So today I’m claiming that description for me. Now I understand that it is not necessarily a compliment. While others may calmly recount a frightening experience, I’m tempted to embellish it a little more each time I tell it. Usually for humor’s sake. And when others are responding to a crisis with grace and maturity, I have to resist cracking a joke and saying something completely insensitive or inappropriate. I usually resist, anyway. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. When people gather for a party or social engagement, most adults are content to mingle amid conversations or friendly drinks. But I find myself longing to play with the neglected children in the yard.

Let’s face it, it’s easier to color and draw with crayons than to talk shop, sports or the economy with old souls. Young souls would rather play tricks on others long, long after there tolerance level has crumbled to dust. In fact, I want to do it again just to see the old soul lose it. (I can’t believe I’m voluntarily sharing this.)

Young souls want to splash through puddles while lightning flashes. Young souls want to booby trap their friend’s cars or homes just so they’ll know that they were there. Young souls would rather build sandcastles than walk through a museum of fine art.We’d rather play board games with like-minded young souls instead of enduring an evening at a symphony.

Generally speaking, young souls are probably less dependable, more flighty, fidgety, and may struggle with attention deficit issues. But we’re also probably more fun, inventive, creative and make life a little more interesting. Compared to the average person’s bland offerings, young souls are the mystery spice which add zest and zing to any situation. Did I mention sometimes inappropriately?

Young souls soon learn they have to play along to fit in with acceptable society. So we pretend to be interested in office meetings, social gatherings, and polite conversations. We smile, withhold our snarky remarks, and behave professionally. But all the while we’d rather fire a rubberband at a co-worker, squirt mustard into a crowd, or intentionally tape a long strand of toilet paper to the bottom of our shoe. And we’re probably thinking of the damage we could do with a can of shaving cream.

Help! I’m a young soul trapped in an old man’s body! …It sure makes it challenging to play Doorbell Ditch these days.

In radio, for example, it’s said that listeners need to hear a commercial twelve times before they actually absorb it or hear it enough to respond. So this new lesson finds me firmly associated with the teeming masses. I’ve probably seen this situation a dozen times or more, but only recently is it starting to make sense to me. It’s about the pace of life in relation to one’s age.

Have you noticed that young people tend to be in a hurry and *older* people (okay, people my age — see, I can’t bring myself to say “old people like me”) tend to take their time? This observation is far from scientific but I’m starting to notice my own feelings change about the pace of life.

When I was a young man, I always seemed to be in a hurry. Speeding violations and new “Best Times” of routine travel were badges of honor among friends. As I zipped through most of my youthful days, I remember ridiculing the suggestion to slow down and “smell the roses” as the old people would say. I equated speed with progress and distance with accomplishment. I was wrong on both counts. A faster pace in life does not necessarily reflect wisdom or maturity. In fact, it probably represents a deficit of those.

Part of this struggle is the vigor and vitality of youth versus the slow and measured pace of the “old folks.” I understand the biological aspects and physical limitations of different age groups, but that’s not what this discussion is about. I’m realizing that I enjoy a slower pace at this point in my life. I may still walk fast in the office or race from one appointment to the next, but, when I’m not constrained by a deadline, I prefer to slow down and enjoy the journey. Life is not just destinations, after all.

Now that I’m on the upside of 50 years of age, I don’t drive fast without a compelling reason. I find contentment in traveling in the slower lanes and I feel no egotistical threat when cars fly by me. I actually enjoy taking in the scenery now, something I rarely did in the days of my youth.

I have a crazy theory about this phenomenon and I’ll share it with you here. It may not apply to you. But I think there’s some truth to this insight.

As we age, particularly when we realize we have more days behind us than ahead in this life, a desire surfaces to maximize each day. In youth, we were focused on destinations, accomplishments and conquests. We were driven. But later in life, our focus becomes the path, the scenery, and the relationships along the way.

I genuinely regret the fast pace of my younger days. I missed so much. Today I realize that I’m not promised next year, next week or tomorrow. I have lost the “invincibility” of my youth. I laid down that armor awhile back. But I feel freer to enjoy the ride now. I am more aware of the needs of others. I am more appreciative of the beauty of creation. I am enjoying the moments of my day as much as I enjoy the fewer accomplishments.

If that makes me old, so be it. And if my turn signal is still blinking, it’s because I’m pulling over to smell those roses.

Sure, at 16 we could get a driver’s license. At 18, we could vote and be culturally emancipated from our parents. At 21, we could drink or gamble legally.

We could also create debt, acquire moving violations, receive overdrafts, encounter legal problems, accrue taxes and take on the ordinary responsibilities of adults. And more. Much more.

Marriage, family, kids, illnesses, insurance, jobs, career decisions, car repairs, home buying… and that’s the easy stuff. Life gets more and more complicated as one gets older. It’s probably due to the cumulative weight of issues like: deteriorating health, the traumas and setbacks of life, financial insecurity, isolation, the loss of aging friends and family members, missed opportunities, the natural progression of distanced and expanding families, and looming mortality.

No wonder so many elderly people struggle with being bitter, cynical, angry, resentful, insecure, fearful, anxious, lonely, or depressed.

At some point, we give up. We succumb to the setbacks of this world and we lose hope. We stop acknowledging the grace that’s allowed us to travel this far. We stop appreciating the beauty, wonder, and joy that this life and the next one offers. Our perspectives shift, we feel victimized, we’re worn down by memories of big things and the reality of day-to-day little things. We look inward. We look down. We look at others. We see only disappointment. We don’t look up.

And mortality looms. We’re in denial about the end or we want to hasten it to escape. The end is inevitable, we rationalize.

After all we’ve seen, witnessed and experienced, how can we deny the importance of faith? How can we ignore the blessings we received but did not earn through all those years? How can we miss the inevitability of the eternal just ahead? How can we reject the forgiveness of God and others? How can we turn our back on God’s grace?

It’s as if our stubbornness and pride have dammed it up for so long, the wall now fortified with moments and years of repeated rejection, that not a single drop of grace can get through.

It’s at that moment – no matter our age… that we are old.

And with that keen sense of realization (and possibly regret), we’ll find that eternal youthfulness will forever be beyond our grasp.

Last week I wrote about changing technology and I made a small reference to our growing dependence on it. Perhaps we’re all in denial together about how real that dependence has become.

I glimpsed a little of that truth this weekend when I dropped my smart phone onto a carpeted convention floor. My iPhone 3 was built durably tough and has suffered countless drops on carpet, asphalt, and even concrete. I never invested in a protective case though I’m one of those people that recommend them to others. (This particular personal imperfection is worthy of future self-analysis, wouldn’t you agree?) Still, through all its rugged use and abuse, the iPhone 3 performed beautifully and faithfully for a couple of years.

But then I dropped it Saturday and all. that. changed.

My iPhone went black and so did my world. I lasted nearly 24 hours before giving in and upgrading to a 4. But I made notes (on paper!) during a few of those hours and chronicled my trauma during that dark time in my life. Here’s what I experienced:

1. I was streaming my radio station’s on-air signal at the Expo booth and broadcasting it through my ultra-cool and portable Altec Lansing speaker. Occasionally, I played music from my radio station’s playlist of songs, too. All that ended. No back-up system. I was forced to listen to – ugh – background music piped through the Expo the way elevator music victimizes its trapped audiences.

2. No clock. I have not owned a watch for years, relying completely on my phone for time, appointments, alarms, reminders, notes, etc. Surprisingly, the Expo Hall did not have a posted clock. Presumably, following the tried-and-true practices of casinos, this helps consumers stay longer as they lose track of time? The thorough deadness of my phone didn’t stop me from pulling it out of my pocket every 30 minutes to (try to) check the time. Old habits die hard.

3. I wanted to call home and warn family members that I couldn’t be immediately reached. I was cut off from modern civilization. In a hall full of vendors and attendees, I’d never felt so isolated. So I went to the Expo lobby to use a pay phone, of course. I located two banks of pay phones and all 16 phones had a sticker on the handset indicating they were out of order. Eventually, I located a pay phone half a block away but, even calling collect, the call would not be put through to my home answering machine. When was the last time you saw pay phone? A phone booth? No wonder Superman is no longer part of our culture.

4. Unfamiliar with this particular part of downtown San Diego, I actually had to rely on street signs (instead of my GPS) to find my way back to the freeway. I realized it has been a very long time since I’ve even used city signs for this purpose. As they were old and green signs, they reminded me of those broken banks of pay phones I’d seen earlier.

5. I had to wait hours before I could easily check voicemails from calls missed during the blackout.

6. Driving 200 miles that day (roundtrip), I could not enjoy my audiobooks on my return trip. I was relegated to listening to the radio (horrors!) and scanning for frequencies that I could enjoy. I heard a couple of great new songs and wanted to immediately “Shazam” them so that I could add them to my music library. Nope. No Shazam app.

7. I had to locate a pen and paper to log my hours and mileage for this business trip. I know, this is not a terrible inconvenience, but I was suddenly aware that most of my notes have been digital for the last year.

Okay, I realize that this list just sounds like the whining complaints of a spoiled Westerner. Yes. It is. It sickens me a little, too. But, most unnerving through my 24 hour blackout, I found it oddly unsettling to be unplugged and without contacts, GPS, web access, phone service, texting ability, driving conditions, audiobooks, etc. The entire experience was more emotional than mere inconvenience.

I have read with fascination that some people voluntarily “unplug” and spend days of their vacation disconnected from all things digital. During my brief outage, I have learned that I would find that type of vacation much more stressful than simply staying at work all week.

The river Denial is deep and wide.

Perhaps it’s because I’m in broadcasting today, but I marvel at the ways media storage has changed. Media storage is a boring term which can refer to acquiring photographs, recording sound, and capturing video. Today it means much more, but let’s look back at early storage devices and their impact on our lives.

My earliest memories of a recording device as a kid was when I owned a hand-held reel-to-reel tape recorder. I don’t remember playing with it much. The tape had to be threaded through the small machine and it all seemed fairly fragile. Then along came 8-tracks and cassette players. I owned a portable 8-track player but I couldn’t record with it. It played pre-loaded 8-tracks and contained an album of songs from a single band or artist. I only remember the 8-track I owned of The Association. I have no idea where I got it from but I did wear that tape out. 8-tracks were bulky and very limited in their playing capabilities.  The albums were divided onto 4 different tracks (each were in stereo, so that’s why they were called 8-tracks) and, if you wanted to hear the same song again, you had to wait through 3 other songs. The 8-track player itself looked like something from Fisher Price. It was molded plastic and bright colors. It was embarrassing.

I eventually owned a cassette player (a hand-held model) with an optional Radio Shack microphone at the end of a long cord. If you didn’t use the corded mic, there was a small mic built-in to the black box of the player itself. But I liked using the hand-held microphone. It made me feel like I was a TV reporter. I pretended to interview people for my fictitious newscast (“Film at 11!” the commercials would always say). When I wanted to add songs to my tape collection, I had to go through a difficult process. First, I’d call and request the song from a local radio station. Second, I’d wait (sometimes for hours) near the radio until I heard the song start. Third, I’d hold the microphone right up to my tinny radio speaker and record the song. It wasn’t unusual for my favorite songs to be recorded with the inconsiderate deejay talking over the beginning or ending of my song. Or I’d accidentally record a commercial or station imager, too. But cassette players had a huge advantage over 8-tracks: you could rewind the tape after listening to it. Rewind was such an awesome feature and probably single-handedly led to the demise of the 8-track. Cassette tapes were smaller, more versatile and, believe it or not, they were once cool.

