Love and Life

Another Fine Mess

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Here is what happened…. about a week ago I road my bike about 6 miles or so on some great Monday weather in southwest Ohio. I felt an odd pain in my left breast that ran down my arm but to me at the time I thought – Oh you are straining that muscle you hurt last year. The pain went away after I stopped and rested a bit. That should have been a clue but it was not to me. On and off over the next few days it came back. I began to think that maybe I should get it checked out.

Debbie encouraged me to do just that and I made an appointment with my primary care person.

The ache in my left breast and trailer down my arm came back with a vengeance on Saturday while I was starting to put a porch glider together for Debbie. I still thought it was nothing and sat down for awhile and the pain subsided. (I just called it a pain. I did not do that then.) Debbie convinced me that it was not nothing and I should get it checked out.

We went to Jewish Hosp. and on Monday morning they did an angio-thingy to see what the problem was. I will interrupt my story a bit to mention that I was not in favor of visiting an ER on Saturday because no matter what, gray hair and chest discomfort – medical folks like that term instead of pain – will equal staying the night and the next day. I will admit that I should not be so cynical about that but it seems to be the way of our world and what the doctor found was worse that I thought.

I took up riding a bike again a few years ago. I did that a lot when I was younger.

When I retired from my engineering and service career I started walking a lot. Typically five miles or so for a typical trek around the neighborhood. We lived in a community that was perched on top of a ridge and I made a game of walking a long distance without going downhill. Over time I varied my walks to include parks and hills. When I saw my doctor for an annual checkup he said, “you’ve lost ten pounds!” instead of hello. The bike riding was a natural extension of that activity.

It got me through the first summer after Cheryl died. I was outside and in the sun.

According to the surgeon the right coronary artery to my heart is 99% blocked and there is blockage elsewhere. (It is remarkable to me that I don’t have more pain. Now, for example I have none.) The report that I have from this procedure states that the left anterior descending artery is 95% blocked with a couple of the branches 75% and 50% blocked. Doctors like to write stenosis so the verbiage is stenosed.

Yesterday there were a bunch of tests to find the extra tubing and to determine where the calcified stenosis blockages are best detoured around to fix me. Something called a cardiac arterial bypass graft (cabbage) is in my future on Friday.

Wow I thought. I just do not feel that bad.

At this point I am just beginning to understand the value of having another caring person in your life, a person that is not afraid to say to you that you are wrong about some things, that person for me is Debbie. If she had not insisted that I get checked out I might still be at home wondering what that pain was and masking it with Tylenol or ibuprofen or both.

The moral here is if you are having twinges in your chest in your left breast and your left arm is following the dance in full romance get checked out. Or you might check out.

Debbie is with me through all of this. No doubt the universe is unfurling as it should.

Carpe the damn Diem but do not ignore what your body is saying.

Dad

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Who was your most influential teacher? Why?

My most influential teacher is/was my father.

Oh, you say. You cannot use a parent, but I say I must. I wrote is above because he still influences my thoughts occasionally.

Our parents are in all of us. We carry their DNA. DNA is more than just heredity. It is attitude and character. It is love and dislike. It is friendship and beauty. It is many things beyond the physical.

In my dad’s case he was a technician and a technical thinker. I spent my working career as an engineer. I have always felt that I learned the practical aspects of that calling from him. Later on as I got older I went to school to pick up some of the math that I did not quite understand.

He did not push it on me. He did teach me how to analyze problems and think for myself.

Carpe Daddio.

A Summer Day in Winter and other Thoughts

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A Summer Day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean —

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

These words by Mary Oliver send my thoughts in many directions. The last two lines seem to be very popular with the counted cross stitch and embroidery set. These are words of inspiration to the young.

The previous two lines “Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?” seem a lament for the old. We tell ourselves, we have lived life as best we thought at the time.

Do I have regrets? “Tell me, what else should I have done?” hides in the back of other thoughts. What could I have done different that would put me in a better place today? How would I define “better place”?

Grief, that missing another, that emptiness for love’s object, that restless lonely, that longing, is often with me at seemingly random times. It will always be there. It is smoother on some days. I noticed this past evening as I talked to my son that I could tell stories and talk about Cheryl without choking up. Cheryl and I had many great times.

In the now, my son and his wife are splitting. My girlfriend’s daughter is very ill. She is hospitalized with an undefined infection. My girlfriend’s youngest son has split with his significant other and that is a remarkable similarity to my son’s situation. He has snapped back to his savior and supporter, Mom. (She has pushed him out of the nest several times. It is hard (but time) for him to fly on his own.) I have interest and concern for all of these people in my life. They give me a place to send my love and support.

