You Know You’re Getting Older When…

   I know that age is a relative concept, relative on any given day in mind, body and spirit. I used to think that someone was old if they were fifteen years older than I was and someone was young if they were fifteen years younger and really young when they asked if the car had been invented when I was a kid. (Don’t be smart!)

   But as I find myself progressing up the age scale, there are some other signs to remind me that I am not as young as I used to be.

   I don’t race to the door anymore to go into a store. If the door doesn’t open automatically I often find a teenager offering to hold the door for me. Do I look that frail and feeble? But the thought is nice and the offer polite and genuine. (That’s a topic for another column.) What throws me is when they use the word ‘sir’. ”May I help you... sir?” Sir was always relegated to my father or grandfather.

   You may realize that you are getting older when one of your best friends becomes the night light that lights a pathway to the bathroom in the middle of the night. That never used to be a problem. So its one less glass of water before bedtime, but that doesn’t always work either.

   I can remember when the ‘early bird special’ was an early morning sale at Porteous, not dinner served at three o’clock in the afternoon at the local ”all you can eat buffet”. Oh well, the parking lot is too full to stop now anyhow. (Anyone remember Porteous besides me?)

   I still see myself as a product of the 1960’s. What a great generation! The world was a mass of confusion, the music and literature spoke of a counter-culture and rebellion. The Beatles, Mick Jagger’s Rolling Stones and Peter, Paul and Mary were the rage in the music world. It was a generation defined by Woodstock, long hair and drug use. Interesting how some things never seem to change. Is that Mick Jagger being helped to the stage for his next concert?

   The type of the mail being delivered to the house seems to have changed. What used to be advertising for travel and sports equipment has shifted to direct mail prescriptions services and senior citizen assisted living facilities. The highlight of the month is the arrival of the AARP magazine. Who will be on the cover this month? Do I look that old?

   Growing older isn’t all bad though. In fact there are some real pleasures. Grandchildren, sleeping late (after the trip to the bathroom), traveling during the ‘off season’, senior discounts and not wearing a wrist watch are just several of the rewards.

   There is a perspective about life that being older offers. Each generation feels that its problems and issues are new and unique when in reality we have been there before, just with a different twist. It is unfortunate that we can’t learn from our mistakes.

   See how much wiser I am now that I am older?

Looking For a Little Sole

  I have a confession to make. I love shoes. There is no question that I own too many pairs. I would dare say that I may own more shoes than my wife and my daughters, combined.

   I took a very unofficial poll the other day, asking how many pairs of shoes people owned. Few gave me an exact number but most responded by saying “too many.” So what is it with people and shoes?

   The shoe industry, although a dying industry in the U.S., still does a great job of convincing us that we need shoes. Something for every occasion, in multiple colors and now designed to improve our health or at least the shape of our legs and butt.

  First we need an all purpose athletic shoe. Next, a shoe for leisure time and dress. My personal choice here is the boat shoe, even though I do not own a boat. For something a bit more formal, maybe with a blazer, I like the loafer and preference for the Bass Weejun. I can remember a time when you could return the Bass shoe to the factory and get the sole replaced at no charge. Times have changed.

   Not sure of the color to purchase? Then you may want to consider purchasing a cordovan colored pair and a black pair. And to be a bit more stylish, tassels add a nice touch, in cordovan and black of course.

   For the more formal attire, a shoe with laces is a must. Again, something in brown and black may be required.

   Stormy weather often creates a problem, so boots and foul weather footware are an important part of the collections. Here I recommend the LL Bean boot. Not only does it keep your feet dry, but also looks ‘pretty cool’ with a suit and tie. It is hard to give in to tradition, but the LL Bean boot or duck shoe, an offspring, have definitely moved from the woods to the board room with style.

   Sandals are an important part of the shoe collection. It is not so much a statement about foot ware as it is about the change of seasons. A few warm days and we know that summer is on the way.

