Bonus Blog: Reflecting on 2017

2017 was a difficult year. It seems that we say this often, annually, in fact. Every year is a difficult year. But every year also has promise and hope, and as I look back on this one I already am looking forward to the next. Perhaps that is how it should be. New Year's is an arbitrary cut-off from one cycle to the next, with each cycle being only 365 days long, roughly matching the time it takes our planet to make one complete orbit around the Sun. I often contemplated the different amounts of time it gtakes to orbit the sun: Saturn, for example, takes about 29 and a half earth years to complete one rotation; Mercury, on the other hand, hurtles around the sun once every 88 days. Is time itself different on these locations? Would a human being age only a year every 29.5 on Saturn, but also age one year every 88 days on Mercury? Or, if a human lived on Saturn would three Saturn years constitute a long life; would a human live 320 Mercury years if he could withstand the radiation? I know, this is basic science 101: speed does change time but it has to be massive speed, much greater than the orbital speeds of the planets in our solar system. The “what if” posturing is fun but elemental. And I digress. I began 2017 in recovery from hip replacement surgery. The surgey took place on our 42nd anniversary, three days before 2017 began. I ended the year with a new knee. During recovery, I lost a combined four months where I could not do my part-time janitor work, but we managed without the extra income. I published one book in 2017, Rhymes and Reasons. I saw my late 2016 effort, Custer's Last Stand, sell steadily if slowly throughout the year—monthly royalties, however meager, are a wonderful encouragement to a writer. There are at least a dozen more books to write if I have time. Friends and family came to visit us up in the Big Sky. Our eldest grandchild grew from a reluctant student into an eager one, while our other two simply grew with charminbg personalities and clever imaginations. In a sense, the world swirled around Diane and myself, while we sat back and watched. The outside world in 2017 has been a disaster—one disaster after another. Massive storms and wild fires dominated the news; once again, humans with guns proved deadly to their fellows in terrifying numbers; and the United States has been plagued by a President who may be a laughing stock to much of the world but represents a clear and present danger at home to democracy itself. A third of you will not agree with that last opinion, but the world is watching us and America's prestige and position are slipping, and it all took a quantum leap in 2017. Looking ahead to 2018, I am filled with hope. Optimism is too strong a word: I have hope, but I have an equal measure of fear. The storms will be bigger and more frequent. The fires will engulf drought-plagued regions. The rich will continue to line their pockets while people in America and all over the world face shortages of food, water, and adequate health care. It is a broken record. I often think I should stop commenting on it altogether, but I cannot help myself. All I have is my words, right now, and to remain silent when you see something wrong is to allow the wrong to grow. I did not mean for this reflection to travel down this path, but I have lived a good many years and I have seen good things happen. I have seen progress and I have seen resistance to change. I have seen momentum shift from one to the other and back again. My hope for 2018 is that the momentum shifts to progress and maintains itself through November. For myself, Diane and I start the new year with a trip back to the Netherlands. Some of our dearest friends live there and we burn with the need to see them. We have another grandchild coming in April. And there are books to write, projects to finish and time to spend watching the universe at work. Of course, like honey badgers, the universe don't care. The solar system don't care. The planets will spin around the sun and the sun will spin around the Milky Way, and the Milky Way will fling itself farther and farther away from the center of the universe, regardless of what any of us do. Oddly, there is a peculiar comfort in that.

Best Christmas EVER!