“Tell me, what else couldI do?” is a question I ask of myself but it is an unfair question. Simply being present to other’s needs and being there as they sort through their difficulties is enough. I do not volunteer a solution if I have one. It would be my solution, not their solution. The same heartfelt commitment would not be there. (My mother would say, ‘Pull up your socks!’, which was her way of saying you have to be the designer of your own way out, otherwise you are not committed to it.)

My son is staying with me in the guest bedroom while he sorts through moving vehicles, furniture and just plain stuff accumulated over time to his new rental digs.

Debbie’s daughter is in the best hospital in town. They are committed to finding out what is wrong in her anatomy and doing their best to fix it or mitigate it.

Debbie’s son has a short term solution for housing and a wonderful employer that seems committed to his success. Maybe her consultation support is of greater value to him than monetary support. Maybe he will come to understand that. Maybe he will be able to move on from this former girlfriend who suddenly turned physically violent toward him. Maybe he will realize what he feels is grief of a sort for a lost relationship.

I do know how to pay attention, and listen and offer advice when asked and pray that God will provide a stable solution to the currently evolving dilemmas.

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? If not die, at least, stop?

Maybe not soon enough? Was that snarky?

I love them all.

Carpe Diem.

Little Women

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I stood on the scale and as luck would have it, no weight loss and no weight gain either.

Huh. Alas. Alack. Oh whoa is me. Or is it?

The new snow is coating the grass.

The early morning sky is azure blue as the sun blazes near the eastern horizon.

The chilly birds are dive bombing Jane’s feeder next door.

It is a new day!

These thoughts come to me in rapid fire as I awaken more fully while drinking my coffee and thinking about the previous evening. The play “Little Women” was excellent. The production itself is a co-production, a special partnership between two theaters working on a single play. The play was staged first in Portland and then here in Cincinnati. Debbie and I went to see it last night during one of our field trips. The play itself tells the stories within Little Women but focuses on Louisa May Alcott as a writer and her life.

At intermission we had a conversation with a younger man seated next to us. He asked how longer we had been together. I responded with “about a year and a half.” I did not think much of it but Debbie picked up on the fact that he thought I was joking. Debbie talked to him for a bit and found out that he was from out of town.

Later as we drove home she told me that he thought we had been together for a long time, an easy assumption to make since we are both older. When she corrected his notion he was interested in our story. Her synopsis of us meeting later in life interested him.

Yesterday was a pleasant day. The play was well done.

There have been many instances now where total strangers have commented on the love and affection vibe that they perceive between us.

I feel that way about Debbie and she feels that way about me.

It shows.

Carpe Diem.

mushrooms

Church, Mass, Catholicism

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A few weeks ago on Sunday before church began I wrote – What do I want to takeaway from my time in mass today? And further I wrote – What for the rest of the day?

As to the first prompt, I went to Sunday mass (11AM service) which Cheryl and I did not do for some time. Early on in our marriage we went to the 9AM service. There were 5 masses at our parish in those days. Later as the church changed and even later as Cheryl’s disease progressed we attended 4:30 mass which became 5:15 mass which eventually died a slow death with little participation. After her death I returned to 5:15 mass and over time I was comforted by friends. Now this mass is gone from the schedule too. I think my takeaway is that the Roman Catholic church has lost touch with the congregation.

There is only one mass time at my parish now. It was not crowded. It should have been crowded but it was okay that it was not crowded. The holiday is over and much is back to normal. Small attendance masses are peaceful.

Thinking this way is the way I think about busses. They run all the time on specific routes. If I find one convenient I get on and ride. But only certain routes and certain times are crowded. Riding an empty-ish bus in the mid-morning can be peaceful much like a city tour bus without the scratchy public address system.

Limited access highways are like this in the morning and late afternoon. Expressways, however, are never peaceful.

Masses ought to happen on a fixed schedule, so I can get in and get some holy, is probably a selfish attitude. I will think about that for some time. I may never find a conclusion. It is that sort of a question, one with no answer, for me to ponder as I get older and put more of life in the past.

I think many dioceses of the Roman Catholic Church have lost touch with their congregations but that thought is not my only takeaway. I went back to church after Cheryl died to look for the peacefulness missing in my life. For a while I found it there. I moved from where we often sat so that I could see Cheryl in the pew from a different position. It was peaceful and I was surrounded by friends. The Church is the congregation.

