Observations and Meanderings

Unexpected Texts

Last night Suzanne and I were sitting in the family room doing nothing in particular when my phone, which was sitting on my desk in the study, made the little noise that signaled a text had arrived. Since I seldom get texts except from Suzanne, I was curious, but not enough to get up and walk all the way into the next room to check. Then it signaled again, and again, seven times in all, and I decided I should probably go check on it. The first of the seven texts read, “Heyyy sexy ass,” which should immediately make it obvious to anyone who knows me that a mistake had been made. The next half a dozen texts were very specific about what the sender wanted, and were more and more graphic. Since some body parts I do not have were involved, it was clear the texts were not meant for me. I thought long and hard about my reply; there were so many possibilities. In the end I simply texted, “You probably have the wrong number” and did not receive any more texts from the mystery admirer.

I think the internet is a civilization-changing invention, ranking up there with the printing press. It has permeated all aspects of our lives and is on the whole a real boon for mankind, making research and communication on a world wide scale accessible to almost everyone. 

There is, however, a downside or two. The person who texted me meant to send his or her messages of desire to someone, and that someone did not receive them. I got them instead. I wish them well on their journey of love (or at least lust) and hope it is a consensual adult relationship. I also hope they leave me out of it from now on.

Making Your Soul Grow

Tomorrow is the start date for the contract I have with a professional cover designer. When “Pushing Back,” originally intended as a stand-alone novel, grew to become a series of three books (with a possible fourth beginning to appear in my head) I thought I should do something to tie the book covers together thematically. As a visual artist I am incompetent to the point of being laughable, so over the last several months I’ve been looking around for someone to take on the job.

There is no shortage of designer’s pages on the net, so I had a lot to choose from; there are pre-made covers and custom designs, designers whose genre speciality is obvious as soon as you see one or two of their creations, and prices ranging from less than $50 to over $3,000 per cover. A couple of years ago I needed an illustrator for one of my children’s books and found her through thumbtack.com, so when I came across reedsy.com I immediately signed on. Reedsy is a clearinghouse for vetted editors, formatters, and cover designers, and works by having the prospective client choosing five candidates, describing the project, and receiving bids. That’s how I ended up with Nick, and we begin our collaboration tomorrow.

I’ve known for a while now that one of the things I need is a creative outlet of some kind. It’s one of the reasons I write books and play music, and beginning this new project is reminding me of how important it is for me to have this in my life. Kurt Vonnegut said that “practicing an art, no matter how well or how badly, is a way to make your soul grow,” and I know that’s true for me. Comparing myself to a Vonnegut or Bradbury or Burke, or for that matter a McCutcheon or Messick or Hall, is not only useless, but antithetical to the whole point Mr. Vonnegut was making. And that’s a liberating insight; when I read a paragraph of James Lee Burke’s, his ability to evoke image and mood is a pleasure to experience, not a reason to disparage my own ability as a writer. 

We are creators, all of us, and the people in my life who claim they “don’t have a creative bone in their body” are working with a definition of creativity that is a little narrow, in my opinion. From a well-built garden shed to a delicious meal, from a class of school children with that light of curiosity still in their eyes to a butterfly garden in the middle of the city, and on and on, we bring order and beauty to our world. The number of people who know about what you have created is not a useful measure of its worth. The real question is, does it make your soul grow? 

Stan the Man

Today I saw the New York Times obituary for Stan Brock; it cited an interview in which he was asked how he would like to be remembered 100 years from now. His answer was that he hoped nobody would remember who he was because “this would be a thing of the past.”

Of course he was talking about RAM, his gift to the world. It’s hard to imagine his wish coming true, partly because everywhere RAM sets up, far too many people line up than they can accommodate. A major shift in priorities would be needed for RAM to become unnecessary.

More important, though, is Mr. Brock’s understanding of the real meaning of service to one’s fellows. There was never any indication during his life that he thought he was more important than the organization’s mission. Escaping that ego trap is not easy, and our culture is full of examples in every field of those who have been caught up in the delusion that they are what is important, not the message they are trying to pass along or the job they are supposed to be doing. I could easily make a long list, and my guess is so could any of you.

The other list is shorter. Stan Brock, Jimmy Carter, Buckminster Fuller, the sisters Helen and Ellen who started the Love Kitchen, and already I’m searching my mind for more names. And that is as it should be. There is much good being done in this world by those not interested in headlines or monuments or personal gain. From the Native American teachings to the parables of Jesus to the Tao te Ching to the old guys sitting around at the farmer’s co-op, the message is clear — don’t get too full of yourself; if you do you miss the whole point.

Stan the Man. What he started was, and is, a very good thing for a great many people. If he was given to pride, it would be a legacy to be proud of. He wasn’t, and is all the more significant because of that.


I started drawing Social Security this month, having turned sixty-six years old. Medicare starts in October, completing my official transition to the old-timers’ club.

From what I’ve seen so far, it’s a pretty good gig. I don’t have a lot of money coming in, but I spent my employment years in education, so I’m used to that. My days are full (at least as full as I want them to be), and it’s my schedule, not someone else’s. Between writing and music and volunteer work, sometimes I barely have time for my daily nap.