Of course, I had grown up with records. Those black vinyl discs were always a part of my life. Our family owned 78s, 45s, and LPs (long-playing discs which played at 33-1/3 RPMs). 45s typically had a single song on each side while LPs had an entire album from an artist. Record players had a switch allowing you to play the record at the proper speed. We enjoyed playing LPs at 78 RPMs so that the singers would sound like singing chipmunks. And we also could play LPs at slower speeds (I think our stereo had a 16-speed setting) which made our singing chipmunks music album (yes, we owned one…) sound like normal guys singing overemphasized lyrics. But records were rarely played in cars so taped media won out in that battle. Soon, cars had built-in tape players right along with their AM/FM radios. Most cars could play cassette tapes but a few older vehicles still only played 8-tracks.

In early radio broadcasting, we used records and “carts.” Carts were similar to 8-tracks but only had one song or one commercial recorded on them. We couldn’t rewind them, of course, so they had to play all the way through the audio in order to reset or stop at the beginning once again. If we started them accidentally or listened to them to preview the audio, we had to wait til they were reset before we could use them on-air. It made for some stressful times in the radio studios. Eventually, cassette players were added to studios but not used as often.

Then along came CDs (compact discs) and everything began to change again. I remember trying to open my very first CD case in a radio studio and I had the most trouble finding out how it opened. I thought to myself, “If this is the latest and newest thing, they better work on improving how these things open!” But I soon figured it out, learning that those clear hard plastic cases only opened on one side. Soon, all music and recorded media came on CDs and tape was abandoned like an unwanted puppy at the animal shelter (we called it “the pound” back in the day, though I’m not sure where that name came from).

Before CDs were all the rage, video formats were coming on the scene. There were two formats (Beta and VHS) and each required separate players or adapters. VHS won the eventual fight and so we used VHS tapes to record television shows and watch pre-recorded rented movies. Early VHS players were monstrously large (in some cases, larger than the TV) and tuning them required great technical talent, or at least determination. If you didn’t tune them just right, you would record static and white snow instead of your favorite TV show. We even used a VHS recorder to record 12 hours of our daytime radio broadcast, then replay the day’s recording overnight while the station was unattended.

When DVDs arrived on the scene, they proved themselves durable, practical and more cost-effective. Suddenly, homes everywhere were making the switch to DVD movie collections and people couldn’t give away their old VHS tapes. Ten years ago, we would purchase “classic” Disney cartoons on VHS from yard sales and sell them on Ebay for $30 to $40 each. Today, you’ll find them selling for 25-50 cents or, more likely, in the “free” box at garage sales. The same is true for those large tape players. A few years back, I purchased a VHS/DVD machine in hopes that I would convert old family videos to the digital format. It’s a project that I can’t put off much longer.

Phones and their features have morphed dramatically in the last 20 years. So much so, that I couldn’t possibly mention all the technical steps on that cellular staircase. I felt privileged early on to use a “car phone” – a wired handset device connected to a unit so large that it practically required a separate car battery to run it. Early cell phones looked like military com-units used to call in air strikes on a battlefield. They were large, rare and quite a status symbol. Today, cell phones are not only compact, they’re internet-integrated, GPS-capable, offer camera and “video” recorders, and customizable with tens of thousands of individual apps so that each modern cell phone is more powerful than all the computers used by NASA to put the first men on the moon.

It’s astonishing to think about the changes we have seen in such a short time. My grandfather, who was alive when his family moved from Washington to California on a buckboard wagon, eventually witnessed early airplanes, modern appliances, the advent of television, and even space travel. But I believe even he would be surprised at how quickly technology has changed during our lives today.

Finally, I have to acknowledge the internet. How can anyone sum up its interactive and pervasive encroachment to our lives? It is simply our world-community database, communication-centric, social media conduit, which offers everything from e-commerce to “street views” of most of the planet’s industrialized continents. In fact, our dependence on the internet as a society is nothing short of staggering. Just imagine the chaos that would ensue if our world experienced a disruption or “break” in this boundless digital communication. Now that thought is staggering and more than a little alarming.

We were born one week apart and so shared a strange bond.  We grew up good friends and saw each other at holiday gatherings and the occasional family visit.  We played rough together, often alienating other cousins or siblings in the process.  Those cruel acts of “ditching” other kids only strengthened the stunted relationship between us.  We considered each other “best buddies” and one day declared our childhood dreams to buy an old nearby farm and raise our future families together on it.  When, years later, I noticed that farm and orange grove had been demolished in San Jose, it marked a wistful but inevitable aging marker in my path to adulthood.  Though we saw each other infrequently at best, our friendship was not lost or fractured as a result of not seeing each other for long months at a time.  But, apart from our shared birth week and cousin-status, we really had very little in common.

I always considered Bobby to be the wild one.  Ironically, I was the one who went to prison.  But, as I was growing up, Bobby represented the wild life to me.  In my forming view of the world, he personified rebellion.  During the days and hours I spent with him, he would cuss, drink alcohol as a pre-teen, and routinely act out in coarse behavior.  Perhaps his rebellion was an act that he put on for others to see.  He may have been a loving and considerate young man when I wasn’t around.  I always felt that he was just an unhappy kid (like me) who merely “acted out” in a way that made sense to him.  He was one week younger than me but I always looked up to him.  He was bold, brash, and full of confidence.  He was a fighter while I was so passive in my own life.

His home life looked like a scene from the television show Mad Men.  His house, originally a modern ’50s model home, was set in an upscale neighborhood, his parents were successful and social, and his big sister loving and graceful.  But Bobby frequently confided that he desired my life and I secretly desired his.  Perhaps all children experience this mutual envy.  Perhaps only we did.

During our teen years we grew further apart and lost touch.  I saw Bobby again when we were in our thirties.  After 20 years apart, we talked comfortably and honestly with each other at my dad’s funeral.  Actually, we argued.  Bobby was drinking and was well on his way to being drunk.  He was very upset about my father’s passing and was, like my father used to be, a crying drunk.  I was neither tearful nor mournful.  Tragically, I was coldly unaffected by the loss of my father and Bobby called me on it.  He directed his anger at me and demanded to know why I wasn’t upset.  I tried to explain that my dad was closer to him than he was to me, but he was too upset to hear what I was saying.

Bobby was right about that, though.  And I’ve always respected him for confronting me about it then.  Years later, I was deeply affected by my father’s passing but I felt almost nothing at his funeral.  I felt loss, but loss is not an emotion.  I realized that day that Bobby was much more like my dad than I would ever be.  I understood why he was devastated, Bobby loved his uncle.  And my dad would’ve been proud to have Bobby as a son.  Clearly, I had been a disappoint to him in so many ways.  I learned that they saw each other socially over the years.  In some ways, I had lost touch with my father just as I’d lost touch with my cousin.  They probably made good drinking buddies.  Bobby was the type of guy who would’ve been a devoted friend and I know he looked up to my dad.

I spoke with Bobby only one other time since that funeral.  I knew his earlier marriage had ended badly and, like me, he’d faced his share of personal struggles.  When I heard that he’d decided to marry our much-loved cousin, Cindi, I called their home in rural Quihi, Texas to congratulate them both.  Bobby sounded very happy and he seemed to be the same brash and likeable guy I had known all along.  News of the first-cousin marriage was, of course, a little scandalous among extended family but it struck me as Bobby, once again, blazing his own trail.  I genuinely wished them happiness in their new life together and I truly hoped he’d find the peace that seemed so elusive to him.

A year or two later he was dead.  He had been fighting with his wife at a community New Year’s Eve party and alcohol was a factor, too.  I was told he used a shotgun or rifle there in his bedroom to take his life.  The news was jarring.  I felt such sadness for him and his entire family.  I thought back to the grief-stricken Bobby I saw at my dad’s funeral.  My father had been fighting cancer and his path fixed, but this was such an unnecessary tragedy.  Bobby would never have the opportunity to play with his grandchildren or be around to love his children as they aged.  He would not be available to seek the help he desperately needed, to reconcile with loved ones, or find peace in his later years.  Bobby was gone and, for me, it was like losing a brother.  I loved my cousin and I wish I’d known that he was going through such a tough time.

Today I’m remembering you, Bobby.  I still think of you often.

Some players gravitate toward card games while others prefer board games.  Some enjoy slow-paced activities while others thrive from high speed events.  Some are spurred on by the strategic competition while others (can you believe it?) actually prefer the social aspects to the evening.  Our group is kind enough to tolerate all extremes and the evenings are always enjoyable.  As hosts, we try to match the entertainment to the interests of our esteemed guests.  We have also moved the meeting place around to accommodate players in other towns.

Some of the games we tackle include Ticket to Ride (a popular board game from Europe), Rail Baron (a complex cross between Ticket To Ride and Monopoly), and Scotland Yard (a board game which pits one player against all the others).  We also play Nertz (a fast-paced and competitive card game between teams), Take Two! (a Scrabble tile game where creativity and word-smiths are rewarded), Battle of the Sexes (guys against the gals, of course), Pass the Bomb (a word game with a hot potato element to it), Shooters (a dice and casino chip game which may be a cross between Yahtzee and Poker), and Greed! (a dice game with a small element of strategy to it).  We have played countless others and usually schedule several different games for a single evening.

Recently, we enjoyed a Nertz Tournament where teams constantly changed and individuals were awarded for their contribution and lightning-speed playing skills.  Personally, I was disappointed with the tournament’s results and will soon insist on a rematch.

I’ve met people who have told me that they’re not “game people.”  What does that even mean?  I have absolutely no interest in watching most sports (and I’m clearly in the minority in America on this front) so I realize that we are all unique individuals with varying interests.  But I’ve always sensed that non-gamers look down on the rest of us.  I could be wrong about the condescension but that’s how I sometimes perceive it.  Perhaps non-gamers just don’t see the value in competition, believing it all to be trivial or random, anyway.  Or perhaps they believe that competition, in itself, is only valued by those who require a self-esteem boost.

I grew up playing late-night and long-running games with my brother, sister and mother.  That early competition forged me into becoming a highly-competitive and academically-adept adult who learns from my mistakes and sometimes strategically maneuvers in life as one would on a game board.  Benefits aside, my siblings and I loved the competition and just enjoyed each others company.  Each of us have grown up (well, maybe that’s the wrong phrase) and passed on the love for games and competition to our own children.  Now, family gatherings are practically required to include Nertz games, impromptu tournaments, and the introduction of new games to extended family members.  This just seems natural to us.

I seriously hope that, when families gather to remember me at my death, they will not hesitate to hold impromptu Nertz tournaments or poker games in my memory.  What a fitting tribute!

Sure, Game Nights may be perceived by some as a sign of immaturity or merely a colossal waste of time.  But I, for one, am grateful for kindred spirits who relish these Game Nights as much as I do!  You see, we welcome the opportunity to learn valuable life lessons amidst the conversation and competition.  We’ll build in-roads of friendship while we’re at it, too.  To quote a phrase from Ticket To Ride, “I’m laying tracks.”

Audiobooks have had a profound impact on my life lately.  I have enjoyed reading literature and biographies, especially “period pieces” which transport me to another time.  Instead of merely being entertained by the story, I find myself also being fascinated by the mundane details.  Sometimes I feel so immersed in a story or setting, I experience an awkward adjustment period when returning and relating to my present reality.  I catch myself thinking about the way I would react (to a present challenge) if I were still in the far past.

For me, audiobooks may be more immersive than reading and holding a book because they are more sensorial.  Of course, the best narrators bring the written word to life through the use of emotional deliveries, accents and varied personalities. In addition, I can function within my active life while listening to audiobooks.  I drive, surf the web, and walk around performing minor tasks, all while listening to audiobooks.  I become an “active reader,” fooling many of my senses to interpret normal life as something entirely different.  That is, the story overlaps with my present life and subverts my awareness with a fictional existence.  In some cases, the stories are historically accurate and so I find that I am not substituting my daily activities with a fictional alternative, but I am operating in the present with a genuine past-mindset.

Now, there is no reason to schedule a psych evaluation.  At least not yet.  I do not believe that I am living in the past or living someone else’s life, but I occasionally experience an odd disconnect from the present.  It is fleeting but it can be alarming.  Okay, maybe I should be committed.  But please leave my earbuds in.

