Speaking to Me in Many Tongues

Each morning I’m greeted by dawn in the desert. The beautiful sunrise brushes finger-thin rays of lemonade pink against the still sleeping mountains. Occasionally there are fleeting glimpses of coyotes on the golf course returning from their nocturnal hunt. Those hours just after dawn seem to draw out an interesting assortment of desert characters (human and otherwise) intent on enjoying the cool of morning before the heat of the day.

Dawn in Minnesota presents a different picture. The Midwest is less dramatic and more serene than California. For me, it’s two different two points of view, each speaking in many different tongues. Yet there is a similarity there for me. It’s a comfort zone where I can think and feel as I wish without judgement from others. It’s a far cry from the strict, regimented ‘follow the rules’ upbringing of my youth.

Geographically, California and Minnesota are thousands of miles apart yet they are still connected by out-of-the-box thinking and a deep-seated pride in pioneering frontier values and driving ambition. There’s a common thread running between the two with openness for all and acceptance of different points of view. Both offer a realistic view of the world and not a closed-minded myopic wish for what used to be. They focus on what could be and not what once was.

On the night America took a sharp turn to the right my two adopted states continued a long tradition of progressive thought and action. Certainly, there were blips along the way. Neither party got everything they wanted but the human fabric and soul of both states remained intact.

I started out last summer with high hopes for a continuation of my ‘Coffee and Chat’ sessions. Very quickly, reality crept into the picture and several past participants choose to go their separate ways. My remaining cerebral partners and I shared a wonderful summer, meeting up at parks, beach fronts, patios and coffee shops, to engage in a wide variety of verbal bantering, mental jousting and comradery.  A wonderful salon for an exchange of ideas, thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Then last fall, as always, my tenure in Minnesota is challenged by my West Coast other-half knocking on the door of residency. Now that I’m part-time Californian, my perspective about my home state has changed. I love California. It appeals to my restless youth, errant and wandering mind, free soul, sometime corrupt and tranquilizing imagination.

I have had a long and fractured romance with California. Its part delusional, part opportunistic and part magical. Mostly it’s a comfortable relationship that seems to bring out the flip side of

me that a lot of folks never see. It is at once my friend, advisor, irritator and councilor. It forces me outside of my Midwestern comfort zone.

It’s the cradle from which my imagination gives birth to creative, frivolous, silly and enlightened ideas, concepts and storylines. It inspires me and mocks me at the same time. It’s the flip side of that routine called lifestyle. If ever there were a strange balance in my life it might be labeled the Minnesota-California connection.

I live in two different worlds and I’m comfortable in both. One is progressive, adventurous and sometimes a bit outrageous but always leaning forward. For half a year I wear my Southern California flip-flops as comfortably as any other seeker. But I also live in the Midwest and I’m darn proud of that too.

Yet I know for a fact that come next spring, the same magical force will once again draw my attention back to Minnesota. There’s a quote I love that goes something like this: “At some point in the journey, you realize it’s time to head back home. It doesn’t matter where you are in the journey, the Gods begin calling and you must return home.” I think there is something about that mysterious force called ‘home’ that calls to all of us. It happens to me every fall and then again in the spring.

Both states have become home in more ways than one. They’re like a cradle upon which my imagination gives birth to creative, frivolous, silly and sometimes enlightened ideas, concepts and storylines. It’s the flip side of that routine called your average lifestyle.

What can I say; it works for me. I’m born and bred Minnesotan with a strong streak of California to taint my mind. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Name Tags and Placemats

Getting reacquainted with old friends, associates and casual acquaintances can be an interesting time travel into one’s past. Over the years, I’ve had the pleasure, disappointment, and soul-satisfying experience of revisiting my own past lives through those encounters. Each reunion is different and each revealed as much about myself as it did them.

As we’ve all travel through life, we’ve encountered other folks, aside from family, that have impacted us in one manner or another. For me, it was a couple of guys in high school, my barracks buddies in the Army, a couple of strays in Denmark as lost as I was, and work place encounters that lasted only for the duration of the job itself.

My fiftieth high school class reunion was a classic example of this. I graduated on May 31^st of 1961 and, with rare exception, never saw my classmates ever again. That is, until our class reunion fifty years later. The event was well orchestrated with a handsome binder of memories, mass (which I didn’t attend), and a class only gathering in the old high school gym. The next day there was an afternoon picnic at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, spouses, girlfriends, and others invited.