In the time that has passed since I started this essay, I have visited and thought and revisited it several times. What is it that I want from church? It is community. It is belonging. It is love. It is morality. It is sharing the journey. It is belief in a universal consciousness we call God and sharing that belief with others.

How does one become spiritual? And why do I (me, myself) attend this specific service. The first and most glaring reason is that it is the spiritual system with which I am most familiar. I was brought up Catholic so at this point in my life it may be nothing stronger than indoctrination. There must be something more than that idea in me.

In a similar vein, what is the meaning of life? What is my purpose in it? Am I achieving my purpose? If I cannot figure out my purpose, how will I know if I achieve it? Is it important to achieve it? As I get older I find myself searching for this, an unknown, a “may never be known”, the church might say, “a cannot be known.” I search for peace in my heart with not knowing my purpose.

To just be is enough for now.

Carpe Diem

A 2026 Calendar

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Time and Dates and Events

The activity of marking and acknowledging life events was Cheryl’s job. All through 2025 I realized how much I missed her and her organizational ability when my date dyslexia would dissipate for a moment and would remember that I forgot some important event like a birthday or anniversary. These, of course, were an important acknowledgment of some life altering event. Something to be commemorated. Something to be celebrated. Or something to be commiserated.

To her life was a continuum but it was marked by various events both good and bad.

When she moved to a memory care facility and I disassembled her office back into a guest bedroom, I developed a simple sorting method for her clutter. Clutter is an unkind word because in her own mind as it disintegrated she was doing real work and “getting things done.” It breaks my heart when I think about it. Scattered in various storage spaces in my condominium now I have collected the clutter into three general categories: pictures, letters, notes.

The pictures are easy. They are of our family and friends and sometimes Christmas postcards that show the growth of often far flung friends and family. In earlier times she sorted and organized these. During the last few years of her life she sorted and organized but the associations were meaningless to others, as well as, her after she had done so.

The letters did not need separation or organization. These were separated into their own file folder. Cheryl and I wrote many many letters back and forth while in high school. I have these collected with my own response in my office.

Her notes I sorted into their own tubs and a couple boxes. I hope to write a memoir as I review her notes to herself.

Today I went through the big black book that we (I) purchased for her to help her remember birthdays and anniversaries when her cognitive function was fading. The BBB is its own category. It has all the dates of family and friends births and anniversaries and in some cases, their deaths. It has also collected many other notes and pictures paper-clipped and stapled here and there at random. This coming year I hope to remember my family’s birthdays and although I am not a card sender, I can acknowledge the date.

It is hard for me to go through this book to recover birth data because it contains cognitive data and the lack there of as well. This note, stuck in the book on April 15th, reminds me how upon occasion her cognitive ability returned for short periods

– DO NOT worry about greeting cards for the W/girls for now) (too much stress –

I do not know which W/girls she referred to but her mind was telling her to relax a bit. The note is printed in all caps. Mileena’s birthday is noted on the page above this note and the parenthesis are askew, nevertheless, she recognized her internal stress about getting it right and wrote herself a note to let it go. She consistently wrote notes to herself about this or that and attached the notes to that or this. The attachment did not always go with the note.

I did achieve my goal. I constructed a calendar of my own and slid it into a plastic sheet protector. I laid it on the kitchen table so that I can ignore it in a brighter light filled room. (When she was alive it resided in the hallway to our bedroom.)

Better in Retirement

I am ready for 2026.

Carpe Diem.

Funerals

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These events are for the living. The usefulness to the living is a final farewell. The tradition helps the living cope with the fact that they too will eventually succumb. (Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we are here and then we are not.) Nice music and often monotonic recitation of traditional prayer provides solace.

This particular funeral service was held for my sister-in-law. Three of us brothers-in-law are widowers now. Is this a trend? I hope not. I chose to sit near the back of the church to avoid sitting with the grieving immediate family and to be alone with my own thoughts. Cheryl is still fresh in my mind.

As the homilist was speaking I heard the first allusion to purgatory in a Roman Catholic sermon that I have heard without using the word for a very long time. (It could be that I did not listen to funeral sermons carefully before this one.) I was interested by the implication that the person might not be in heaven. But me being me I was not alarmed, I went off to the Wait wait What? to read current doctrine of the Roman Catholic church. Every thought, idea, law and religious doctrine exists on the WWW somewhere and it exists for any religious philosophy.