What I’m trying to convey is that an audiobook can be highly entertaining and experiential.  I gravitate toward stories about life in the past because they trigger memories from my own past, many long forgotten.  I do worry, from time to time, that my real memories may be mistakenly replaced or altered to include fictional experiences.  But, as we age, all of us must face that dark red curtain.  A distant memory unfolds, the curtain pulled back, the stage brightly lit with anticipation and then recognition, and we’re left wondering if the scene is a genuine recollection or merely a staged and fractured memory.

There may come a time when we cannot discern between real and false memories but, by then, we’ll probably welcome any memories – even those theatrical or improbable.  The only one truly affected will be the individual.  As doubt rears its ugly head, we’ll wrestle our denial into submission or we’ll become suspicious of all of our memories of life.  What a terrible fate if the latter wins the fight.

But, for now, I am enjoying the stories.  I find them much more immersive than a “3D” movie, and I can avoid the nausea, too.  And, honestly, I relish those little disconnects, when I am suddenly aware of being in the present instead of being in a distant land or past.  For a sci-fi geek, it’s the equivalent of being yanked through a worm hole backwards.  And it’s an exhilarating experience!

Writing breaks occur for many reasons and I went on hiatus for several reasons this time around.  For the last year, I was at a lousy job and very unhappy.  That attitude isn’t conducive to writing unless it’s in the form of anger-filled retribution and I didn’t want to go there.  I was eventually let go from that toxic place and hired by a different company within the same week.  This is simply a reflection of God’s grace and not my ability to land a new job.

For the last few months I’ve been settling in to the routine at the new job and I’m genuinely loving it!  I have mixed feelings (even some guilt) about celebrating because many of my friends have been out of work for a very long time and they’re still struggling to find a job.  Hopefully, I have been an encouragement to them and sensitive to the issues surrounding them at this time.  I pray that my friends will find the best place to be and that they’ll recognize God’s hand in their journey.

During this last month I’ve been on a writing project about my early life.  I have thoroughly enjoyed the challenge and the insights I’ve discovered along the way.  Sometimes the subject matter was painful but I realized this was a therapeutic way for me to “unpack” a lot of stored memories.  And it has been tremendously helpful to me.  Best of all, unpacking old memories leads to other and surprisingly forgotten memories of good experiences, as well.

It began when a friend of mine took a “filler” Film class at Biola University.  He wasn’t expecting much but found that it became one of his favorite classes.  I was curious about the structure and asked if I could follow along with the class syllabus just for fun.  It turned out to be a terrific idea and both of us spent an hour or so each week discussing our enjoyment of the class and the discussion topics.

Professor Lisa Swain offered a side-by-side critique of episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show against Season One of the AMC series Mad Men.  One was made in the 1960s and dealt with issues of family, marriage, work, media, advertising, parenting, and gender roles.  The other is a present-day look back at the same issues in the 1960s with all the polish and propaganda stripped out.  It makes for a fascinating contrast and a powerful teaching tool.

Through a strange course of events, I was invited to come speak with the class in a Q&A setting.  My extensive background in media, fondness for 1960s television, fascination with our changing culture, and my own experiences growing up during those years led Lisa to believe that I could offer some insight to their discussions.  I’m not sure that I offered much, but I had a great time visiting with the class and examining the characters and issues presented in Mad Men.

Sometime soon, I’ll translate all my notes into a coherent narrative for a future blog entry.  Until then, I wish to again express my thanks to Lisa Swain and her terrific class for making me feel so welcome.  I joked with friends that I felt like a dinosaur being pulled out of a dusty closet to be examined by archeology students.  “Yes, he really lived during those years so long ago.”  But it was great fun and I hope I’ll be able to contribute again in the future.

The 1960s were quite a different era than what we experience in our culture today.  The space race, the Cold War, the rise of counter-culture, and the introduction of television were instrumental in changing the world at that time.  Taboos shifted, technology altered the landscape of our lives, and gender roles were dramatically rewritten in the following decades.  For students in their 20s today, discussing life in the 1960s is a surreal experience.  For me, it’s just ancient history.  But it’s a history that, hopefully, can be personalized for young people today.

I will cherish the memory of the looks on their faces as I talked about the past.  For example, I told them about the day the first astronauts landed on the moon.  As a 10-year-old boy, I ran outside and looked up at the moon and felt such pride that Americans were up there at that same moment.  It was a national pride that we felt and it replaced the national humiliation we experienced (or believed) after the success of Russia’s Sputnik program.  The future was exciting, filled with unlimited challenges and new frontiers.

The United States enjoyed amazing advances in technology and media in the years that followed but families experienced disintegration and the culture declined rapidly.  I believe we had a type of national arrogance which led to a great fall.  We had, after all, embraced values but didn’t practice them, believed in social truths that turned out to be lies, and resisted changing our inappropriate views of women and race.  We also became consumed with consumerism and welcomed personal and national debt.  The foundations of our society shifted and the pillars of our beliefs crumbled.  Our sense of community, so keen in the 1950s and 1960s, was destroyed by divorce, denial, and a real fear of crime and corruption.

But, enough about the past for now, I just wanted to say how good it feels to return to this blog.  I have never been busier or more energized by an exciting future.  I hope to write about these and other issues in the months ahead.

I was standing on our porch and I could hear music coming from the radio in my mom’s kitchen.  I listened for awhile – really listened – to the deejay introducing the songs.  As the music played from the old AM transistor radio, I realized that my earlier thoughts about radio were wrong.  I don’t know why this particular memory was so impactful to me, but I can recall much about that afternoon as I listened to the music on the radio.  It’s like several senses were frozen and attached to my revelation about radio.

First, I realized – for the first time – that the bands playing the music were not actually inside the radio on our kitchen fridge.  Before that moment, I was under the impression that there were tiny people and musicians somehow magically inside the little ugly box.  Second, I realized that they were in a radio station somewhere… broadcasting the signal to little boxes all over town.  This was a powerful revelation and marked, for me at the time anyway, the understanding that I was crossing a line from child-like thinking to a mature way of thinking and understanding complex things.  It was the first time I’d ever consciously thought about my thinking process and pondered it, so maybe that’s why that afternoon made such an impression on me.

That said, I still didn’t get it right!  I now believed that all these singers and bands were down at the radio station, each waiting their turn to sing the songs we were listening to through the radio.  I marveled at how difficult it must be for the bands to drag their guitars and drums in and out of the studio so fast before the next band was able to set up and start playing (maybe that’s why the commercial breaks seemed so long?).  I thought that maybe the deejay was there to fill time in case the bands weren’t ready to play.  At this stage of my life, I don’t think I was aware of “media storage” like 45s, LPs or tape.  I recall using records, reel-to-reel personal tape recorders and 8-tracks a few years later but, at this time, I had no concept of how the deejay could arrange for songs to be played at the station.  I could only imagine the chaos down at the radio station!

Eventually, I figured it out, of course.  But that afternoon’s thought-process experience stuck in my brain.

After that, radio was usually something on in the background or music in the car as you rode along.  I got interested in radio a few years later once I started to enjoy particular songs and styles of music.

A few years later I acquired my first tape recorder so I tried to record my favorite songs off the radio. This was, of course, long before iTunes and you had to drive to the music store and purchase the record (a 33-1/3 LP or a 45) if you wanted to add the song into your personal collection. I held the Radio Shack-style mini-microphone near the speaker of the AM radio.  Imagine the quality of those recordings!  I also remember being frustrated by the deejay talking over the intro or closing of the song. After all, you had to call in and request the song, then wait sometimes a couple of hours for them to finally play it!

When I was in junior high, I stumbled across a radio station which played old comedy bits on Saturday mornings.  I would set my alarm and wake up early, recording the hilarious comedy routines on my portable cassette tape player.  I had seen comedy routines on television but I had no idea comedy albums were released by comedians and comedy teams.  Discovering this fun weekly morning show widened my comedic horizons and I used to commit the routines to memory.

In my early teens I listened to KLOK (the same AM station that played the comedy bits) in San Jose, California.  They played current music reIeases in an AC format.  During the late 60s and early 70s, this means it was mellow pop.  I didn’t even know other alternatives were available.  I can still remember being so impressed that I could call-in and actually speak with the deejays!  It was like speaking directly to a celebrity or a “star.” By the time I was in high school, I still listened to KLOK even though most of my friends had switched to the new FM radio band to listen to rock music.  (It wasn’t until the late 70s that FM radio actually overtook AM stations.)  I was fiercely loyal and always kept KLOK on in my first car, an old blue station wagon that my dad had purchased for $300.  Of course, it didn’t have a cassette or CD player.  I’m not even sure it had FM radio in it.  But I remember the tinny and mono AM radio sounds.

Ronni Richards hosted the morning show and Ray Hasha (with a deep booming voice) delivered the news.  Once in awhile, Ronni would work a Saturday morning shift and I’d frequently call her to say hi and make a song request.  She was like a celebrity to me and I was flattered when she told me I had a great voice for radio.  Occasionally, I’d get my nerve up and drive down to the radio station and visit her on Saturdays.  She would buzz me in and ask me to cue up her 45s for the next song to play.  We’d visit and she’d tell me about her two dogs and the lake near her house.  I probably had a huge crush on her but she was always kind and encouraging to me.  She introduced me to Ray Hasha and I was star-struck by both of them.  I kept in touch with Ronni for a few years after those days.

Every now and then, she’d call my home during her morning shift and ask me to read something or portray a fanatic listener who had just called in.  I felt like I was part of the on-air team who worked “behind the curtain” to make radio sound real to the rest of the listeners.

We lost touch after awhile and I never had the chance to tell her that I ended up in radio, too.  I’ve been on-the-air for nearly 25 years now and I wish I could thank her for influencing me in such a profound and wonderful way.

I was talking with a friend about my blog and I explained that I prefer to write honestly about my life and perspective. He asked me pointedly, “Isn’t that risky?”

I’ve been pondering that question for some time now. I understand what he meant. Information on the web is easily accessible and there are many who have felt the pinch of embarrassment from revealing too much. We’re all familiar with stories of people who have posted pics of themselves at drunken parties, made career-damaging comments about their boss on Facebook, or released a video clip that will forever reside somewhere online. Once data hits the web, it is – for all practical purposes – never able to be completely deleted.

Young people today should be vigilant about what they post and reveal. Many employers find it easy to research the personal lives of employees or job candidates online. As technology advances and further permeates our lives, one wonders whether anyone will be able to withstand the digital scrutiny for the political careers of the future.

But I don’t think that’s what my friend was worried about. I think he believes that it’s risky to be so completely honest with others (and strangers). On this point I would have to disagree. Oh, it’s risky, alright. But I’d rather deal with the consequences from my honesty than those from any deception. Could my writings be used against me? Of course. Will they? Probably not. But maybe this is the folly I am presently blind to.

So why take the chance at all? Over the last 10 months, I’ve waffled a little about my intended audience but I’ve had a clear motive in my mind. I write, partly for myself, as a way to express creatively about issues that I find intriguing, and I write for my family. Someday, my children or my children’s children will stumble upon these articles. It is not a desire to be remembered that spurs me on, but a desire to be understood. If no one ever reads these articles, I like deluding myself to believe that I am making a contribution.

I recognize that I do not have access to journals, diaries or blogs written by my own parents or grandparents, but I would find them fascinating today. That hasn’t always been the case but something about my own aging and mortality has sparked a curiosity that never existed before. So I’m motivated to write about the things that I’d like to read about my ancestors: their views on certain issues, their unique experiences, and some of the incidents that marked their lives. I’d also be curious about some of the daily aspects of their lives that they would surely consider mundane. If I may be a little grandiose, I’m writing for “future generations” and for myself. Perhaps an historian will discover these one day and it will help him or her better understand the society we live in today. Or perhaps it’ll confirm a certain mental illness ran in my family line.

