Monday, July 25, 2011

EIGHTEEN AGAIN


                                              
I was listening to the radio the other day when they played an old rendition of the late George Burns singing, “I wish I was eighteen again.” Well, singing might be a stretch. Old George sounded more like a combination between a bad auctioneer and a Hindu priest chanting, but the quality of the music is not what I want to talk about. What it really brought to mind for me is, what if there was a magical way to do it--- would I want to be eighteen again?

Life is a journey through time and for those of us who have the good fortune to live to old age we went through many trials, tests and experiences to get there. These may be bad, good or indifferent, but all of them are a learning experience and if you are paying attention things should get somewhat easier as you go along. But on the way, make no mistake about it; you will have to pay your dues.  The greatest part of this escapade takes place after you are eighteen. Before that you should have had parents or guardians to lean on when things got sticky.

Back to the question would I want to be eighteen again? I really gave this some thought and as much as having my youth back seems so desirable, being eighteen today-- and being eighteen back in nineteen fifty nine—well it was a whole different world back then. When I was going out into the world in 1959 our country was far more prosperous and much more respected then it is today. At least in my mind. Jobs were available for those who wanted to work and working was what people wanted to do with their lives. This was long before the government tried to feed everyone and run their lives. Fresh from the victories of World War II our country was looked upon as a symbol of peace and freedom. We had just won the last war we would win in the next fifty years although we would participate in several more.

Yes, the world has evolved into something most of us old codgers are not sure about. But in the other hand there are those of us who don’t like change at all. We liked it the way it was and we gripe about people who are always trying to reinvent the wheel. But progress always comes with some decent and always has. If it were up to some of us the roads would still be filled with model T’s and the Dodgers would still be in Brooklyn. But there are different kinds of change in the world today that we feel are eating away at our moral fiber and I feel that is where the real problem is. We can cope with new fangled electronics and cars that are homes on wheels. We can’t accept some of the changes that seem to go against Gods laws that we were brought up with.

So would I like to be eighteen again? Well if I could have my youthful body back and all of the knowledge I have accumulated over the last fifty some years—yes. But we’re dealing with a little bit of fantasy here and truth be told it isn’t going to happen To those who are eighteen today and just going out into the world. I envy your enthusiasm and the opportunity you have to make this an even better place then we did. We’ve passed the torch and if it seems somewhat reluctantly-- please understand. Because all to soon your babies will be asking you for that same torch and time will have marched on and you will be asking yourself the question. Would I like to be eighteen again?




Saturday, July 16, 2011

THE FOURTH OF JULY


                                              
Last night was not just any Monday; it was the Fourth of July. I turned on the television to watch the Boston Pops and the fireworks from Boston—a yearly ritual for me. For the better part of an hour I listened to the patriotic music, so meticulously synchronized with the fireworks that were spiraling up from the Charles River. For a while, at least, I felt some of the patriotic fervor I always feel on such occasions. Outside my window, you could hear the celebrations going on all around the area in the tiny hamlets that surround Crosslake. Then, in our community, the finale—the fireworks from Sand Island.

Long after the smoke had drifted away, and the silence of the night had enveloped me once more, I sat on the porch swing deep in thought, my eyes still wet. I thought to myself, what a testimony to the people of this country that, for one short evening, they celebrate their freedom as if nothing is amiss in this great nation. At suppertime I had watched the news. I heard about our dysfunctional state government and the looming debt crisis in Washington; I heard about Generals in Afghanistan that want more war, not less; I listened to parts of a presidential news conference where the tone was so rancorous the President spent the whole time trying to explain why we are in the mess we’re in and not moving forward.

I wanted to stand up and scream, “What a charade!” But then I thought—NO! We need this. We need to keep the spirit alive, in spite of what the politicians have done to our country. Because when that patriotic spirit is gone, it will be over. Our battle is two-fold, my friends; it’s the enemies inside, and outside, of our country. I fear that it is the enemy within we need to fear the most. Our enemies outside know this, and they would just as soon we destroy ourselves. It saves them a lot of trouble.

I have heard the battle cry at political rallies, “Take back our nation!” Yes, we are thinking it and saying it—but we’re not doing it. We’re sitting on our hands while our nation heads down this path to ruin. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, and at least they got some music out of it. We get lies, and empty promises, and a mess no one will ever be able to fix. There were state politicians walking the parade routes yesterday—smiling and shaking hands. I wish someone would have told them to go back to the capitol and get the job done and quit raining on our parade. We have no room here today for hypocrites.

When my time on this earth is over, the last hymn to be sung at my funeral must be God Bless America. I want every person in that church to join voices and sing about the country I loved so much. I want people to hear that this great country professes an affiliation with God. That our foundering fathers felt it was important that our faith was mentioned in the formation of our government. One nation, under God – a God who was the cornerstone of the ideals this country was formed under.  Ideals of love, peace amongst your fellow man and liberty and justice for all.  God Bless America.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMER TIME



Back in the late forties, there was a Broadway musical called” In the good old summer time.” From that musical came a song with the same title that has always stuck in my mind. I think to be truthful that song has been with us a lot longer than that, but it was made most popular, at least for me, by that musical. But then music is only one of the things that jogs my meandering mind when we talk about summer.