My reunion with some of my old classmates had begun weeks earlier with several phone calls wanting to reconnect. Coffee encounters afterwards solidified our pre-reunion/union and paved the way for future dinners with the wives and solo coffee salons. Surprisingly, we seldom brought up our high school years and, instead, focused on our past fifty years and the miles traveled. While some of those folks have now passed on, the bulk remain good friends and coffee companions.

My years at the Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting were among the most cherished of my working career. Several friends from that era of the early-to-mid-seventies are still Facebook friends and blog commentators. Our collective miles traveled haven’t diminished their or my enthusiasm to talk current events, personal trials and tribulations and reflections of that ‘chamelot’ period in our lives. It’s almost as if time has shrunk and we’re both back to our old routines and bad habits; cherished or hidden as they may be.

Occasionally a name from my past will connect with me on Facebook. Curiously enough, after my welcoming response, most of them disappear and are never heard of again. Why did they bother in the first place; beats me?

Another side of that ‘So, how have you been?’ encounter have been several unexpected meet ups that led to disappointment and self-examination. These are the folks who, undenounced to me, turned out to be simply name tags and place settings from my past lives. There’s sometimes a fine line between being mildly interested and really caring about past connections. Each question, statement, or pause can be a test to be passed or failed based on the sincerity felt by the other party.

The art of conversation could be seen as a test. Words say a lot. Conversations mean something. Real conversations are priceless. I thrive on substance and not empty calories. These folks seem to have traveled a different pathway than I have. We may have once strolled the same lane but the divide that drew us apart has never left.

While some folks are willing to let you back into their lives, others aren’t so kind. My conversations with them, sparse as they’ve been, are all surface chatter, much of it contrived, and all very safe. It’s as if they’ve wrapped themselves up in this impenetrable armor that won’t let real emotions, true feelings and honest appraisals of our past lives become part of the conversation. To be honest, I can get more intimacy from a band-aid or Vaseline.

Photo Credit: Bob Getterz

Some of my coffee companions have chided me for caring about those lost connections from my past. ‘Let it go, it’s ancient history,’ they say. I disagree with their appraisal that the past is better left unearthed. Sometimes those past encounters can fill in the spaces where memories fail and questions still linger. Those encounters, while scotch taped with weak smiles and dishonest head nodding, are still a part of my past that interests me.

All those past connections with friends and casual time-sharing associates are glimpses into a younger me; good, bad, confused and trying. Under the crown of elder or senior, I find myself on an interesting journey of self-discovery. How did I get here? Why did I end up like this? Although I can’t change the past, how can I embrace what once was, accept that all friendships don’t last forever and recognize that as humans we all change, evolve, and hopefully grow in our own ways.

While I’d love to think that all past acquaintances, friends, associates, and casual encounters will be around forever, I know that is not the case. Relationships come and go; some longer than others. If we have just a couple of true, honest friendships that pass the test of time, we are damn lucky.

In that sense, I’ve been a very lucky man. I’ve had some great folks pass through my life and enrich me for the time spent with them. For those name tags and place settings, I wish them the very best. I have my memories of our past, real as I think it can be, and that’s what I’ll hold on to. Foolish or not, I want to remember the good times and accept the not so good as my reality when I was a younger man.

The Gift of Experience

My grandchildren have been around the world, well, almost. They’ve traveled a good part of the United States, been to Europe several times, savored Central America and had thrilling intercontinental adventures a lot of other kids only read about. They’ve certainly been spoiled in the most wonderful ways.

It is my sincere hope they don’t get a new car for their high school graduation nor other perks some parents feel high schoolers somehow deserve. That was my own deep-seated prejudice growing up and I hope I’ve raised my own kids with that same distain about junior’s entitlement staying buried and never to be unwrapped.

It’s the gift of experience that Sharon and I feel is the best kind of spoilage possible. Fortunately, my own two adult children agree with our assessment. They have taken their own children to the far reaches of this country and are now branching out across the globe. We couldn’t be prouder of their adventures in the real world.

Nana and Papa have been very fortunate to be able to share that sense of adventure and ‘trying new things’ when they come to Palm Springs each year. When we gather, as we have now for more than thirteen plus years in Palm Springs, giving the kids new experiences is our top priority.

From horseback riding to coastal toe-dipping to mountain top explorations, the grandkids have been there, done that, and usually hanker for more. Each year features new experiences they might not find anyplace else. This also includes the more domestic side of life.