False modesty aside, I wish I could say that I make no attempt to conceal my own folly but that’s just untrue. I take baby steps when exposing my stupidity. That way, I can control what the readers think of me. I’m reminded of a comment Pastor Haddon Robinson told his congregation, “If you knew what thoughts go through my mind, you wouldn’t listen to a word I say.”

So I will acknowledge my shortcomings but I may not agree that I’m a complete buffoon. Of course, the latter is much closer to the truth. But we’ll get there… in time.

I’ll also acknowledge that I’m a little vain about wanting more hits, greater debate on issues I raise and, of course, more compliments and comments on my writings. But I don’t cater this blog to that end. If the replies come, so be it. Most important to me is that I leave something before I’m gone. Call it a legacy or call it the jumbled ramblings of a crazy man. It’s not a manifesto and I find no pleasure in revealing my shortcomings here. But I sincerely hope that my honesty will help someone else live better. At the very least, they may avoid the mistakes that I’ve already made.

Is that a risk worth taking? Absolutely.

I didn’t grow up in the most stable environment and the constant moves, while fun and challenging in their own way, undermined my ability to settle down. Stability seemed elusive, but maybe it was just a chemical imbalance in my own mind. Whether chemical, spiritual, or circumstantial, the end result was the same. Bouncing from school to school, I just never had the opportunity to put down roots. I felt like a visitor and an outsider walking through most of the schools I attended.

It started in junior high when, for the first time in my life, I saw the possibility of spending the next three years at the same school. Up until this point, I had never spent more than two years at the same school and I was eager to make friends and earn some camaraderie that I knew I was missing. But, for reasons I’ve never really understood, my parents sent my siblings and me to a private Catholic school in Los Gatos (and we’re not even Catholic). The 8th grade class of 25 students at St. Mary’s had spent nearly every year together since kindergarten. Only a couple of us had joined the “graduating class” in progress and we were, as expected, treated as lepers. So I spent my 8th grade school year as a religious, academic, and relational outsider.

The high school years were particularly difficult for me. My parents had abandoned the private school concept and, besides, I was eager to move on to high school. I spent the first year at Oak Grove High School, my 9th grade feeling appropriately disorienting for an underclassman. I went from the Vatican to the vulgar: from school uniforms and strict nuns to the stark reality of public school. Like cosmic clockwork, I learned midway through that year that I would be attending a different school the next year. So I was resigned, once again, to starting over at a new school, learning a new school layout with new teachers’ names and the challenge of making new friends.

During my sophomore year, I rode the bus to a distant and foreign land. Well, it was about 10 miles away. It was humiliating enough to ride a bus, which, for me, felt like a return to junior high school. But the neighborhood teens from middle class families in my area were now being shipped to the upper-middle class area known as Almaden Valley. Leland High School was rich in its environment with state-of-the-art equipment, a warm and inviting quad area with a huge oak tree, and an atmosphere of culture that was completely foreign to me.

It was surreal. And I sure couldn’t relate to the 16-year-olds at Leland who showed off their new sports cars their parents gave them for their birthday. We were called “the kids from the other side of the tracks.” Actually, we were on the other side of the mountain from Almaden Valley, and I thought that seemed appropriately further than just across the tracks. But, class issues aside, I found the “music kids” there to be immensely talented, artistic, darkly hilarious, and they were only snobby to the known snobs at the school. They embraced me as part of their family. I enjoyed that year tremendously and looked forward to two more years at Leland. My future looked bright.

I returned happy and grateful for my junior year and finally felt like I was part of a class. I had cultivated the beginning of some great friendships and, for the first time, even considered dating some girls who had expressed interest in me. I was involved in a thriving music program there, active in the drama department, and loved the rest of my studies. And then the “Big Announcement” came. Midway through my junior year, it was declared that half of the juniors would be seniors at a brand new school being built to accommodate San Jose’s growing population. I was selected to go (based again on district lines re-drawn by caring city officials and wise school planners). This time, it felt like I was being ripped from the only remaining stable thing in my life.

My family had already disintegrated earlier that same year. My parents split up, we moved to a rental house in a low-rent area and my brother and sister planned to go to a different school the next year, too. I worked odd jobs for as many hours as I could for spending money and, mostly, to be away from the house. When a friend from Leland asked if I would share an apartment with him (at age 16 or 17), I quickly signed on. We chose a “luxury” apartment (2 bedroom/2 bath) in beautiful Campbell and agreed to split the rent of $220 per month.

When September rolled around, I made my way to Gunderson High School. Built on land that was once produce fields and orchards behind the Oakridge Mall, the area was clear cut and bare so that the grey monolith of its main building stood cold and alone.  I approached with reluctance and resignation.  A grey mist hung in the air as I drove up, a ghostly apparition from when the fields were thriving with strawberries and orange trees.  It was such a stark visual contrast to the warmth and beauty I associated with Leland’s campus.

The first few weeks were a major disappointment. The landscaping of the school grounds was not finished or still very young when the school opened, so the setting looked as bleak as a permanent winter. The architecture emphasized large grey slabs for walls, bare concrete walkways and a glassed-in designated smoking area for students. It reminded me of a newly constructed airport in the middle of strip-mined land. A few of the seniors had hung a couple of banners with the newly selected school colors, but school spirit is tough to promote in Year One. Overall, it was depressing to be at this impersonal school and I started thinking about abandoning my goal to graduate. If this was their best foot forward, how much more depressing would a graduation ceremony be? My grades were okay but I had just lost interest in going the distance. I felt no connection, no motivation and saw no advantage to sticking around. I missed my friends at Leland and I didn’t have a single friend at the new school.

Most discouraging for me was the music program. Leland had 60 or more students in the choir, another 35 students in its Madrigal group (which required auditions to get in), and we even had small ensemble groups which sang at outside events. These were paid gigs and we felt like “real” musicians. I sang in a barbershop quartet that performed at Kiwanis and Lions’ Clubs. Our four guys auditioned to perform at the Great America theme park scheduled to open in the area the following year. And I was in a mixed quintet singing complex Renaissance pieces as we strolled through local Christmas villages and centers. I loved singing with those talented students. Leland’s music department was legendary within the district.

By contrast, Gunderson’s music program was in its infancy. The entire choir consisted of about 15 students. The teacher acknowledged that the department would one day be great, but that it would probably struggle for the first year or two. I made it halfway through my senior year and finally gave up and took the GED exit exam. It was easy and it allowed me to walk away from a discouraging senior year. I was probably bitter, too. This should have been a great year for me, a fun time to celebrate and plan for the future. I should’ve gone on immediately to college but I was content with my growing paycheck from my now full-time job. Carl’s Jr. enticed me with more managerial duties, more money and more hours. So I worked 60-70 hours per week and stayed to myself in my spare time. I was an assistant manager at two stores at the same time, then later promoted to be the youngest store manager in the state. Two years later, I walked away and never went back.

So many things were working against me and I was probably my own worst enemy by this point. I wasn’t ready for independence but seized it thinking it was a fast track to being a “grown-up.” I wasn’t taught about the value of a higher education so I didn’t seek it. I thought the goal in life was to work and make lots of money. At the time, I knew I was making more money than my father’s level of income so I was content in this accomplishment. I foolishly believed that I had reached success and yet I wasn’t even ready for life.

So I screwed up my life, Phase One completed. It’s taken me this long to realize that my foolish choices back then were just the beginning in a series of decisions to “walk away.” Deep down I knew I was taking the path of least resistance. I’m embarrassed to admit that I saw the pattern but I just didn’t know its origins. It’s too bad I can’t use the “Return To Go” Monopoly card in my life.

I find it easy to live in the present and near-future. I plan my life with scheduled events and jam-pack them into my personal calendar. Once in awhile, unscheduled events pop-up (or emergencies) and they get squeezed in, too. When I compare my schedule to the lives of others, I conclude they’re incredibly lazy or they must be suffering major boredom. So I’m left wondering why I prefer this frenetic lifestyle. Is my ADHD worsening or simply out of control? I know that I don’t rest as much as I used to. But that fact doesn’t bother me like it used to, either. I simply convince myself that I’m burning bright while I can and maximizing the enjoyment of life.

Take this weekend, for instance. I work ’til 5 on Friday and then I’ll slog through the Friday freeways (accompanied by my audiobook, of course). I’ll play in a No-Limit Texas Hold ’Em Poker “Tax Day Tournament” at 7pm with 39 other friends in Dana Point. It’s a “deep stack” style tourney so we hope to conclude by 4:30am. Then I’ll attend the 8am men’s breakfast at our church. Then I’ll work in the K-Wave radio station booth at a carnival in San Clemente for 7-8 hours through the afternoon and evening. I’ll entertain families with illusions and give out fun things from the radio station. Sunday morning I’ll make it to church at Terra Nova in Lake Forest, then I’ll work the afternoon and evening again at the carnival for the radio station. This is a typical chock-full weekend for me.

Usually, by the time Mondays roll around, I’m ready for a restful couple of days at work and quiet evenings at home. Then by Tuesday or Wednesday evening, I start filling up my schedule again and don’t plan to see “daylight” until the following Monday. Is this normal for you? It seems to be the routine I’ve chosen.

But future planning is as foreign to me as, say, Farsi. Oh, I understand the concept, the benefits to planning ahead, the wisdom of such things, but I also find the thought discouraging. I won’t defend my poor and detailed reasoning about this line of thinking, I acknowledge that it is inferior to real planners. But I will also acknowledge the growing dread about an extended life in this world. Politically, socially, economically, and relationally, a long life translates into a myriad of challenges. Few of them are considered pleasant. So I find it easier to avoid thinking about the future altogether. Well, that’s not entirely true.

I’m okay with the future-future. I have no difficulty thinking about the concept of eternity. That life could go on and on indefinitely, without interruption or end is a truth I accept by faith. Further, I believe that my future there will involve reunions, relationships, creativity, worship, travel and unspeakable joy. My DNA-imbued exploration sense is wound tight just anticipating the adventures ahead. Please understand that I don’t view eternity as a reward, though some insist on seeing it that way. A reward implies a prize earned. And I will be the first to acknowledge that I do not deserve such a fantastic future existence. Once again, my faith assures me that this amazing future is a gift, paid for by another, and guaranteed by the highest authority. Since it is completely undeserved, I am thrilled by the invitation extended to me. At the end of this earthly life, I plan to step into that eternity with hope, excitement and eagerness.

But that narrow future between near-future and far-future holds little appeal to me. For some, this period of existence ends up being a very short window of time. For others, it may last 30-40 years or more. Some plan to fish, golf, cruise or settle down to some peaceful retirement community. Not me. I don’t have any plans to retire or spend my “golden years” seeking my own pleasures or pursuits. I hope that I’ll have the opportunity to continue to impact the lives of others during those days (or years). I plan to work, volunteer, and remain active as long as I can. But I mostly hope that I will not be a burden to loved ones.

Medical ailments, a fading mind, a feeble life… that is not the “mid-future” I want. But we are not assured of mental and physical fitness right up until our deaths. Some will suffer painful and difficult extended years that serve to drain the joy and financial means of caring family members. Others are fortunate to “go quickly” once diagnosed with an illness or debilitating condition. If so blessed, they may enjoy a mercy granted which ushers the individual from a grave situation to a glorious one. Still others exit this life peacefully. But we all must pass through that portal.

It may happen in 40 years or 40 minutes. I may enjoy a long life or a shortened one. I suspect that death will interrupt my plans, no matter how much I adjust my schedule. Most of my plans don’t amount to much, anyway.

In light of all those options, I hope that I am blessed with a narrow mid-future. I’m eager to get on with adventurous living in an eternity planned and prepared by someone far more capable than I.