2017 will go down for me as one of the best Christmases ever. There are many components to this personal fact. The first was the success of our Saint Nicholas Day gift-giving, a tradition we began a very long time ago and now have extended to cover all the younger people in our immiediate circle of life, like they say, think globally and work locally. Diane made silly hats for thirty-one people this year, a hand-made treasure to wear or not, and enjoy. Reports came back that everyone was delighted; she chose specific hats for each child (and a few adults) and each matched up perfectly. It is a great feeling to give from oneself, and although all I did was photograph the finished products, box up and mail the ones needing mailing, and help distribute the ones destined for the folks closer by, I feel that same satisfaction knowing Diane's good and painstaking work was and will be appreciated. You spend your life doing what you think is best and hope you're right. You rarely get to know for sure. Doubt, fed by anxiety (at least in my case), leaves you breathlessly aware that you could fall short with every step you take. But now and then you get affirmed. The best affirmation is to be told—in action, in words, by jesture or by gift—that you are loved. I should mention before I go on that my favorite character in all of literature and television, in case you didn;t know, is Doctor Who in all his and now her incarnations. The highlight of Christmas Day is the Doctor Who special aired on BBC Christmas evening. You might want to keep that in mind as we proceed. My eldest child is now 40 years old. He teaches. He lives a long distance from us. He never seemed to need to be physically close; just knowing we are here is enough while he lives his life. He likes being alone and we respect that. It does not mean that we failed him in any way or that he is somehow missing out. He is who he is and seems happy enough with his choices. He has thanked us for not pressuring him to be more familial. When we were in crisis, he was there to support us in ways I could not imagine, with words I still can hear inside my head. In his way he loves us deeply. He just prefers to be in his own space, like a hermit who shies away from contact with people but still uses a phone. He doesn't celebrate Christmas as such. He prefers to acknowledge the Winter Solstice, a thing I fully understand, knowing that the timing of Christmas was designed to co-opt both the Roman celebration of Saturnalia and other cultural celebrations of the Longest Night. No one actually knows what day Jesus was born so the Church picked one smack in the middle of all that festivity. A few days before Christmas, he called to let us know two packages were coming, one for his brother and his family, and another for Diane and me. On December 23, the FedEx driver pulled up outside our house and I went to greet him. I watched with some delight—having de;livered my share of Christmas packages over the years as a mailman—as he struggled to bring a small parcel and a huge, flat box that could have held the Mona Lisa. In fact, as I watched him approach, I wondered just what in the hell was in there, and how big was it? The smaller box contained the gift for Nik and his family. It also contained a short letter for us explaining the gift in the big box: “Diane and Roy, “Merry Christmas. I probably need to explain the gift a bit. A couple of years ago a friend introduced me to Circular Gallifreyan, the language of the Time Lords for Doctor Who. In essence, it is a cypher that uses circles and arcs in variuous combinations to create word- forms. It is typically written in concentric circles, starting at the one-o'clock position and winding counter-clockwise. I have begun modifying the format a bit in order to develop my own style, but the core is still the same. “I wanted to give you something a bit more personal this year, so I decided to hand- calligraph one of Roy's poems. Although there were a few different good candidates, I know this particular poem means a lot to him. I hope you guys like it. “Aaron.” We opened the box on Christmas Eve to find a black background poster of remarkable size. My poem, “Banned in Boston,” took center stage with the translation in Gallifreyan surrounding it—a real piece of art. We now are trying to decide exactly where to put it on our walls. We have so much brilliant artwork done by family and friends that our museum's wall space is full. This piece needs a prominent spot. One of the others may have to find a slightly lesser position, and that's okay—changing things up is good. Stores do it all the time to make their customers stay longer wondering, “Where'd they move that?” I have been incredibly lucky in my life. People have gone to great lengths to give either Di or me or both of us wonderfully thoughtful gifts. Just a few weeks ago, my brother and sister-in-law used a good portion of their sky miles to buy tickets for us back to Holland; we leave in mid-January. On Christmas Eve, both Nik and Holli had to work late, so we watched the grands until they came to collect them after ten p.m. Along the way, Xander decided he was going to pretend to be Santa Claus just to fool his sister. On the spur, he made a beard and moustache out of white paper, borrowed my own Santa hat, and ho ho'd CharleeRose onto his lap. She totally played along with utter delight. It was yet another wondrous gift for Diane and me, to see them so completely in tune and happy. Then when their parental units—as Aaron used to call us—arrived, we had a gift exchange that seemed to delight every one of us to the point of sentimental tears on several faces. It is better to give than to receive, they say, but sometimes it is really good to get. I stare at the poster with delight and sentiment. To think Aaron combined my love for Doctor Who with one of my favorite and most successful poems, on top of all my blessings, tells me I am loved. I needed to hear that.