When the clan gathers, each family is responsible for at least one evening meal. This includes full preparation, table setting, seat selection, toasting, and clean up. Each grandchild has their own favorite desert which all the kids collectively prepare.

Art classes and cooking classes have become a staple of every family gathering. Nana holds court and her scribes eagerly follow her instructions, knowing they are the prime recipients of the culinary results. No adults allowed to participate. Art classes are more open and adults are strongly encouraged to participate there.

One of the highlights of each family gathering is an original scripted play reading that the kids put on each year. Recently, music has been added to the mix. Papa writes the play, directs the kids in their reading parts and then steps back to let the young thespians perform. There are usually twenty to thirty neighbors in the audience.

While It’s become a LaComb-McMahon tradition now, none of the grandchildren, except perhaps for Maya, are that comfortable performing in front of an audience. For the other four, it is well beyond their comfort zone. They do it anyway, understanding that pushing themselves to perform in front of a bunch of strangers is a wonderful experience for later in life. Besides, they really have no choice.

Our philosophy of the gift of experience has proven itself over and over again. So, how do you teach ambition, a good work ethic or being hungry for more. I would suggest you can’t teach that by giving away some material object but rather by gifting the kids a real-world experience. Exposure to new experiences is a great way to prime the pump of curiosity.

Possible Side Effects

Seventeen hours in the ER (emergency room) gives a person plenty of time to reflect on a life lived. For some, it’s a reckoning they don’t want to face. For others, it’s a confirmation that, thus far, they’ve avoided the cruelties of careless living. For me, it was an opportunity to listen carefully (with no apologies, I might add) and reflect on how others had lived their lives up until their collision with reality.

Quick backstory here; my friend had contracted shingles in her eye. Even with the Shingles shot and the booster, she was one of the unlucky four percent that caught the virus. It was incredibly painful. I was there as her caregiver, confidant, listener, sounding board and doctor translator.

Sequestered behind half curtains, her in the hospital bed, me in a chair beside her, I couldn’t help but overhear the conversations between nurse and patient all around us. This was a regional trauma center at a major hospital, so it was busy twenty-four seven. As the patients came and went out of their neighboring cubicles, their dialogue gave me pause and plenty of time for reflection.

The phrase ‘side effects’ glued itself inside my brain. It came from a sign on the wall, prominently displaying possible side effects of some medicines administered. Here came one patient after another, each asked to review their medical history to the nurse then doctor. For most of the patients, it was an open admission of poor judgment, unhealthy habits, unforeseen circumstances, and a hundred thousand other excuses for not living a healthy life.

The first was fifty-five years old skeleton of a woman. She had had most of her major external body parts replaced, removed, or switched out for titanium. Her voice sounded like she was pushing one hundred and her body wasn’t that far behind. She knew a lot of the nurses there and they shook their heads when they saw her name on the roster again.

A middle-aged man came in, about as strong and robust looking, as any other man seen in the ward. Chest pains brought him in with a history of heart attacks in the family. After a litany of questions, the nurse hit the jackpot. ‘Yes,’ he did drink a lot. Only hard liquor and every day. Might this be the cause of his heart issues. He didn’t know but he sure as hell wasn’t about to stop drinking, he announced. End of that conversation.

Another relic of better times had started smoking at ten years old, continued for the next fifty years but then went cold-turkey and turned to drinking instead. Now her kidneys were shot (or so she was told) was probably diabetic (she didn’t want to get tested), was on her third husband and didn’t know where he was anyway.

Moving my friend and I from the ER to a hospital bed took me away from evesdropping but not observing. Each day, the nurses would take their patients on walks around the front desk. Some were recovering from surgery, others from heart attacks and still others from some debilitating illness that had brought them there in the first place. Each was on the road to recovery, some on the high road, others the low road.

For some, age was the culprit but for others, it was simply life catching up with them. For me and all of them, the dye has pretty much been cast. Healthy living may extend the inevitable for a little longer while unhealthy living is most certain to curtail it one way or another.

Side effects in life are like choices made, decisions confirmed and lifestyle avenues taken or not taken. The curtain is dropping for all of us. For some, it seems to be dropping a lot faster than others.

My friend has pretty much recovered. It was a long and tedious process with plenty of Tylenol to ease her painful journey to recovery. They say that once you’ve had the Shingles, you’re more susceptible to a relapse. Hope it doesn’t happen again. But if it does, I’ll be there to help her along that journey again.

Definitely a side effect of love and affection still rock solid after all these years.