That considerable effort, according to medical experts, will likely contribute to a healthier mind. “Engaging in cognitively stimulating activities reduces cognitive decline as we age.” Puzzles like sudoku (which utilize math skills), boggle and crosswords are terrific brain stimulation. A few companies are now offering lively video games which have proven effective for our aging population. My brain is so under-utilized, I have to lie down and take a nap if I spend more than 30 minutes playing Freecell.

Recalling distant memories is a small but practical way to restore old connections in our brains. If we work at it periodically, we find our memories becoming sharper about the past instead of foggier. The seemingly insignificant details we recall trigger or activate long-dormant connections to other “forgotten” memories and we end up recalling more. These types of memories create chains which link from thought to thought. They are an effective way to dust off long forgotten days of yore (though I don’t remember visiting Yore). I like to think of it as opening a photo album I haven’t viewed in years.

I’m not suggesting that you spend hours daydreaming about your youth. That wouldn’t be healthy or productive. But an occasional stroll down Memory Lane may be the best way to “exercise” your memory synapses and recall abilities. Some Lanes can be a little long and my short-attention span tires easily. So I prefer flipping through the Memory Rolodex. I intentionally (and randomly) visualize an incident from my past then focus intently on the memories associated with that day, then depart just as fast and drop into another random day of my youth. I acknowledge that they’re not ideal for brain work-outs, but they’re a lot more interesting to me.

I like to start by recalling good times and fun experiences. Between my toddler and teenage years, I lived in seven different residences and attended ten different schools. You probably won’t believe this, but I was not kicked out of any of those schools. We moved around a lot and West Coast school district lines changed like East Coast seasons.

I used to say that I envied people who spent all their years in the same house, but I secretly enjoyed my nomadic lifestyle. I became more extroverted and assured of myself because I was always the new kid, meeting and dealing with strangers. And I benefited from other nomadic experiences, too. Every new neighborhood required extensive exploration and every move was a mini-lifetime to me. I sought adventure everywhere I went and always seemed to find it.

Today, it makes tracking those old memories a lot easier. Once I associate memories with a particular school I was attending, I know instantly what grade I was in and how old I was at the time. Even way back then, God knew my brain would benefit from a chronologically-categorized childhood!

Here’s a sampling from my Memory Rolodex:

I’m racing on my bike through an almond orchard in San Jose. I was 9 years old at the time and this was one of my favorite places to explore. The orchard sat behind a steepled Presbyterian church on Dent Avenue. It had a large green lawn out front and some small buildings and an old farm behind it. I remember visiting an outdoor patio in the back with white lattice work across the top. It offered a little shade but was primarily serving as a trestle. Thick vines with small bundles of grapes grew up the sides of the walls then smaller vines stretched out across the lattice. I remember the taste of the sour green grapes. One afternoon, I rode my bike between the almond trees and I inhaled or swallowed one of those large white moths fluttering by. I gagged and choked for a couple of minutes. After that, I never rode my bike again with my mouth hanging open.

I’m walking down a steep street in front of our house, the colors of the homes muted by the grey (probably foggy) skies. Any outdoor memories of San Francisco always seem to include cold temperatures and windy conditions. I was bundled up in oversize jackets as if braced for a harsh winter. Whether I was walking to kindergarten, visiting the zoo in Golden Gate Park, flying a kite on a grassy hillside, or just outside playing in the street, it was always windy and cold. Will Rogers once said “The coldest winter” he ever spent “was a summer in San Francisco.” That fits my memory perfectly.

I’m watching an outdoor puppet show at Happy Hollow in old San Jose. Though we visited this children’s theme park a few times, I remember so little of the rest of the park. Oh, they had a shuttle train ride with the lead vehicle in the shape of a dragon and they had a sunken maze garden with walls painted like playing cards (Mmmm, I wonder if that prompted my aversion to card playing). I remember the strong smell of tan bark in the maze as kids kicked up dust running through it. But I remember the puppet shows with great affection. They were silly with corny jokes but I loved the idea of entertaining children and being entertained. An adult would always walk out and interact with a puppet before the actual show would start. That was my favorite part. I secretly hoped that I could one day host the show and entertain audiences so easily.

I’m walking through the shaded trails of Frontier Village in San Jose. The old children’s amusement park was waning in popularity, attendance was poor and it wasn’t long before it closed for good. But before it did, we owned that place. No, not literally. We had season passes once or twice and we spent hundreds of hours there. The park only had a few rides but we didn’t care. There were large eucalyptus trees everywhere, an old western town, and ponds and lakes sprinkled throughout. It was like visiting a wild preserve that time couldn’t touch. The park was bordered by a tall fort-like wall which seemed to magically keep the present day away. As kids, we climbed up fort towers, watched gunfighters duel on the dusty main street, and we paddled in real Indian canoes! All the while, music of old Western TV shows and movies played throughout the park through tinny speakers. It was the most comforting sound to me and it reminded me I was in one of my favorite places.

Dust off your Memory Rolodex and give it a spin. Who knows where you’ll land? One day, you’ll have more blank cards in there than memories. Not that you’ll mind, but what a tragedy. Revisit some fun days once more and share them with others. I hope that my blog entries will increase as more and more of my old memory cards fade to white and disappear completely.

I don’t consider myself a long-commuter even though I live and drive in Southern California. My brother lives near Sacramento and sometimes must drive 2-3 hours each way to his job sites, so my 30-60 minute trips seem relatively painless by comparison. And I’m fortunate that I travel through very few areas of bumper-to-bumper traffic. In fact, the bulk of the traffic flow seems to ebb the opposite direction for me each way, and I am grateful that the cars are at least moving on my side of the highway divider. The poor souls driving the opposite direction easily spend twice the commute time in their vehicles than I do.

My own driving works out to 300 miles per week for my job and I occasionally drive long distances to poker tournaments out of the area. I used to spend the time listening to talk radio or my eclectic collection of music on my iPhone. Where else could you find such musical diversity that includes Celtic music, jazz, Latino, the Black Eyed Peas, Andrea Bocelli, Coldplay, old TV Show themes, Pink, Level 42, Stevie Wonder, and over a dozen movie soundtracks? But audio books have had a strange and unexpected effect on me… I now actually look forward to commuting!

I have found audio books to be entertaining, informative and enthralling. I have enjoyed fiction and non-fiction alike. For a time, I was buying them at used bookstores but they are a pricey luxury to purchase. When I discovered the amazingly large selection of audio books at local libraries, I was overjoyed! A whole new world opened up for me and I have been exploring it ever since. Suddenly, my previously down-time driving is now up-time and exciting!

A few of my favorite fiction writers are James Lee Burke, Dean Koontz, Vince Flynn, and Robert Crais. But, aside from the author, the real star is the narrator. A great narrator can make an average story exceptional. And the opposite is true, too. These unsung heroes of audio books must display greater creative talent than most actors attempt in a single television or movie role. A great storyteller will display an amazing depth of character, offer diverse characterizations of an entire cast, utilize convincing accents and show sensitivity to the dramatic material. Believe me, this is no small task. I’ve been using my voice in broadcasting for over 20 years and I wouldn’t want to attempt it!

I find myself now looking for the narrator’s name as often as I am looking for a favorite author or an intriguing story. George Guidall is recognized as one of the best and he’s narrated nearly 1,000 books. John Bedford Lloyd has an unassuming quality about him and that makes him great at what he does. But my favorite thus far is Will Patton. And I would be genuinely surprised if I discovered a better narrator out there.

Patton enriches the written word more than anyone I’ve ever heard. In James Lee Burkes’ stories, he brings Dave Robicheaux and his New Iberia, Louisiana friends to life in the most amazing and satisfying ways. Every character, every accent, every intonation is filled with such graceful nuance. Listening to him communicate a story is like listening to a world class jazz player intone every emotion through his musical instruments. Each spoken paragraph becomes its own work of art.

Technological improvements make this experience even easier. You can use an iPhone, as I do, or rely on a small iPod or mp3 player. You can check out books on CD or mini-digital players with pre-loaded audio books from the library. You can even download audio books from many library websites freely and conveniently.

I know there are bound to be those who believe that audio books constitute a dangerous distraction to drivers on the freeway. But I would argue that audio books have made me a better driver. I find that, particularly with engrossing stories or narratives, I drive slower to spend more time in my audio book. I no longer mind the pace of crawling traffic and I’m not disturbed by people cutting me off. It just means that I’ll be able to spend more time in these imaginative stories while uber-talented narrators perform for an audience of one: me.

It’s just a matter of time before I become that ol’ timer in the slow lane obliviously driving with his left turn signal blinking. When you pass me at 70 mph, you might yell or gesture at me. But I won’t care. I’ll have my earbuds in and I’ll be seated in the theater of the mind.

Have you ever had the experience of being in a tall tower and feeling strong winds rock the structure back and forth? I first learned about this phenomenon as a teenager when I visited the Magic Mountain theme park in Southern California. A group of us took the elevator to the top of their 38-story Sky Tower as coastal winds gusted over the hillside. I remember thinking the experience was going to be one of the most boring rides in the park but, for me, it turned out to be the most terrifying.

When we got to the top viewing deck, I distinctly remember the feeling of a rocking sensation. I was convinced I could see the tower swaying slightly beneath my feet against my vision fixed on the ground far below. The attendants in the tower, not much older than me, confirmed that the tower does sway in the wind and that they would have to close the observation deck soon if the winds increased much more that afternoon. As I looked through the windows to the ground far below, I felt a wave of fear and nausea that was nearly paralyzing. I closed my eyes to avoid the sensation overtaking me but I could still feel the structure swaying in the wind. I couldn’t wait to get back down on the ground.

I hadn’t experienced acrophobia or vertigo, because I had no problem with heights. I enjoyed airplane rides, roller coasters, and mountain climbing. But I realized that I had a terrible fear of heights when combined with being atop an unstable structure. I don‘t even know if there is a clinical name for this particular fear. I only know it was the most frightening thing I had ever felt.

I had a similar experience when, a few years later, I visited the Space Needle Tower in Seattle. The rocking sensation was dramatically reduced but I could feel a genuine panic rising in me. If the movement intensified, I might have done something foolish like demand to be shuttled to the ground as quickly as possible. But I was able to focus on the beauty of the sunset, the amazing vistas and less on the subtle movements of the tower.

A phobia is defined as a persistent, irrational fear but this was different! (Do all phobia sufferers say that?) I didn’t consider my reaction to be irrational or unreasonable. Still, I couldn’t understand how workers would eventually “adjust” to this experience and, personally, I had no desire to ever adjust to it! I have a basic understanding of engineering and architecture principles and I’m aware that they allow for structural movement due to winds, earthquakes, temperature, etc. But I lost all confidence in the floor beneath my feet when the tower was only doing what it was supposed to do: move.

Yesterday afternoon at 3:45pm, I reluctantly found myself once again in a very frightening place. I was in the 5^th floor radio studio at K-Wave 107.9FM when a 7.2 magnitude earthquake struck. I noticed the initial shaking, felt a little dizzy (not uncommon in earthquakes), and felt the entire building moving several inches back and forth. This is a typical earthquake experience in California and most residents simply “enjoy the ride” and wait for the motion’s energy to subside, signaling that the quake has ended. But it didn’t end. I walked across the moving room to the door of the studio, debating whether or not I should attempt to exit the building. I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the street below and longed to be on solid ground. But I didn’t want to rush away if the quake was a mild one and soon would be over. But, unlike other earthquakes I’ve been in, this one began to intensify dramatically after the first 10 seconds. The shaking and noise in the building was unbelievable. Cupboards began to open and close, large office drawers flew open and slammed shut, and I honestly believed there was a chance I would not make it out of the building alive. In that brief instant, I thought of the people who died in the World Trade Center because they thought their situation would get better if they just waited. I decided that, if I was going to die from the building crumbling around me, I wanted to die trying to get out.