   From this point on, the purchase of shoes and other foot attire becomes an irrational pleasure. Who can resist shoes on sale or something you already own in several different color. Seriously, how many pairs of tassel loafer does one really need, especially if you can only wear one pair at a time?

   If we were really honest, we would admit that there are probably only several pairs of shoe that we wear on a regular basis and we wear them because they are comfortable.

   My suggestion? Take those shoes that have never been out of the box or are covered with dust and give them to the Salvation Army or Good Will, There are many people who really need a new sole, even if it has a tassel.

Does Spelling Count?

When I waz a kid, I skipt skool a lot and nevr learnd to rite or spell good. (Actually, I learned how to spell the word ‘good’ because it rhymed with shood.) I usually skipt on Mondays and Fridays. On Mondays, the teacher assined the new list of spelling words to studee and on Friday, we had the test. But I was usually abcent. The other kidz made fun of me and the more fun they made, the more I skipt.

Sometimes when I was in skool, the teacher would tell us we had to rite something. The little blond hair girl who sat in front of me would always raise her hand and ask, “Does spelling count?” The other kidz would laff and I would slide down in my chair trying to hide under my desk.

One day someone said to me, “Do not worry if you can not spell well. Someday there will be a machine that will correct all of your spelling mistakes. The machine will be called a computer and it will have spell check.”

“Wow,” I said and decided at that point that I would just drop out and wait for this new machine. It was two hard to learn to spell and the other kidz just made fun of me anyhow.

Time passed and I grew older. That person was right. The computer, with spell check, did correct my spelling errors although I think the machine was sometimes overwhelmed even by my mistakes. But I began to realize that how I spelled, spoke and wrote was as important as how I dressed or combed my hair. I began to understand why the kids made fun of me. They thought I was stupid. But I really wasn’t.

This is not necessarily a true story, although spelling was difficult for me. But the feelings and emotions expressed are felt by many who struggle with poor spelling and are made fun of in school.

Does spelling count? You bet it does! How you speak, write and spell tell just as much about you as what you wear or where you live. Misspellings on a resume, job application or cover letter will not go unnoticed and can mean the difference between getting an interview or not.

The other day I received a letter in the mail. Although it was a form letter and had been mailed to many others including me explaining some changes in an insurance policy, it contained two spelling errors. Does spelling count? What happened to the spell check?

What really concerns me is the shift to texting. Shortened phrases and abbreviations are rapidly taking the place of complete sentences and correct spelling. Can you imagine texting a cover letter for a job application?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not the perfect speller. Learning to spell words correctly is difficult for many. It takes time and practice. No shortcuts here.

Now, if only I had only spent more time in school on Mondays and Fridays, perhaps I would know how to add and subtract too.

Old Shirts are like old friends

  It may not be the same time of the year for everyone. Some people choose Spring or Summer while others choose the Fall or Winter. But at some time during the year we do a bit of housekeeping. Around the end of school is popular. I am not talking about the dusting, vacuuming or washing windows. That can always wait until another day. I am talking about sorting out clothes, getting rid of those things that are old and worn out. But that is not always an easy thing to do..

   I like to frequent LL Bean in Freeport at least several times a year and happened to do so several weeks ago. There were some great sales and markdowns. As I looked over a selection of shirts, of which I needed none, I picked up on the conversation taking place next to me. The husband had selected several new shirts to purchase. His wife reluctantly agreed but only if he would throw some of his older ones away.

   “You need to get rid of the shirts that you don’t wear anymore, the ones that are all faded and worn. Look at the one you're wearing today. Why do you wear that out in public? The cuffs are all frayed and the collar is torn. Who knows what color it was when it was new.”

      “I like this shirt,” was his quick reply. “It is comfortable. You gave it to me for a birthday present when we first started dating. Do you want me to throw it out?”

   I recalled the words of a Mary Chapin Carpenter song.

