectations regarding class and ability have been blown away.

I have seen it in my own life as well.

I don't know where these kids are going. I do know they have had a wonderful innocent time. We don't see, or believe that exists today, but it does.

I worry about the climate, the fights, the world.

But this one lockin kinda stills my soul and warms it.

We have kids. they are the future.

They aren't even half bad.

Good writing WILL survive

I blush to read that I said a cartoon had emotional depth, as I did in my last post. On the other hand, I can't remember a movie I've seen in the last couple of years that made me care that much about the characters.

I mentioned the tears to a friend who is a long-retired cartoon animator. His eyebrows went up. "You cried?" he asked, "At a cartoon?"
He thought, then said, "It must be a well-written story."

That sentence has reasonated with me since. He's right. It is well-written, and that is really different. Since everyone can write, the current fashion is to bypass paying for really good writing.

When I worked in public affairs at the University of North Texas, I had to manage and produce brochures. Now, we had some very good professional designers and writers. We didn't have Ph.D.s, true, but we were experts in our own field. And we were tough. We had to be, to wrestle a major department chairman to the ground and make him or her acquiesce to giving us at least SOME quality control over the product. Sometimes, actually often, we won 100 percent of the way. After all, the brochure was just one more thing that had to get done. We won often because of their desperation to get it done with the least possible effort on their parts.

We took the prose they submitted and rewrote the substance. And we rewrote it considerably better, and undeniably more briefly. It was kind of funny how amazed they often were when they saw the draft after we had done our jobs. It actually was better, more attractive, a better product to promote their program or department, than what they had wanted to insist we do. I didn't particularly like writing brochures. I liked writing about science, etc., for our university publications, because that was really fun. With the right attitude, however, writing brochures could be, and was, creative.

My granddaughter writes very well. Apparently that's a pity. Because unless she is very, very determined, writing well and a dollar will buy her a soft drink. Well, probably more than a dollar in the future. Fortunately, she has many other strengths and skills.

Journalism graduates this year have very few places they can go for work.And yes, I am genuinely sad about that. I think retirees have pretty much sewed up the vacancies as Walmart greeters.

I do love good writing.

Somehow, some way, I realize it will survive. As institutions disappear and laws become more illogical and the life I live changes in so many bewildering ways week by week--it is good to focus on constants. Landmarks to move toward, so to speak.

That's why I write a great deal about the mundane. The pinto bean, the satisfying cartoon, the ripening tomatoes--the people we love. These survive.

And, I am happy to hope, so will good writing.

Anticipation-I think there's a song about that

Anticipation.
You can't buy it, but sometimes you pay for it.
Anticipation is an integral component of Christmas spirit, and mine has been in short supply for a number of years. In part to protect myself, I think, from that possible payment if disapointment set in.
Anticipation has ingredients of hope and faith in the future. I haven't always been good at that. Maybe that's why I've always had a short Christmas season--two weeks or so. I couldn't sustain anticipation for much more than that.
This year, I wake up with anticipation for almost every day. It makes a difference.
A friend commented to me once that of course not all Christmases are equal. Not every Christmas can be great, or you wouldn't have any baseline to compare to the great ones. I'm already anticipating this one. I will be with my family. We'll have a good time. And I have my novel stashed to begin reading on Christmas night when everything calms down. Been doing THAT for 40 years or so.
I bought a tree. It's a little one about 31/2 feet, very full "real" fir. It looks like it belongs out in a magic glade with lit candles on it and all the animals slipping in to look in wonder. Call me just a wide-eyed woodland creature. I've put tiny gold lights on it, and my grandmother's clear glass ornaments that this year are 105 years old. I haven't bothered with much else. It just doesn't need it. WRR is playing classical and Christmas music. I am baking, and the smell of warming evergreen and melting chocolate fills the air. (I really think smell is my most enjoyable sense for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.) I've talked to many friends, seen a bunch more, and actually attended parties this year which I couldn't do in my last career because of work pressure. The first year or two I retired, I maintained my basic love/hate don't go out at Christmas stance. I've mentioned a tree and family, but you know, anticipation doesn't rely on that. We manufacture our own ingredients for anticipation.
And I anticipate my Christmas spirit will continue to change. Yep, I anticipate. I can't buy it. It isn't one of the five senses. I can't touch it.
And it makes a huge difference in the quality of life.

The Best of Holidays

How do I say this?

Life is GOOD.

LIFE is good.

For me, this year has been full of blessings So many, I can't count them. But you know what? We get them all the time, and so often, we don't count them or notice them. When we do--well.

I't's overwhelming.

I would say the same without the past two weeks. There's a Russian saying, "Pray to God, but keep rowing." You don't have to believe in God, though it is easier, but you do have to believe in the future, and you do have to keep rowing. I don't know which is the harder part.

I do know that optimism and hope has allowed me to do things in my life I thought logically were impossible, but with hope and faith, I did them. And I thought, "wow!" A little startled, a lot happy.
And on to the next challenge.

I have had a very ordinary life. Nothing spectacular. But, of course, very special to me, because it is mine.