On Golf and Gifts, Republican style

Christmas is over but the giving goes on. Our President is spending his “working vacation” on the golf course. After berating the former President for playing way too much golf and promising his followers during his campaign that he would be far too busy to even leave the White House, let alone play a single game of golf, Donald Trump hits the greens on average every four days. He also entertains his rich friends on his personal courses. This weekend he reportedly told those friends, after signing the new Tax Bill into law, “You all just got a lot richer.” The gifts do indeed keep coming. Now the Koch Brothers are planning a nation wide campaign to “educate” the American people as to how this new tax law is going to help us (and, presumably, not the rich). This will require them to sling propaganda and falsehoods Russian-style to sell us on the Shaft of the Century. In the short term, we may see an increase in our take home pay by Spring, but even that modest amount will be eaten away quickly by rising insurance premiums because of other provisions in the bill. In the long term, the once deficit-adverse Republicans will either increase the national debt by another 1.5 trillion dollars and/or work to cut entitlements that help so many American families and children—of all colors—survive. We buy this and we are stupid. Meanwhile, rich people get bigger breaks, and every member of Congress worth over a million dollars stands to get a nifty decrease in their own tax bill when April 15, 2019, comes around. It seems that the rich are hunkering down for a long winter to come, consolidating their wealth and planning to hold on tight to ride out whatever disaster strikes next. It won't be a shortage of golf shoes.

Bully: Republicans Today

In my reflective mood as the year 2017 draws to a close, and while searching my pre-existing material for stuff I can use in other projects, I came across the following intended blog written back in 2015, well before Trump became a candidate let alone President and the Republicans in Congress voted themselves and their donors such a lovely Christmas gift. The words still resonate two years later, the only difference being that the Republicans now domonate all three branches of government. So here goes: /Bully/ As an aging hippie, white bleeding heart liberal, I find it hard to understand how any person of color could consider themselves a Republican. Granted, Lincoln was a Republican, but he wouldn’t be in today’s Congress. Granted, Teddy Roosevelt was a Republican, but today’s party would not endorse a progressive conservationist like him. Today’s Republican leadership is the party of oppression, opposition, reaction. They would destroy every social program we have, if they could. They would hold the line on income equality. They would engage in even more wars. They would restrict human rights in the name of a God who preached tolerance and forgiveness. They would see women barefoot and pregnant and men work three jobs at a frozen minimum wage just to reach the poverty line while Corporate America counts their profits. They oppose change. But change always comes. It is better to embrace change, and monitor it if we can, than let it gather steam until it blows up in our faces. And it is better, always, to listen to the teachings of Christ: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Shackle the rest of us only if you wish in your heart to be shackled – and bully if you don’t.

Snow Shovels and Silly Hats

Today is the first time this winter that I had to shovel snow. The first big snow storm came back in the first week of November, but I was only one week post-op from my knee replacement surgery, so Diane got the honor of clearing the decks—and the walkway, and the parking area, and the driveway. I suppose it was poetic justice, in a way: Di always said that shoveling snow didn't bother her because she would grab a cup of coffee, stand by the window and watch me do it. But I know she never meant it. She would be out there with me but we only had one shovel. This winter, I was the one watching from the window, feeling guilty not to be out there, sipping hot coffee. We even got a second shovel for those togetherness moments to come. Then it got mild and no one had to shovel snow. Until today. The knee is on the mend beautifully; my doctor was so pleased with my progress in building mobility that he signed off on me for a year. I felt up to the task and though Diane volunteered to do it for me, or to help, I insisted I could do it myself. Partly that's the man thing—it's my job, dear. More, it's because Diane is still busily building one more silly hat for Christmas. You see, Diane this year was appointed—appointed herself, actually—minister of silly hats. As is our tradition, we give presents to the children who think of us as Oma and Opa on Saint Nicholas Day. This year Di made all the gifts, and all were hats. Some were not so silly, ski masks or beanies with sports emblems, for example. But most were wonderfully enchanting animals riding on top of or taking a bite out of young appreciative heads. After Saint Nicholas Day there were still more to make, even one or two to travel with us to Holland next month, so I decided without much consideration that her time would be better spent working on that while I shoveled the snow. It is good to see the snow. After that long mild spell, we will have a white Christmas after all, filled with panda bears, hungry sharks, mischievous raccoons, shaggy dogs, quacking ducks, fanciful dragons, green tree frogs and pink flamingos. Myself, I rarely wear a hat except when I'm shoveling snow, and when I do I look like a gnome.