   “This shirt is old and faded. All the color is washed away. I’ve had it for many damn years now than I can count anyway. I wear it beneath my jacket with the collar turned up high. So old I should replace it, but I’m not about to try.”

   Old clothes may be like an old friends. They are comfortable, fit us just right and often have some great stories to share. We can sometimes even get an extra day of wear before putting them into the washer because they looks so bad. (Not our friends)

   For some folks it’s a shirt, for others, a sweater or pair of old jeans. But as often as we try to replace them, it is sometimes just too difficult to throw the old ones away.

   Back at the store the discussion........

   “The next time you put that shirt in the wash, I am going to throw it in the rag bin!”

   With sadness on his face, the husband put the new shirts back on the shelf. He was sad, not about not buying new shirts, but sad he might have to toss out the old one. To be sure, that shirt would never see the laundry basket again. It will find a special hiding place.

   “This shirt is a grand old relic with a grand old history. I wear it beneath my jacket with the collar turned up high. So old I should replace it, but I am not about to try.”

Changing seasons signal new nighttime sounds

Each season has its own unique and beautiful features; a glistening white snow in winter, colorful flowers of spring, a bright summer sun and the red, yellow and orange leaves of fall. But each season also brings with it its unique sounds, especially at night.

It appears that summer has finally arrived.. Those early warm days in March turned out to be just a tease for a season that eventually arrived, and arrive it did with an over-abundance of raining days and cool nights.

But there is another way to know that summer has arrived. I know its summertime, not only by the flowers in the garden or the need to cut the lawn almost daily, but by the sounds of the nighttime.

As the sun sets and evening settles in, the birds sing their last song for the day. The frogs and toads begin their nightly chorus. It seems that one frog starts and soon others join in to the rhythmic melody. More frogs and toads from a nearby pond, not to be outdone, get into the mix and while it's not the soundtrack from “The Sound of Music,”it is fun to listen as they try to out do each other.

Then, as quickly as it starts, it stops! Silence. Not a single croak. But soon it starts again and lasts well into the night. (Now if I can just keep the neighbor's cat away.)

But there are some nighttime sounds not quite so entertaining. Settling in for a good night's sleep, the peacefulness and calm is interrupted by the buzzing of a pesty mosquito. Left ear? Right ear? I slap my forehead. Missed!

The room is dark. I can't see it, but I sure do hear it. It makes another pass. Has it landed on my hand? Slap. Missed again.

I know! I'll stick my head under the pillow. Maybe it will go away. But now I can't breathe.

From the other side of the bed come the words...” just get up, turn on the light and kill it?”

That would be too easy. This had turned into war now. If I can't outwit a little old mosquito...

The battle continues to rage. I listen. No buzzing. The frogs continue to sing in the background. Without notice the mosquito lands on my nose. Sneak attack. Swat. Missed again. Ouch!

“Turn on the light!!!” This time the suggestion is a bit more forceful.

Even thought it would signal defeat, I turn on the light and within several minutes, the deed is done.

“Keep me awake, will you! Take that.” Splat.

Lights out and peace and quiet returns, except for the frogs as they cheerfully continue their”froggy refrains”. Suddenly there are a series of splashes and I know the neighbor's cat is probably close by.

All of a sudden, out of the darkness come that annoying sound,.. another one?

Yes, summer is truly here again. Sleep well.

Hand Tools

   Every once and awhile I make an attempt to clean up the area around my work bench. There are tools, tape measures, rags and dried spots of glue that missed their mark.

   Now I have an assortment of power tools: drills; sanders, saws, electric screw drivers and more. But scattered among the power tools are the hand tools, those that require no electricity or rechargeable batteries.

   I can not remember the last time I purchased a 'new' hand tool. Most of my tools were either picked up at auctions or passed down from my father and grandfather. If tools could talk, I am sure they would have some interesting stories to tell. Maybe they helped repair the priceless dining room table at grandma’s house or were part of a mad Christmas Eve frenzy to finish putting the toys together.