There is a YouTube video for the reading challenged at www.catholic.com that tells all. Reserve an hour or so if you are interested. I have got to admit that the current view of purgatory is much different than what I got from reading the catechism and listening to the Sisters of Mercy seventy years ago.

I have misunderstood the difference of “praying for” and “praying to” for many years. Today I read this: “… prayers for the dead: “In doing this (offering a sacrifice) he (Judas Maccabee) acted in a very excellent and noble way, inasmuch as he had the resurrection of the dead in view; for if he were not expecting the dead to rise again, it would have been useless and foolish to pray for them in death. But if he did this with a view to the splendid reward that awaits those who had gone to rest in godliness, it was a holy and pious thought. Thus he made atonement for the dead that they might be freed from this sin” (2 Macc. 12:43–45). Prayers are not needed by those in heaven, and no one can help those in hell…”

There is an in-between state (Limbo of the Fathers, Purgatory, Sanctification) and those souls we pray for. Souls in heaven do not need prayer. They are there. They are sanctified. They are prayed to. Souls in hell (damnation) are lost and cannot be helped. That is sad. The distinction was lost on me when I was six years old and I was not interested enough to ask. Catholic philosophy is laden with guilt and I did not seek out more of it by asking the nun to compare and contrast for and to.

As for me, I prefer to sit near the back of any church. It is a fine old Catholic tradition that if you get in early you can sit in the back. Cheryl liked to sit midway up and to the left side. After her death I sit near the rear and to the right. I can look at the other side of her. I see her often in church, any church, when I am there.

Family is mostly what I thought about during her funeral after I made a mental note to educate myself about the concept of purgatory. Two of my children sat with me. We did not stay for the reception in the church hall afterward. Cheryl’s death is too fresh for all of us.

Cheryl… when she died I was sad and happy… She was better at religion than I was and am now. I think women are better at religion. It is odd, I think, that men are in charge of them, all of them. I was sad that she was gone from my life and I felt that here in church at Teri’s funeral.

Cheryl came to me in an early morning dream a few months ago. It is incredibly vivid in my memory, as though I had lived though it. In the dream there was a special service in our church – Nativity. For some unclear reason we had to bring our own chairs to the service – a mass as I remember it. At the end of the service she hoped up and announced to me that she had to go. I can hear her, “I have to go!” I thought she meant to the lady’s room. She was in the midst of her Parkinson’s and with that her memory and spacial issues. She could not always find her way around. In this instance she was moving with ease towards the lavatory door which was around the corner and out of my sight as she moved through the crowd of folks leaving the service. I waited anxiously near our chairs gathering our stuff up to leave. I looked in her direction often to be sure she would make her way back. She often was unsure of where she was, so, I was worried. She was gone a long time and as I began to move towards the lady’s room a young man came up to me and asked if he could help with the chairs. He explained that Cheryl was gone.(He said, “She’s not coming back. She’ll be okay.) It is a very vivid memory/dream and I cry whenever I recall it. She is in heaven. This is what I take her last visit to me in this dream to mean.

I am happy for her because she was no longer suffering from Parkinson’s scourge that took her from this life and my life. I am happy that I can pray to her.

Carpe Diem

Baking and Memories

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This is the time of the year when I pay more attention to baking and making breads and pasties and pie. It is a winter time past time and it makes my little condo smell divine for a day or two. Lately I have been focused on a pecan pie recipe that I received from my daughter-in-law who is an excellent pie maker and shares my love of sweets.

I started this morning by tweaking my stash of recipes with the Karo syrup pecan pie recipe that I copied off of the world wide wait (that’s an old term – these days it is the Wha Wait What?). When I saved it to the correct folder on this laptop I found the following piece I wrote a while ago. It is a good memory of mine.

As I re-read the yellow bag story, I could hear Cheryl. At first, after she died, I was anxious that I would lose the ability to hear her voice. He works in mysterious ways. Gladly He helps me to hear her voice. (Sometimes, of course, being male, I do not want to hear it.) … on to the cookie story.

She’s Done it to Me

A couple years ago, when Cheryl was struggling physically more with Parkinson and her struggle with the dementia aspects of it was taking away her ability to follow simple directions, she coerced (maybe too strong of a word) me into helping her make cookies. I did not want to at the time.