After being in the building for 20-25 seconds of shaking that was terrifying and intensifying, I bolted for the exit door, adrenaline and fear making me run faster than I’ve run in years. I raced for a stairwell, running and leaping down five flights of stairs until I was finally out in the open parking lot. Within seconds, I saw people just beginning to exit the building’s first floor. A church was meeting in there for an Easter gathering. They were remarkably calm and seemed to be practicing a boring “fire drill” exit. Meanwhile, I was doubled over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my nerves.

I probably looked like a lunatic as I urged people to move away from the building. I was concerned that an additional earthquake or aftershock would dislodge panes of glass from the upper floors and fall on unsuspecting people. I knew that this was a common incident of injury or death when earthquakes strike high-rises. But people moved slowly, ignoring my calls of concern and smiling at the earthquake they’d just felt. I quickly realized that they did not experience the same level of shaking that I did. After speaking with several others (two from the second floor and the rest from the ground floor), I concluded that the upper floors probably felt an amplified effect caused by the building’s built-in structural flexibility.

After regaining my composure, I returned to the 5^th floor and openly laughed when I walked into the station’s hallway. Drawers were open like they’d been ransacked by burglars. I took calls from our engineer and from the manager at a nearby nuclear power generating station. Our radio station is an emergency coordinator for Orange County so it’s our responsibility to inform the public about such things. While on the phone, I felt an aftershock that rocked the building slightly but quickly subsided. After the initial quake and my adrenaline-fueled reaction, I remained amazingly calm through the aftershock.

Reflecting on the experience, I determined that I was nearly 200 miles away from the epicenter of the 7.2 quake. I couldn’t imagine going through that again with a large quake in the near vicinity. “The Big One” (a 7.0 or greater quake from the long-dormant southern stretch of the San Andreas Fault) is supposed to occur sometime in our near future. I’ve always thought I’d be able to handle it. Now, I’m not so sure.

I will not soon forget my experience in the Easter quake of 2010. I only hope I don’t have to experience the next large quake several flights up in a high-rise again.

Walk a mile in their shoes. The phrase is a familiar one but most people merely regard it to be an obtuse proverb or a clever phrase better suited for a game of Charades. But it is deeper than that. The point of the proverb asks us to be more compassionate, understanding and sympathetic to the plights of others. Instead, we give lip service to the idea and argue, “How are we` supposed to walk in someone else’s shoes, anyway?”

I’m not suggesting you find their shoes size, put on some broken-in Reeboks, and spend a day walking where they would walk. But even that weak attempt would be far more than most people would consider doing. So, then, do we view the proverb as a “nice idea” which just isn’t practical? We invariably conclude that the phrase is no different than asking us to try to see the world “through their eyes” (another equally impossible proverb). The ultimate goal, of course, is to help us see things from a different perspective.

You could start by taking a break from your own busy daily “walk” and commit to a visualized stroll of the other person’s life. We won’t feel their feelings or see their internal struggles, necessarily, but I am convinced the walking exercise would do us some good.

The effort exerted to walk in another person’s shoes indicates that you care enough about them to try. It also means that you’re willing to set aside time from your busy life and spend that time focusing on the life experiences of another. It might allow you to emotionally connect with them on a deeper level. There’s also the real possibility that you might discover a surprisingly new and different perspective in the process.

As a young man, I never gave the phrase more than a cursory mental glance or understanding nod. But I did not understand. And I only recently stumbled upon a way for me to take that walk in someone else’s shoes.

I challenged myself to write a couple of articles about relatives who had passed away. They were very close to me and I thought I knew them well. In fact, if you had challenged me with the notion that I didn’t understand them at all, I would’ve become belligerent and argumentative with you. But, the truth of the matter is, I had never taken the time to walk in their shoes. Not for a minute, not for a day, and certainly not for a lifetime.

I began with the first person and started chronicling all of the milestones of his life (birth, marriage, children, careers, death), then I listed lesser known incidents (residences, relocations, volunteer work, illnesses, injuries, experiences) along with facts and trivial details, and did my best to put it all in an accurate timeline of his life. As I prepared to write, I realized that knowing the significant dates and facts about a person is still not the same as walking in their shoes. I’ve known the man for most of my life, yet I don’t think I’ve ever taken the time to really try to understand him. To me, he just… was. I accepted him at face value. And then I did the process with another deceased relative I’d known.

Even when they were alive and interacting with my life, I rarely made the attempt to see life from their point of view. This embarrassing confession indicates how self-deluded I was. It’s to my shame when I think about so many wasted years and opportunities. But I suspect that I am not the only one who ever bumbled down the wide road of self-absorption.

For me, the act of fleshing out their life through writing gave me greater insight than I could ever hope to understand. As I wrote, I traveled from one milestone to the next, visiting dusty memories, going over the stories I’d heard them tell, and I recalled black-and-white snapshots that freeze-framed their life for a few happy seconds. I filled in the gaps with some of their achievements, personal failures, and the private conversations and moments only shared by those very close. And I began to understand. It was a remarkable experience.

It was like watching someone’s life play out on those old wartime-era News Reels. You knew you didn’t have all the facts, but the “never-before-seen” images and descriptions that flickered past the mind’s eye seemed so real and insightful that you couldn’t take your eyes from the screen. The more you immersed your own thoughts into their experiences, the more you appreciated their resilience. They had endured so much and it had marked them. And, through a strange osmosis, I felt that mark.

For a brief time, I had worn their shoes. The realization was stunning, not just because I had felt a little of their personal pain, but because I had glimpsed my own short-sightedness in the process. I wish I had made these discoveries sooner.

Some of us are just so thick-headed that we need our sense of self eroded and weather-beaten with time in order to eventually acquire a greater sensitivity to others.

So sit here awhile and take your shoes off. Slip on that unfamiliar pair and try them out. It’s not too late.

My grandfather’s photo archive allows us to glimpse some of his day-to-day life at work as a photojournalist for the Associated Press and I knew about his worldview well enough.  He was a godly man who was meek, humble and gentle in everything he did.  His grandparents were missionaries with a new organization in England called The Salvation Army.  His parents were people of faith and they lived a rugged turn-of-the-century life outside Olympia, Washington.  He attended the Salvation Army’s seminary in San Francisco but did not pursue career church work.  He taught an adult Sunday school class in the Army’s Citadel (sort of a regional church title) for many years and left me a box of his teaching notes.

I also know he worked tirelessly for a couple of years during his retirement on a genealogy book.  He was fascinated by discoveries of his ancestors’ history: their roles in the Civil War, their faith, their struggles.  He combed through diaries, letters and legal documents to uncover little known facts about The Bennett Family History (the title of his self-published booklet).  He told me he had tracked his ancestry all the way back to the early 1600s.

While this may seem like plenty of information for anyone superficially interested in another person’s life, I am intrigued by questions that I wish I could ask him today.  What did you learn about life?  What was it like to be a widower for so many years?  What was your reaction to the changing technology you witnessed?  What incidents were most memorable to you (from living on a homestead, living through war time, life during the Cold War, and life in retirement)?  What was your outlook for the future?  Did you have many regrets?  What did you enjoy doing in your spare time?  If you could live your life over again, what career would you like to try?

If we’re wise, we’ll ask these and other questions of those who are still with us.  I’m not just curious about my grandfather’s life experiences.  If my father were alive today, I’d pose many more questions to him, too.  It may be just curiosity or it may be the creeping of age in my own life, but I’ve learned that I enjoy taking an interest in the lives of others.  For a couple of generations now, society has shunned the use of diaries and journals through adulthood.  Perhaps we just got too busy.  But blogs, social websites, and even Twitter may bring a return of the age-old practice, and I think we’ll all be better for it.

I’ve decided that I will continue to write articles about current events, faith, and culture on this blog.  But, occasionally, I will take time to write about biographical incidents and times from my own life.  I apologize in advance as I realize that these articles may not be as interesting to current readers.  But I hope a future grandson or granddaughter will not be stuck with a similar roster of unanswered questions.

My personal memory bank isn’t steel and shiny like a pristine vault in a high-security bank.  It’s more like tall wooden shelves in a dusty old cabin.  This imagery has always been with me about memories.  The floor creaking under my steps, I walk to view shelves rough and unpainted as if hewn from ancient lumber.  Everything is stained with age.  A wooden desk sits nearby with an open and blank ledger book, a long-abandoned attempt to inventory it all.  The cabin has a wonderful dank and musty odor.  Particles of dust float in the shafts of light from the windows.

The memories sit on sparse shelves like old film canisters.  Not the large canisters you’d find in a movie theater, but the small metal cans which hold 8mm films or even smaller reels.  I selectively pull the good times and fun experiences to replay like filmstrips in my old projector of a brain.  I reach for a particularly pleasant memory and notice an unpleasant couple of cans sitting right next to it.  I’m careful not to even disturb the dust on them lest their filmstrips start running involuntarily in my mind.

Even now scenes play spontaneously in my head.  Twenty years ago we made a trip to Northern California from our home in Texas.  I was so thrilled for my young children to experience the Santa Cruz Mountains, the California coastline, and the redwoods along Highway 9.  I tried to impress on them the wonder of the trees and the powerful memories I had attached to that area from a young age, but they were too young to understand.  Still, I can remember their fresh faces as I took pictures of them against the backdrop of rough redwoods.  It is a wonderful memory.

But it’s impossibly linked to an experience just a few hours later.  We drove up the Coast Highway and stopped at the main beach in Pacifica.  We were on our way to San Francisco and Petaluma across the Gold Gate Bridge, but this was our last chance to stop and play on the cold sand.  It wasn’t summertime and it’s always cold in Northern California, but we knew the kids wanted to wade in the shallow surf.  Surfers in wet suits sat in the sun and homeless people milled around the edges of the beach. We seemed to be the only tourists there.  It was a seedy and hard-looking crowd and my internal alarms were already going off.

After running the three kids to the beach restroom, somehow we’d lost track of who was watching whom.  Within a minute, our daughter Megan had disappeared.  She was only 4 or 5 years old at the time and she’d probably just innocently wandered off, but I flipped out.  A terrible fear gripped me when I couldn’t locate her.  I frantically screamed her name several times and, when she didn’t call back or show herself, panic swelled in me like an erupting volcano.  I ran from stranger to stranger, asking if they’d seen my little blonde girl walking around but I wasn’t even waiting for their answer.  I was convinced she had been grabbed and was being lead away this very moment.  If someone had the mistake to taunt me or joke with me that they had taken her, I know in my heart today that I would’ve killed them on the spot.  I don’t know if they saw wild panic in my eyes, but no one dared answer me.  They just nodded their heads.  After a few moments (or was it only seconds?), we located her around the other side of the restroom building.  I remember looking at her with such relief.  The seedy crowd had narrowly escaped the violent rage of a crazy man.

That memory is still vivid and raw today.  But that awful experience is wedged between better memories of our enjoyable vacation days re-visiting family and California on that same trip. 

If I think back to the days of my youth, my best memories are of long summer days with golden hills and dirt trails.  I’m riding my bike and my faithful companion, Lady, is running happily alongside.  She’s a slender German shepherd mix and she’s running at her top speed as we race along an old fire road.  But I also flash with a dulled pain from that time of my life when adjacent memories remind me that I was bullied at school and I suffered from a terrible low self-esteem.

If I go further back into my childhood and think about the times I played on the windy streets and hills of San Francisco, the bad memories aren’t there but they probably should be.  At 5 or 6 years of age, I would happily ride a wooden go-cart down steep streets with little steering ability and no brakes.  I recklessly climbed cliffs of shale which could have resulted in death or serious injury… yet I was fearless.  And I would wander off (just as my young daughter did) and spend hours exploring on my own.  I had no concept of danger during those early years and so the memories are all nearly pleasant ones.