T'IS THE SEASON FOR PAGEANTS AND PLAYS

T'is the season. The house is decorated to the nines. Nutcrackers abound, on guard against Scrooge-like behavior. Scores of Santas dance around the house: tall ones, small ones, Santas on vacation, Santas who sing, Santas who light up fiberoptically. A battery operated train chugs around the Christmas tree to the delight of my granddaughter, who loves to give Beanie Baby critters a ride on the open cattle car. It is a time for pageants, programs and plays. The Glacier Symphony Orchestra and Chorus are about to perform “The Messiah” as they do every year. Schools hold pageants re-enacting the Nativity scene in unique and clever ways, hoping to keep the play relevant and entertaining; or the Nutcracker Ballet; or other programs showcasing their children in Christmas or winter settings. The local dance school, Lakeside Dance Studio, last night offered their own rendition of “The Twelve Dayes of Christmas.” CharleeRose, three going on sixty, has only attended two rounds of beginner ballet. Even so, she got to be a part of the pageant in the fourth number, “Four Calling Birds.” The entire pageant was brilliant, with exciting covers to mostly traditional music and wonderful choreography designed to fit the abilitiy levels of each set of performers. Hats off to Cara Campbell, who put it all together. The four little girls in CharleeRose's group would have stolen the show just on the basis of cute, but each of the twelve numbers had its brilliance. Programs like this can get boring in spots but not last night. Of course, I'm not just a proud Opa, I am an expert on stage presence. My own experience on the stage was a major success in my high school “senior skit,” a few years back, with a script that suited my abilities and my shyness. It was the set up for a really bad joke, the kind high school seniors love and think is a pearl or a peach. My part was to lie down on the stage, covered in a sheet. Two “teenage lovers” are visiting a graveyard. On cue, I lift a headstone with the word, “Earnest,” on it. The lump of me on the stage is now a grave. The girl of the sweethearts looks at the headstone and says, “Oh, look—that's my Uncle Earnest.” She then looks closer and adds, “And there are two worms making love in dead Earnest.” I warned you it was bad. The crowd loved it. It was the Sixties. At any rate, last night was CharleeRose's first public performance. She nailed it, unphased by the audience. She even got her first billing. The printed program got her name wrong, omitting her last name altogether and apparently thinking her full name was Charlie Rose. Maybe that will be her stage name. I have two copies of the program. They might be worth something someday. They are, after all, precious to me now. What the recital reminded me once again was the remarkable fact that there is so much talent out there among us. Even a small place like Kalispell, Montana, has a full symphony orchestra and a plethora of great, energetic and trainable kids running around, waiting for Santa, but not idly. I suspect we all have talent somewhere. Giving voice to that talent is like singing to the heavens and earning thunderous applause. I also know my own talent does not extend to the stage, but I certainly can appreciate anyone whose talent does, especially my three year old CharleeRose, just at the start. Well, it's almost time to don the red suit and beard, and warm up the reindeer. Don't need a pillow. Just one of my talents.

Rhymes and Reasons

It has been quite a while since my last blog. A great deal has happened in the meantime, and I'm not talking about the world of politics. I don't even intend to use the word “politics” in this blog, even though I realize I have said “politics” twice already, and now three times. I also do not intend to dwell on some negative energies thrown my way by some of the people around me, by doing un-Christian things to people I love. I realize saying that may peak your interest, and now you want to hear more, but that is not going to happen in this blog. What I intend to do instead is brag a bit and self-promote. First, almost seven weeks ago I underwent surgery to replace my left knee. The recovery from that surgery is much more intensive than the recovery from the right hip replacement I had last December, though actually less painful. I am making solid progress in recovering range of motion, with the help of our local physical therapy team. I have a goal solidly in mind: to be ready to travel. On January 18 Diane and I are flying back to Holland for a short visit thanks to the generosity of my brother and sister-in-law. It will be so good to see our friends “on the flat,” as I like to say. Given that winter in Montana has not yet provided much snow (one good storm at the beginning of November, and not much since), I suspect that we may miss the worst of a short winter here by being over there for eighteen days. Ultimately, however, it is the gezeligheit of being with dear friends (many of whom are also family) enjoying hot coffee and cold beer, sometimes at the same sitting. Second, and the real reason I am writing today, is that I just published my ninth book and sixth volume of poetry. It is called Rhymes and Reasons. The first section of the book contains six prose pieces that casually talk about “light verse,” as opposed to what I am still not certain, and other thoughts about creativity and, even, oops, politics. The rest of the book is filled with shorter poems, all of which rhyme, and an occassional photograph either from the public domain or from my own personal collection. I think the book is a fun read, a good exploration and a worthy effort. I do have one caveat: light verse does not mean funny or frivolous. It can be and often is very serious in tone and theme. My book contains a solid mixture, sort of like life itself. Rhymes and Reasons, like all my books, is available through Amazon, Amazon Kindle, and CreateSpace, as well as through most other booksellers online. Pick up a copy and enjoy!