One thing I don’t spend my time on is wishing for a return to the good old days. I know I have a well-developed selective memory, and I’m guessing most of those pining away for how things used to be have the same condition. I do count myself among those who are dismayed by the recent loss of progress in many areas; having said that, I look forward to the continuation of the trend I’m already starting to see, of some people in power starting to push back. It’s taking longer than I would like, but that tug-of-war has been going on throughout our country’s history. It’s built into the structure of our political system, and even those of us who are not political junkies have a role to play. We would do well to remember that, pay attention, and vote our consciences. 

Politics aside, the overall question of what to do now is an interesting one. One thing that keeps me going is the fact that I can still be surprised, and there has never been a shortage of new and interesting things to learn and experience and appreciate. Something I can do now that I couldn’t before is wake up, have a cup of hot tea, and wait to see what comes along to fill the day. I almost never find myself being disappointed or bored, and that is a precious thing indeed, maybe the best thing.

An advantage I have, along with the other folks that have made it this far, is that if I gather my wandering brain cells together long enough to function, I can use the fact that I’ve seen a lot of stuff to step out of the frantic pursuit of what’s new and shiny and focus on the core things that remain. Maybe I’ll pass those insights along to all the youngsters out there.

Or maybe I’ll just tell them to keep the noise down, that it’s time for my afternoon nap. It’s a tough call.

Luxury in the Middle of the Day

Yesterday a young woman I had never met before had her hands all over me for an hour and a half.

Of course I’m talking about a massage, in this case a birthday gift from Suzanne. The second professional massage I’ve ever had, I would like very much for it not to be the last, and I’m not sure I’m willing to wait for another birthday to come around in the hopes of getting another gift.

Whether or not I can arrange that depends, as do so many things for me these days, on finances. This month I start drawing Social Security, which will double my retirement income. My pension from the state positions me a little above full-time minimum wage, but I can still see that line from my front porch; the SS check will add a little more distance. 

Of course, by any reasonable standards, I’m already living the good life. I live in a house that’s paid for, and even though it’s a little hard to get to, especially in bad winter weather, some would say it’s a nice place. I don’t lack for food or power or any of the necessities of life, and I can afford some entertainment and limited travel. I have friends and an expanding family, and, as I tell people, in every way except financial, I am a wealthy man.

I think one of the keys to satisfaction with one’s lot in life lies in the realization of where one stands on the continuum. As I said, I don’t lack for any of the necessities of life, plus I’m a white male in a society that affords that demographic a position of some privilege. The fact that other demographic groups want to share in that privilege doesn’t frighten me; I don’t believe that there is only a limited amount of wealth and fair treatment to go around and those of us who have it have to guard it and be very choosy about who we share it with. I’m more Fullerian than Malthusian, I guess.

Having said that, I’m fairly certain that a weekly or even monthly massage is going to be beyond my grasp, at least until someone buys the movie rights to my Boone series. Given the fact that interest in that area is at present non-existent, I’m not holding my breath.

“Start Something.”

I was near tears through much of the service today, unable to join in the singing (which I think for the people sitting close to me qualifies as a plus) and getting lost in thought about the shooting. Not that the service itself was a downer, quite the contrary. Leslie’s musical taste was impeccable as usual, Zoe’s reflection demonstrated once again what an articulate young woman she is becoming, and Chris had enough light moments in the sermon to provide good balance to the more serious parts of his message. No, the emotion was inside, still present enough to break through given the right mix of external circumstances.

Today was the last day of the Grainger County Tomato Festival; sales had been minimal for my books, which isn’t all that unusual; my books aren’t about sex, or the Vols, or the hiking trails in the area, or impossibly cute puppies or kittens, or inspirational stories of faith, so most of the time I get a quick glance and the person next to me gets the sale. I had decided on Saturday night that I would bring my hammered dulcimer with me on the last day so I would have something to do. Veterans of the festival had told me that Sunday was a slow day. So after the above-mentioned church service I made my way to Rutledge and found a place to park.

I was only an hour or so late and it was in fact pretty slow, so I set up my dulcimer and played a few tunes, stopping to answer questions about the instrument. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then a woman walked by and said something about enjoying the music and I said, “Are you a musician?” She shook her head and pointed to her daughter, who had a hard-shell violin case strapped to her back. I asked her if she played, and within a few seconds she had the fiddle out of its case, the bow was in her hand, and she looked at me and said, “Start something.”

I jumped into “Whiskey Before Breakfast” and had not made it through the A part the first time before she was right there with me, and by the second go-around she was solidly in the groove. We played that through a few times and when we finished she said “Play something else,” so I started “Road to Lisdoonvarna” and again she was with me almost from the start. By this time both of us are grinning ear to ear, her mother had her iPad out recording, and people around us are smiling and tapping their feet.

She didn’t have time for more songs; she was heading for the outdoor stage to do some clogging. I found out her name is Emily, she’s from Texas, and she’s a UT student, studying to be a musicologist. Never met her before, probably will never see her again, but that ten minutes or so lifted me up and what I needed this afternoon was something to lift me up.

This is the power of music.