About two weeks ago, I went in for my first mammogram in 25 years. My doctor explained that as I age, I am more vulnerable. So I went. And they found two spots in my right breast. I came in for a followup diagnostic. Without a database, they still couldn't tell, so I went in for a biopsy.

Results due in two to three working days. So at the end of two, I had no report. 80 percent chance benign. But by noon the next day, I was basically non-functional. Parrt of me looked at me, and thought that if it was malignant, I was still blessed. It had been caught early and would probably not be life-threatening. Exactly the purpose of mammograms. Still a blessing. Later I got the report. Benign, come in next year for the annual. NOW they have a database.

So, get your mammogram. But that's not really the purpose of this, although it is a part.

Keep rowing. I didn't on the mammograms, so a little extra.

I am having my family of five over for Thanksgiving dinner. Something I haven't done in a dozen years. So little. And so huge.

I've been exercising regularly. I've been eating right. I am not back to where I have been, butI am so thankful. My cup is so full. Even if the food stinks. But hey, there's optimsm here. So it probably won't.

Thanksgiving isn't about perfection. It is about gratefulness, for life, for those around us. Reach out as far as you can, the phone, or neighbor. Thankfulness is one of the best parts of being human,and of being an American. Being thankful is the best part of being alive.

Hey! better than sex! and I say that with true belief. To greet the day, being thankful for it--there really is nothing better.



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Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, But You Have to Pick Them

I went to the doctor this week, a specialist I've been seeing annually for a number of years. I was referred by my GP a number of years ago, and found him to be competent and helpful. I also found him to have the personality, basically, of a turnip. No chit-chat, no smiles, no information beyond what I forced out of him with persistent questions. But he was undeniably competent, so I kept going back.

About 18 months ago, I returned with a mild to moderate problem that was greatly affecting my quality of life. To my surprise, he was really responsive to that, and spent quite a lot of effort to find me an answer. Which he did. And he even talked a few times without prodding. And I talked some with his staff, who really, really respected and liked him, and were also responsive to the patients. Hmm. I thought. Maybe he's just an introvert. Or shy. Or both.

So I went into his office this week, and waited for my appointment. Several times, he escorted patients out to the payment window. He smiled at each one, and on several occasions patted a shoulder or an arm. Something's changed, I thought. I wonder what it could be. I immediately wondered if he had a better personal life, happiness. Because he seemed happy.

When my name was called, I entered the inner office only to wait further, of course. I talked to the staff member who escorted me and learned from her this year, as I had last from other staff, how much they respected and liked him. Then a woman came along. Reminded me maybe of Babs in 15 years. Grey hair, shiny, in a sassy long ponytail. A face that radiated warmth at 10 paces. Big smile. Athletic walk. Casual clothes. The staff introduced me to my doctor's wife. I smiled and said, "He takes good care of me." She beamed and patted me on the shoulder. "I hear that a lot," she said. Staff followed her into another room. When she returned, I asked, "Is that the always wife or is she new?" "New, " I was told. She went on to say he had had a downsize in his patients, but now he was back on top again and everything was going well.

The doctor came for me and we did our business. He smiled and even volunteered a minor personal statement. He did his usual careful assessment and care of me. He escorted me out and smiled again.

What a difference happiness makes.

I have been reading for years about a curious anamoly that somewhat puzzles academics and doctors. Depressed people are the most logical of us all. They assess everything by the logic of it, without hope involved. Without optimism involved. Just logic. A horrible newspaper story I read years ago told of an experiment where depressed rats (I don't know how to get rats depressed, but scientists do) and normal rats were put in a caldron of water with no way out. The could only swim until they drowned. The depressed rats gave up much earlier. They knew there was no way out, so why waste effort? The healthy rats fought on. And eventually, they, too, drowned. Horrible story. Horrible experiment. But the healthy rats were right. Something could have happened. They could have been rescued. Damn scientists.

Being human involves more than logic. When we embrace the possibility of possibilities, something changes.

Simplest example I have was when I was in graduate school. I was taking a Speech and Hearing class called"Theories of Language Acquisition in Children." It is both the best class and best teacher I ever had, but one of the hardest. I wasn't a speech major, but to pass this course, I had to pass a midterm where I could competently identify what consonants, vowels, diphthongs and harder consonants children master in order--and identify the stages in word scenarios on the test.At about the same time, a friend gave me a gig doing area publicity for a New Age musician who had concerts scheduled. I did my best. I've never been too entreprenurial, have I said? My test was on a Monday. The Friday before, I was paid for my work...$400! I had never dreamed I would be paid so much. I did my happy dance and sat down to study. Buoyed up by the optimism, I aced that Monday test. Aced it. Logically, I knew I couldn't do better than a B. But optimism and happy cut in, and I aced it. Reality is more than logic.

Whatever people try to tell you, love and happiness are real. And when you have them, you can go a whole lot further than logic. Isn't that the point of Dickens"A Christmas Carol"? Goodness exists, and so does happiness and enthusiasm, and idealism. And love.

My doctor is happier. I suspect that makes him an even better person. I know it makes him a better doctor.