What is it about summer that seems to be so magical and so much more dramatic than all of the other seasons? What makes us have such pensive thoughts about soft summer breezes, singing cicadas and the sweet smell of clover? Of warm days at the beach and star filled nights around a flickering campfire. Precious memories of holding hands in the moonlight, and waking in the morning with the one you love to the music of the songbirds. Ah yes it has been said that a life without love is like a year without summer. Well the analogies abound, but it’s the ambiance of course that inspires us. It was said by Shakespeare “All of the world is a stage.” A stage that in the summer time, more then the other seasons, is so beautifully choreographed that it invokes a treasure trove of memories in all of us that we never seem to forget.

To the school age kids it’s a respite from the pressures of learning and studying. To the famers it’s time to plant and reap the crops. To the golfers and fisherman the game is on. Like the animals that emerge from their burrows in springtime, we too come squinting out of our shelters to face the suns warm rays and enjoy yet, another summer. As I look across our small lake this morning I see the trees and houses on the opposite shoreline mirrored in the placid waters. From somewhere around the point a loon is calling to its mate and high overhead our resident Eagle pair, silently and seemingly so effortlessly, patrol the shores.

We are blessed here in this heartland to have this performance put on every summer for us. This is a special place on earth where no words can do justice to a perfect June day. Gertrude Jekyll said, and I quote, “What is one to say about June, the perfect time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promises of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh beauty will ever fade.” But fade it will and so with that in mind we tend to overdose on it, while adding yet another summer to our resume of life. Like the growth rings on trees, in the end our lives will be counted more by the summers we have lived, then anything else we have experienced.

Summer has something for everyone in the lake country. There are beaches and warm water for the youngsters and waterskiing, camping, fishing and a chance to get back to nature for moms and dads. For the elderly it’s warm sunshine on old arthritic bones and the sweet aroma of a fresh rhubarb pie cooling on the porch rail. Tulips and daffodils and fragile irises showing off their delicate blooms. They grow, they blossom, and then they quietly fade away, much as we do. But unlike us they have the power to reincarnate themselves and their summers will last for all eternity. 

Saturday, July 2, 2011

KILLEBREW


                                                

I remember it as if it was only yesterday and the night John and I went off to a Twins game at the old Met Stadium. We had high expectations for a Twins victory on that warm summer night, but everything went wrong from the start and the Twins fell into a hole and were five runs behind, when the eighth inning came to a close. John said let’s get out of here and we weren’t alone that night. Lots of disappointed people were leaving just like we were. The traffic was slowly snaking its way up Cedar Avenue, trying to thin out and disperse into the dark side streets, when suddenly John reached down and turned on the car radio.

Herb and Halsey seemed to be too excited. Their mood didn’t seem to match the dismal display we had witnessed. The bottom of the order had been due up in the ninth but they were talking about Oliva at bat and the score was now 6-4, with two out. Tony hit a soft liner into center field that fell in front of the center fielder and a murmur was going through the crowd. The killer was up and a new pitcher was coming in. Common sense said they wouldn’t pitch to him, but they did, and they paid. They put the Killebrew shift on with all of the infielders on the left side of the infield daring him to try and go to right filed. They could have put all of the infielders and outfielders too over there –it wouldn’t have made any difference. The ball ended up in the left field bleachers. I’m not sure if the Twins won that night in the extra innings. I’m only sure I was so sad to have not seen that ball go out off the killers bat. I take solace in the fact I saw many more go out, as only he could hit them.

That’s the kind of player Harmon was.  He made you sit on the edge of your seat whenever he came to bat. If you had to go to the bathroom you held it. The odds were that he would strike out more times than he would hit a home run, but it didn’t matter, you could only hope-- not this time. It was the thrill of that mighty swing you came to watch because only Harmon could drill a ball 520 feet into the upper deck of the old Met and who cares if the Twins won or lost, you saw our own great Bambino at his best. He never celebrated his hitting feats, he just calmly set the bat down and circled the bases and even the opposing pitchers would look with awe.

I never forgave the Twins for trading Harmon to Kansas City that last year of his career. He was our hero and he deserved better. But when it was all over and number 3 laid down the hickory or ash for the last time, it was he who forgave and came home from Kansas to be a Twin for the rest of his life. The only other baseball side trip he ever took was to Coopers Town where he was immortalized and enshrined with the other greats. But there was more to Harmon than hitting baseballs. This was a man who epitomized sportsmanship and his love for the game and his devotion to his fans. He was as revered on the day he died, as the day he retired. We’re not used to those kinds of athletes anymore. They don’t come along very often. I cried when I heard of Harmon’s death and someday soon, when I start chipping away at my bucket list, one of my first orders of business will be to drive to the Baseball Hall of Fame and go touch his plaque and cry some more. It’s the least I can do after all he did for baseball, the Twins, and me.--- God bless you Harmon.