Once or twice these were Snickerdoodles. And a couple other times we made chocolate chip cookies, the recipe is on the two pound bag of Nestle’s morsels. “You have to get the yellow bag!” she said to me once when I when I returned from the store by myself in the midst of the COVID pandemonium and price-shopped for supplies. “Those won’t work.” I was disheartened. I had purchased the store brand of chocolate chips. I argued my case for twenty-two milliseconds before realizing that there was no point in contesting the issue further. I returned to the store for the correct chips (“Morsels! It will say morsels on the bag. The bag is yellow.” She spoke to my back as I left.)

I can hear her voice. Little stories like this help me to recall her voice.

Yesterday, because I could avoid it no longer, I went to the grocery to restore my larder to its previous vigor. At the beginning my list had only two things, dried cranberries and raisins. Both of these I add to overnight oats which has become a new favorite breakfast treat. I have a pint Ball jar that is just the right size to contain a half cup of rolled oats, a cup of milk and whatever else I put in with those usually raisins or craisins some honey and chia seeds to set in the fridge overnight. I have also added at times cocoa powder, cinnamon, cardamon, vanilla or tahinni and used brown sugar instead of honey. This mixture goes well with my assembly of the coffee in the evening as well as drinking the coffee in the morning.

While putting all away I discovered that the bag of dried cranberries that I purchased would not fit into my quart jar I use to save dried fruit. Alas, some remained in the Ziploc bag that only zips most of the time. I left them on the counter to become a healthy evening snack near the apples and bananas.

After preparing some lunch I hunted for some sweetness to satisfy my heritage and hit upon spreading the Nutella look-alike I purchased at Aldi sometime in the past on a saltine cracker and sprinkling cranberries on top. That tuned out pretty good. (If you are not a believer, try it.) I realized that I was inventing a variety of cookie – biscuit or digestive to the Brits out there – and heard Cheryl say, “You could try making a chocolate cookie with stuff in it.” I blame Cheryl when I hear these inventive thoughts about cooking. She was not very inventive with ingredients but very inventive with technique.

I launched myself into search for a basic chocolate cookie that I could modify with extra ingredients. Below is the final product:

  • 2 C. all purpose flour
  • 2/3 C. powdered cocoa
  • 1 tsp. baking soda
  • ¼ tsp. salt
  • 1 ½ C. white sugar
  • 1 C. unsalted butter
  • 2 large eggs
  • 2 tsp. vanilla extract
  • 1 C. chocolate morsels (in the yellow bag)
  • 1 C. dried cranberries
  • ½ C. smashed walnuts (crushed in the bag but I smash them further)

I creamed the butter, eggs, vanilla and sugar for a bit. Whisked the flour, salt, soda and cocoa together in a separate bowl dry and then dumped them into my mixer. (I bought a new mixer.) After a bit of mixing I tried out my folding paddle and dumped in the rest of the ingredients.

Bake in a 350F (177C) – medium oven 8 to 10 minutes. This lump of cookie dough makes about 4 dozen if you use a teaspoon from your table wear set to scoop and spoon some on to an UNgreased cookie sheet like I did.

After 8 minutes on the timer, I rotated the cookie sheets in the oven and added 4 minutes to the time. This worked for me because I dislike (maybe hate) chewy soft cookies. There is something special about just the right crunch that makes me smile.

Cheryl! You turned me into a cookie recipe experimenter. It is all your fault. (Dammit.) I love you and you are right. These are good. The tricky part will be spreading them out in my eating habits. I have eaten three while writing this story. They go well with coffee.

I wonder which wine pairs well. Pinot Noir? Chardonnay?

A conundrum.

Carpe Diem.

I will miss her always. I promise to only buy chocolate chips in the yellow bag that say morsels on the bag. Yes, Dear. I love you and miss you on holidays like this. Be safe and well in heaven. (Yep, I teared up when I wrote this.)

Carpe the baking Diem

Thankful

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This time of year I think of the things, people and situations in my life for whom and which I am thankful. The positives outweigh the negatives. Do this for yourself and assess were you are. (I am rarely thankful for negatives.)

People: (Be careful here. It is easy to miss someone.)

  • Anna & Eric & the kiddos
  • David & Melissa & the kiddos
  • Scott & Mavis & the kiddos
  • My sister Joyce
  • Debbie Joy
  • My cousin Bob (also Tom)
  • All the Nancys
  • Sr. Carren
  • Sr. Janet
  • The stock club guys
  • Grief Share support
  • Bea, Bev, Marg, Peggy, John and Peg and the back pew support crew

I stop after this list because the people who have saved me is too great for me to remember and the people who are so very special to me crowd my thoughts. It is remarkable that Cheryl is talking to me in my head; “you forgot… and what about…“ After three rounds of Grief Share group support I can hear her voice with almost perfect clarity. So, I tell her, “okay maybe I shouldn’t try to list everyone. You are right someone I missed will be sad I did not list them and they will think I forgot what they did for me.” She just said, “I am (right)!” I laughed out loud at her.