When I push myself to recall unpleasant memories of those days, I remember the night our family doctor made a house call and poured medicine into a painful ear.  I remember a car whose brakes had failed one night and rolled down the street, crashing into our porch steps on the first floor.  Well, this wasn’t an unpleasant memory for me (I found it exciting at the time) but it must have been a bad memory for my folks. 

If we impose our present-day perspective on our past memories, we understand that life is filled with the good and the bad, the pleasant and the painful.  We mourn our losses, we wince at the struggles we went through, and we marvel that we survived all our reckless days.  

At this point in my life, I am wistful of the fond memories and embarrassed or stung by the bad ones.  But they are all a part of me.  At my age, I should be thankful I remember them at all.

Early in his photojournalism career, he worked for The Miami Daily News. He wrote a how-to column called Camera Clicks in the 1940s and did a daily cartoon for the funnies page, “because” he said, “no one else would do it.” Recruited by the prestigious Associated Press, he worked out of the Chronicle Building in San Francisco for the last half of his working career. He was known as Ernie to his friends. To me, he was simply Grandpa.

When I was 4, my family moved into the house right across the road from his on Athens Street. It was a steep San Francisco street lined with boxy houses oddly wedged or teetering on the cliffs of rugged hillsides. I visited him all the time and would sometimes spend entire work days with him. During those early years, I had the great fortune to ride along with him on various photo assignments and spent many hours hanging out in his downtown newspaper building. Every trip was an adventure and, even at a young age, I sensed an historical importance about the work he was doing.

AP photographers would post their photos and captions on a daily wire service and subscribing newspapers across the country were able to use them in their local papers. It was old technology but it was used reliably for decades before the digital age came along. I can still hear the rat-a-tat-typing of the old black typewriter near his desk that would print out stories from other AP offices. He spent his office time developing his photos in a darkroom he constructed there and, sometimes, he would even “colorize” black & white photos – a practice used before color film became available. I remember watching with fascination as he dipped large sheets of paper into chemical trays and ghostly images would slowly appear. He carefully hung the sheets to dry under the red light of the darkroom. It was mysterious and magical to me.

His work also appeared in Life Magazine, though he never openly boasted of his accomplishments. He was a quiet and humble man who just enjoyed his work. His camera lens captured U.S. Presidents, visiting royalty, political dignitaries, movie stars, the San Francisco Giants baseball team at Candlestick Park, and newsmakers of the 40s, 50s, and 60s. He covered the 1945 San Francisco Conference of the United Nations where 45 nations met to discuss their declaration of war on Germany and Japan. I remember Grandpa telling me he had crawled under the stage and behind the perimeter of flags seeking “the perfect shot” that no other photographer could get. The Secret Service grabbed him, confiscated his cameras and held him in custody until his story checked out. They returned his film after they were sure he’d missed his press deadline.

As a kid, I was happy to spend time with him flying a kite in Golden Gate Park, visiting the zoo, or walking through the old Playland amusement park. It seemed he always had a big black box camera on a leather strap around his neck. He was always posing his grandchildren for human-interest stories and we ended up in countless newspapers as I was growing up. It didn’t occur to me that this was unusual. I figured every kid had a grandfather who took pictures for newspapers.

I was with him when he got the call to cover the story of a jumper from the Golden Gate. The man had miraculously survived and we raced to the Presidio Hospital in time to see the ambulance pull in. Grandpa made me wait in the car while he covered the photo shoot but I was endlessly fascinated by all the police and press presence.

I was also with him when a man was hit by a San Francisco bus on a busy boulevard. He asked me to wait on the sidewalk and he darted out across the street to take photos of the scene. On the way home, he told me the man had died. Even at that young age, I remember appreciating his honesty with me. I was only a kid, after all. But he didn’t treat me like a child. He showed me, through the lens of his camera, that the world was a beautiful place. But it was also a dangerous place.

Still, there was less awareness or perceived threat about the danger to children from strangers. One afternoon he dropped me off at a double-feature movie house on a busy San Francisco street. He said he’d pick me up when both movies were over, gave me some money for popcorn, and made sure I got inside. I watched him drive away from the front curb as old green Muni buses rumbled by. I was probably 6 years old. He had also told me he’d get in trouble if Mom found out, so I didn’t tell her until decades later. I found a seat in the back row of the theater and happily sat alone with my popcorn, feeling very grown-up. One of the movies was a children’s film but it was paired with an awful Japanese movie with bad dubbing. It was probably a creature feature as those were cheap to make and popular B-movies at the time. I remember watching scenes of enemy soldiers shining a large spotlight in dark caves as if it were a top secret ray-gun. Men hit by the light’s beam would fall and writhe in pain and death. It was silly, of course, but it terrified me at the time. I spent some time in the empty lobby waiting for the movie to end. I raced back into the theater when I heard the closing music. I didn’t want anyone to think I was too scared to watch the movie all the way through!

Today, people would be horrified at the thought of a young child “abandoned” for several hours. But, in my grandfather’s defense, they were just different times. People rarely locked their doors because they knew their neighbors and everyone watched out for one another. I used to spend hours exploring the San Francisco Chronicle building while he worked in the AP office and darkroom. I rode the elevator to every floor, eluded building Security men as if they were secret agents chasing after me, and wandered into offices as if I owned the place. It may have been naïve for a newspaper man to let me run wild and free, but it contributed to my confidence and independence from a very young age.

Last week, I googled Grandpa’s name and found a few of his pictures for sale on the AP website. They were listed in the “historic” section of the archives. I even found a photo he took in 1966 of an ATM-prototype introduced to bankers at a San Francisco conference. I had never seen it before.

I’ve seen hundreds of photos from his personal collection, of course, but there are probably thousands more out there in museums or dusty files. As the AP and other organizations digitize and post their ancient archives, I hope to discover more and more of his work in the years to come.

It’s a clue to how we think, how we prioritize and process memories, and how we can’t seem to let some memories go.  The Zeigarnik Effect tries to explain how we file away lesser issues in our daily life, especially once they’ve been resolved.  That is, it’s easier for us to archive memories that have no other actions required.  More important, it helps us to understand that our brains desire closure. 

If we have an unresolved issue in our thoughts, our minds will keep working on it long after it’s discarded other closed or resolved issues.  Marketing companies use this technique against us by creating pitches that leave the audience wanting more.  If a marketing campaign can create the feeling that something is unresolved or unexplained fully, you are more likely to remember their commercials and their products.  A great example of this was the automobile commercials in the 1990s that ended simply with the word, “Fahrvergnugen” (it sounded like “far-fig-new-gun”).  For weeks we were left wondering what it meant, and what did it have to do with Volkswagens?  The amusing thing is that I can’t remember what it means but I will always associate the word with Volkswagens.

Hollywood, too, uses the Zeigarnik Effect because movies with unresolved issues or plots are considered “edgy” or “indie.”  Why?  These types of movies do not follow the typical storytelling path of tying up all the loose ends before the final credits roll.  Another way to use this technique is to surprise the viewers with information at the end of the story which leaves them scratching their heads about a particular twist.  As in, “How could I have missed that?”  This was used to great effect in the movie “The Sixth Sense.”  Many people saw it repeatedly because they needed closure about the clues they’d missed along the way.

Psychologists know that we all desire closure.  Our memories vie for our attention or remain at the forefront of our minds when something is left unresolved.  Unfortunately, this can result in suffering and pain long after the initial incident occurs.  For example, you may have unresolved guilt over the way you treated someone harshly.  Or you may be carrying painful (“haunting”) memories over an incident you didn’t resolve long ago in the past.  You try to move on, but your brain won’t let it go.  Perhaps it involves a loved one or friend who is no longer alive.  Psychologists describe “unpacking” things in our minds to sort out the issues of the past.  Then, once properly dealt with, we can repack those old memories and finally put them to rest.

When I think back on my own life, it seems I have more unresolved issues in my head than resolved ones.  But this is just a lie.  The open or unresolved issues seem larger to me because of the Zeigarnik Effect.  No, I’m not blaming Zeigarnik for my woes.  I would have these types of memories plaguing me today even if Bluma had never stumbled upon her discovery.  It’s just the way we’re hard-wired.  And it’s easy to understand how these incidents occur and slowly accumulate in our lives.  But, if you’re wise, you soon realize these issues won’t resolve themselves.

I take some comfort in knowing that they trouble me at all.  I pity the individual who is unaware of the damage he’s done in the past or is just too uncaring to desire to resolve those matters.  Some, I suspect, find it easier to focus on the actions of others instead of on their own areas of responsibility and the probable pain they’ve inflicted. 

Is it possible that Zeigarnik’s affliction is in some correlation to the age of the person?  (Unless, of course, their aged mind no longer recalls much of anything.)  But, for those lucid enough to be impacted, this makes sense.  The elderly certainly have been carrying issues longer in life and they may reach a tipping point where the only solution is resolution.  Younger people, I think, tend to be more resilient and certainly have less “past” pressing down on them in the present.  I suspect that’s why deathbed confessions never seem to go out of style.  After all, what does the confessor possibly have to gain by addressing such old issues?  A clear conscience could just be another way of saying: “all conflicts resolved.”  Perhaps, even facing death’s door, the mind knows that this is its last real chance to resolve long-dormant and emotionally debilitating issues.

I would be suspicious of the individual who claims they have no regrets.  Or, at the least, I would expect that person to have a reputation for resolving and reconciling old issues (and current ones) as they came to mind.  A friend of mine was 93 before he passed away from this world.  At his age, he didn’t procrastinate about resolving conflicts.  He knew he wasn’t promised tomorrow.  He was eager to be at peace with all people and peace defined his life.  At our relatively young ages, why should we be any different?

At the ripe old age of 51, I have unresolved matters from the past in my life just as others do.  Putting these memories to rest in the archives of my mind is often easier said than done.  As a Christian, I’m thankful that I’ve been forgiven for all the wrongs in my life.  But that fact doesn’t give me a pass from taking further responsibility.  I still need to seek the forgiveness of others.  But, you may say, what about those who have hurt us?  We’re called to forgive them for the wrongs they’ve done to us, but it’s certainly easier if they approach us and request it.  When people have passed away or, worse, are still alive but don’t care to address such issues from the past, it’s tougher still.  

Conflict resolution may be painful and difficult, but it’s immensely rewarding.  The attempt to reconcile communicates humility, remorse, and promotes forgiveness.  I can’t imagine choosing to live without this practice as a regular part of my life.  I suspect that, after a short while, the baggage would become quite heavy to carry through all of life.  And yet some people live this way… and do until the day they die.  That’s a heavy load.

Next time you’re wondering why that nagging thought just won’t let go of you, think about the resolution.  Then bring closure to the matter by acting on that thought.

Before you can give an answer, it would probably be best if you asked yourself, Who am I?  You’d probably start with your name, family or heritage, residence, social status, personality traits, career choices, associations, hobbies, or how you choose to spend the time of your life.  But, believe it or not, these things are still only clues to who you really are.

In this culture, it’s easy to define ourselves by the things we do, the place we live, or even by our accomplishments or failures.  None of us would like to be remembered as a Darwin Award recipient, grow up with the dubious label “Balloon Boy,” or known simply as that jerk at the office.  When it comes to labels, I’d rather be known as that amusing guy, that talented guy, that nice guy, or that terrific poker player.   I’d even settle for that crazy guy, (or just) that guy, or that lucky poker player.  But I’m a realist and I understand that not everyone thinks fondly of me.  To some, I am probably that jerk at the office, that idiot on the freeway, or that donkey at the poker table (a derogative term among poker players).  But even these do not reveal who I really am.

To quote an old Wendy’s commercial, “parts is parts.”  And it seems that, no matter how many things you list about yourself, they are merely facts, trivia, or descriptions of your life.  But I believe that we are more than the sum of our parts.