   Some of the hand tools are true pieces of art. The crafted wooden handles and the delicate etchings on some the saw blade represent fine craftsmanship. . The handle on the crosscut saw is well worn and fits comfortably in my hand. Who knows the number of boards its teeth have cut?

   There is a well used screw driver, bent near the tip. Its handle is smooth to the touch from many turns I am sure. And although well used and a bit battered, the wooden handle remains rich in color from sweat and toil.

   My father must have really liked pliers. In his old tool box were at least a dozen pair ranging in size from very small to a pair that almost requires two hands to hold.. Pliers can be a very handy tool, not only for gripping things but also for scaring little children when a tooth is about to fall out.

   The true measure of a craftsman might rest with the quality of the chisels. From flat and narrow to curved and beveled, each has its own sleeve in the leather case. The ties to hold the case secure are long gone, but the faded initials of my grandfather are still visible.

   Anyone who has a tool bench knows you can’t have just one hammer. Now I know there are new hammers that are used by carpenters that can be quite expensive. But no metal handles here; just claw hammers of different sizes and shapes. There is a very small hammer that I remember as part of the “junk drawer” in my grandmother’s kitchen. I wonder if she ever used it on my grandfather.

   Part of my hammer collection includes a ball peen hammer. To this day, I still am not sure of its purpose, but it is fun to say. All I know is that it works nicely when removing glass from old window frames.

   With my current collection of power tools are my hand tools. But I hope that in fifty years from now my grandchildren will be looking at the old hand tools, wondering what they were used for or who used them. There truly is something fascinating about them.

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but..........

Joshua huddled in the far corner of the playground, trying to avoid the taunts and shouting from the other kids. It wasn't his fault that his skin was a different color or that when he spoke he sounded different from most of the other kids. As the other kids on the playground played, they did not throw sticks or stones, only verbal insults and accusations and when Benny began shouting at him, Joshua broke into tears. Benny was suppose to be his best friend.

This had been school recess for Joshua for a long time. Each day he would try to hide from the others, but usually to no avail. The recess bell would ring and the kids would file back into school. Just another day. But today, Joshua did not go back into school after recess. When the others were inside, he hopped on his broken down bike, the one with the flat tires, and raced down the street.

While teachers and administrators frantically searched the building to find him, an ambulance, siren screeching, raced by the school, stopping at the intersection. Joshua, in attempting to cross the street and not really paying attention, his mind back on the taunting at the playground, had ridden into the path of a pickup truck, surprising the driver. Joshua lay motionless on the pavement.

Lives changed at recess that day. The taunting and bullying had led Joshua to seek flight from what was suppose to be a safe environment. The distraught pickup truck driver would live with the memory of a horrific accident, never knowing why the young boy had ridden out into the street in front of his truck. Joshua's parents would never know what his life was really like at school and for the other kids, life would go on as usual and the bullies would continue to bully. They had won again.

To some degree, this story plays out each day. It is not always on the school playground. It could be at work, home or even at church.

In aisle 3 at the grocery store, the young father shouted angrily at his son, calling him names and telling him he would grow up to be “nothing but a lazy little punk.“ The truth is that's what would happen. He  probably would grow up just like his father.

The silence of the night was broken by the crashing of glass as a rock missiles its way through the plate glass window. The single mother and her children huddle in the darkness of the closet until it was safe. In the middle of the living room, wrapped around the rock was a note with words threatening that 'the next time it would be worse.'

The act of bullying has no boundaries, no socioeconomic status, no religious beliefs or political parties. At some point many of us may have participated in bullying, just for fun, of course. Or was it out of fear?

When people become frightened or scared, they react in unusual ways. When they do not understand or are ignorant, they look for ways to hide their fears by making fun of others..

Sticks and stone may surely break bones, but names (and words) just might kill you.