Things:

  • A place to live
  • Bike paths and a car big enough to put my bike into for travel.
  • No mortgage or loan payments
  • Enough cash to last until the end of me
  • Enough food and the ability to prepare it
  • Pie and coffee cake
  • Blueberry sorbet (I am listing the truly important things now.)
  • Also pecan pie. Mavis sent me her pecan bars recipe with the note that the filling makes THE BEST pecan pie. I have made it twice now and she is ABSOLUTELY CORRECT.

I am thankful that in our society I think I will get by with the means at hand. I am pretty sure I will get to the end of my life before I get to the end of my money. We (Cheryl and I) have always been fiscally frugal.) Tricky to do raising three kids but they all turned out perfect and these days their families are perfect. (I am thankful for them too.) I think the little pile of money Cheryl and I put together will last until the end of me.

Situations:

  • Good health
  • Bike paths and the ability to ride on them
  • Loving family
  • Wonderful friends
  • I have decided and have started the process of complete retirement. I hope to have enough time to pursue my own interests and hobbies without interruption of commitment not of my own decision.
  • Mental relief of making that decision and starting the process.
  • Wearing pajamas until noon

One of the reasons for retirement – maybe one of the best – is wearing pajamas until noon. On baking days and writing days I do this. No one is here except me. I do not concern myself with good looks when no one else is about. Lately there have been fewer writing days. My school schedule has picked up. All of that changes at the end of 2025 and I look forward to it.

Carpe Diem

Memories and Remembrance and Dad

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This writing prompt, “Write Scenes With Your Senses” popped into my email today and it made me think. To quote the email, “When a memory suddenly pops into our head it is often just a fragment: a smile, a gentle touch, the tone of a voice. What anchors those fragments and transforms them into a scene that lives on the page is the body. Our senses are the portal. Writing through sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch grounds a scene in the moment and makes it come alive. Sensory details allow the reader to know not just what happened, but to experience it with their own body. It is said that specificity is the soul of narrative.” I have these sorts of memories, mainly, from early childhood.

The discussion continued with also many “have had the experience of hearing a song from our teen years and having flashes of memory from our high school dance from decades before. Suddenly we see the disco ball shooting shards of light across our friends faces, we smell the perfume or cologne of our dance partner, we feel our feet shuffle on the floor to the rhythm of the music, we taste the flavor of our favorite gum.” Sadly I have not and I have no memory of taste of any thing but Kleespie’s Bakery rye bread. (Also a childhood memory.) This last is what propelled me into baking bread as a hobby in the 1980s.

Reading the first paragraph my brain responded with an early, very early, memory of Cub Scouts and knothole baseball. I did not play knothole baseball as a kid but I was a Cub Scout. I imagine this game was a cub scout activity. My Dad was not a huge sports fan or any kind of sports fan, although he did like bowling when I was small.

The memory that came to me like a video vision is an image that has me on a ball field near Oakley Park near where I lived then. The video is silent in my head. It was late in the afternoon and the pitcher was a 7 or 8 year old like I was. Standing there at the plate he threw 4 loopy-doop pitches in a row and I walked to first base. Three other batters behind me also walked to their bases and I walked home. Not knowing much about baseball, I thought so that is what a home run is. It was a home walk in this case.

I was excited about scoring but no one was there to see it. There are no cheers in the audience. I cannot see an audience. I only see the ball diamond. I do not see any coaches but there must have been some. The scene is starkly quiet.

Later when Dad picked me up I told him about my “home run” and scoring a run. He did not correct my misconception. He merely replied, “I wish I was there to see that.” I could hear his voice as he said that. As we rode home in the car he asked me about other things and he may have taken me to get ice cream but the memory fades and that image is not there. I can hear his voice, “I wish I was there to see that” with a little disappointment in his voice. Dad dearly loved ice cream so that image is obfuscated with other trips to various ice cream parlors near our house.

Today my scenes with my senses are focused on Dad and childhood. The only audio is – I wish I was there to see that.

Dad was in the Navy before I was born. I wish he was still here. Do we ever quit being children?

Carpe Diem.