I just finished the book The Woman Who Can’t Forget and I found it fascinating and intriguing about how we define ourselves.  Jill Price is a woman who has an amazing autobiographical memory and her daily memories (back to age 14 or so) can be easily linked to noteworthy events, news items and even television shows.  Contrary to the title, Jill can forget or, rather, not remember lists of things just as you and I would struggle to memorize the phone book.  But Jill can recall, with alarming clarity and visceral emotional sensation, the minutes, hours and days of her life for decades.  You could pick a date from the 1980s and Jill could instantly tell you what day of the week it was and what she was doing on that day.  She would probably tell you what the weather was like that day, what was on TV that afternoon, and what she had for dinner that night.

While some may think this is a pretty cool talent, her own words describe it as both curse and blessing.  She says it’s like being assailed by memories all the time.  She said it’s like watching a video playback in her head as her memory jumps from day to day, or chains through similarities, or even vividly brings back unwelcome fear and anxieties from her past.

The most striking realization about Jill Price is not how awesome her memory is, but how tragic it is that she can’t forget many things.  Clearly, we take forgetting for granted.  Normal people forget the minutiae of daily life.  It’s normal for us to only recall major incidents from our deep past and, even then, have a foggy memory of what really occurred. 

You see, she can’t forget every awful incident, every sad conversation, every hurtful comment made about her or that she said to others.  The sociologists say that we benefit from the ability to forget these things over time.  We let many of those negative things go as our memory focuses on the good things we’ve done, the positive lessons we’ve learned, etc.  In fact, our modified memories morph over the years and make us who we are at the present.  The child-you is very different from the teenager-you, just as they are different from the young adult-you to who you are today.  Jill is all of those persons at the same time.  No wonder she has trouble existing with this type of recall.

In part, we are what we do.  The way that we spend our time does, in fact, define us.  To put it simply: the hero is the one who acted, the witness is the one who observed and the apathetic didn’t care enough to pay any attention at all.  How do you spend your life?  Are you absorbed with the activities of your own life, oblivious to the needs of others around you?  Are you interested in being served or serving others?  Time consumes all of us at the same rate.  It is the great equalizer which cuts across all boundaries of social status, wealth or position.  So how do you spend the time of your life?  That answer will tell you much about yourself.

So, who are you today?  You are a collection of memories – both true and (intentionally and unintentionally) modified.  Your self-esteem, your strengths, your perspective (self-awareness) comes from your own conclusions about your life and the memories which have impacted you most.  And, because new information is streaming at you all the time, you are constantly changing.  True, those changes may be subtle rather than significant.  There is also a “core you” which has been tested and tried over the course of your life.  That is, those things that remain the same in your thinking over decades become assimilated into the core of your being.  Your recall and the way you process new information (as well as old memories) has become established and resists change.  So it shouldn’t be surprising that it’s very hard for us to suddenly think differently.

But what if you are not happy with who you are?  The good news is this: you have the option to begin a new course.  Some make resolutions, some turn over a new leaf, and some even undergo cosmetic surgery to try change who they are.  Personally, I believe that God offers a new life, a new start, even new thinking to those who surrender their old life to Him.  There’s a line in the Bible that says we can be “transformed by the renewing of our minds.”  Our thinking can change and our memories or guilt can release their death-grip on us.  It takes faith to believe in a miracle, and this type of core-change would be miraculous indeed.

The goal is to provide content (music), of course, but also engage the listeners and create a sense of community. While we enjoy the music, stations benefit from larger Arbitron ratings and pumped-up advertising costs.  If listeners enjoy a particular host or on-air crew, a sense of family or friendship is fostered and listener loyalty is maximized.

Listen closely and you’ll notice something else.  Stations are forever promoting what’s coming up.  If we’re eager to hear the next segment, the next interview, the next song, or some amusing callers “…up next,” we’re less likely to tune out while all those advertising spots are running. 

This morning I heard one of the stations doing their weekly segment called “Confession Wednesday.”  Listeners call in and anonymously reveal secrets held for days, weeks or years. People offer advice or laugh at the predicament the callers have found themselves in.  The audience, meanwhile, enjoys humorous and occasionally salacious confessions between their morning songs. The theme adopted by the morning crew is “Don’t Judge.”  They don’t argue that there is no morality, per se, but they like to “set it aside” during these calls.  Oh, if it were only that easy!

If morality is non-existent in this world, why the need to confess at all?  Or do you think guilt is merely a (manufactured) psychosomatic phenomenon? Their conscience is evident to me as callers prefer to use a pseudonym when actually on-the-air.  But there’s another observation I’ve made about these confessions.

It seems that most people aren’t feeling guilty about the thing they’ve done.  Rather, they’re boastful that they got away with it.  Even when they reveal that they know they’ve done wrong, they’re pleased with themselves that they weren’t the ones victimized.

One woman confessed that she had agreed to watch a family pet for a friend while he was on a trip.  During the week, the dog chewed up her favorite pair of designer shoes. In retaliation, she sold the dog (a pureblood German Shepard) on Craigslist for $800!  When her friend came to get his dog, she simply told the guy that the dog had run away.  

In retrospect, I believe the dog faired best.  At least he got a new home.  

The dog’s previous owner, on the other hand, still had this woman for a friend.  Poor guy. 

Is it safe to conclude that a person enamored with designer shoes probably has the depth of character of a gnat?  Or is that being too judgmental?

The Harry Potter series, in a nutshell, is about a young boy who has survived a tragic situation which took the lives of his parents.  An evil and powerful wizard named Voldermort believes he must take the life of young Potter before he can rule the wizarding world.  Each of the 7 books encompass roughly one year of Harry’s life.  So the story follows him through his wizarding education at Hogwarts to a climactic battle with Voldermort and his followers.

Let me tell you about my expectations before I tell you my reaction. I thought of the Potter series as strictly juvenile fiction, yet fun and imaginative for the interested reader. I also believed that it was widely popular because the characters were well-developed and likable, but mostly because young people could identify with the growing pains and struggles of a group of pre-teens. I didn’t know that the series would mature with the characters and that the storyline would intensify over the course of the events.

Seeing a couple of the movies early on only reinforced my impressions of a shallow, comical collection of stories that I considered quaint and novel. I’m thankful that I forgot many of the details of those movies and, later, I was able to read and enjoy the richness of each unfolding chapter.

I also found that, the further I got into the series, the more critical it was that I had the next book in my possession. I realized, with great delight, how enjoyable they were to me and how I would spend my lunch breaks, coffee breaks, and any other down-time I could find to read a little more each day.

During the first few books, I believed that I had correctly pegged this series. The stories were fun, filled with adventure and barely scary or thrilling. The characters easily grew on me and I looked forward to Harry breaking free of the Dursley household at the end of each summer. For me, the titled mysteries or adventures became secondary to the annual reunions and daily experiences of the students at Hogwarts. I enjoyed the routine struggles, detentions, Quidditch practices, and the culture of this fantasy world. The books were engrossing and each a little more mature than the one before it. There were obvious instances of foreshadowing and a growing sense of tension, but I figured that this was still juvenile fiction.

Over the course of the 7 books,  the series matures into a thrilling adult fiction with developed characters, intriguing mysteries and excellent villains.  By the end, you care deeply about the characters and feel the pain and loss they ultimately experience.  For a debut author, the series reflects her maturing talent and mastery of the craft.

I reflected on the unfortunate reaction of the church to the Harry Potter series. It seemed unfair at the time, particularly because they embraced the Lord of the Rings’ series of movies as fantasy while rejecting the Potter stories as evil. But many of the same themes are present in Rowling’s fantasy: courage, corruption, noble actions, quests, sacrifice, good versus evil, human frailties and deficiencies, redemption, and a glimpse at eternity. I understand that many of the elements of this fantasy world are anathema to the culture of the Bible, but the underlying story is about the human condition and the ultimate need for faith.

I finished the final book late last night and I can’t begin to describe how impressed I was with the series’ finale. The 7th book is easily my favorite and Rowling provides an amazing payoff for those who stick with it til the very end. I kept muttering, “Wow” and “Amazing” to myself as I tried to relax to sleep. I was blown away by the complex reveals and surprises of the story’s conclusion. It was incredibly rewarding and I recognize now why the series is considered an “instant” classic. Though unfolding over many years and clearly developed strategically from the very beginning, the series has one of the best endings imaginable. In my own thinking, I struggled with how I could have improved upon Rowling’s finale. My conclusion… no one could improve on this.

I was so touched, so moved by the final pages. I believe Rowling, during the last few chapters, managed to push this simple series to the pinnacles of great literature. It is breathtaking.

Thank you for this gift. I will cherish the experience for the rest of my days.

I have done my best to determine if this industry is a hoax or not.  Some of the sites are suspiciously laden with ad links implying that they may only be portals to other sites.  But several insist that they are not a joke and offer e-commerce capability.  The interviewee I heard sounded very convincing.

The concept is simple.  Christians pay a fee to a post-Rapture pet care company so that atheists or non-believers will care for their left-behind pets in case the Rapture occurs during their lifetime.  Usually, the fee covers a 10-year period and must be renewed if the person hasn’t been taken up by the end of that time.  Check out a couple of their marketing pitches:     

“The next best thing to pet salvation in a Post Rapture World “

“Imagine being taken to streets of gold while your dog starves to death walking around in his own feces trapped in your small house or apartment, subject to fire and earthquakes or even being eaten by heathens searching for any remaining morsel of food. Do you want that to happen?”

“…it is not the will of your heavenly Father that one of these little ones be lost.” – Matthew 18:14 

“You might think Jesus was referring to human children since He just called one over to his side. I assume the child walked over to Him with human legs.  Some pets also have legs, so maybe he was talking about your pet. Who is going to care for your little ones after you’ve ascended to your heavenly rewards?”

“Please put a brightly colored sign in your front window, write ‘JesusPets’ and the number pets you own. This will help JesusPets caretakers find your pets promptly after the rapture.”

Several sites reference Bible verses to make their case (as in the twisted example above).  It’s disconcerting to hear or read about atheists quoting Scriptures to the Church.  And, of course, these companies go out of their way to assure pet owners that their planned caregivers have signed agreements (or affidavits) blaspheming God or otherwise insuring that they will be left behind to care for the animals.

Who ARE these people?  No, not the professed atheists who promise to reject God so that they’ll be here after the apocalyptic event… I’m talking about the people who are paying for these services!  Honestly, I’m much more disgusted by the so-called Christians who would enter such an arrangement than I am about the self-proclaimed “godless” people making a fast buck.  Or am I over-reacting here? 

Don’t get me wrong, pets are wonderful!  God made animals to be subject to humans and our lives are much better because of them.  We’ve domesticated many different kinds and these are now largely dependent on us for food and protection.  Personally, I love dogs and cats equally.  They’re fun, lovable and encouraging creatures.  But they are not human.

This may offend you and, if so, I apologize in advance.  But the notion that pets can become substitute children in our lives is just wrong.  I know people who feel very strongly about this subject (and disagree with me) but please hear me out.  Children are fun, lovable and encouraging, too, but they require a great deal more work.  And they are worth the investment.  All the money and time spent investing in a pet is, at least in my opinion, the equivalent of investing in a hobby.  In the end, it produces little or no eternal results.  Yet billions of dollars are spent on pets in the United States.  

I have seen too many couples entering their “golden years” (children grown, empty nest syndrome) where the focus of their lives becomes their pet or pets.  This is genuinely tragic.  The phrase “misplaced priorities” comes to mind.  At this opportune time of your life, you could be investing in other people’s lives: mentoring young parents, volunteering at shelters or schools, ministering to the very needy, or investing in the lives of children through foster care or adoption.  Instead, people dote on their pets, spending extravagantly for pet accessories, food and medical treatment… and, apparently, post-rapture care-sitters.  

I just can’t help thinking that those funds could be used to save the lives of undernourished families and children in this world.  And more concern could be better expressed to those atheists (and others) who insist that God does not exist.  But, as Dennis Miller likes to say, that’s just my opinion.