The New Invisibility

 There was a time, not all that many years ago, when you wore your politics like clothing.  If your hair was  or wasn't a particular length, then it could be assumed that you supported or didn't the U.S, war in Vietnam.  If you wore beads around your neck, or shunned button-down  shirts or suits, then you must think this way.  Even your age, or there appearance of maturity would cause people to assume things about your values or beliefs.  

This is still true in some ways, especially for younger folks  sporting tattoos, or piercings, or wearing certain styles of clothing.  

With age, though comes liberation.  Case in point.  A couple of weeks ago I came to this realization on a freezing cold morning as I traveled alone across Oregon and on down to the Bay Area.  I'd spent the night in a cozy mountain lodge of a motel in Shasta City, the small town in the shadow of breathtaking Mount Shasta.  Anxious to get going the next morning, I awoke early and checked out about 6:30 am.  It helped that the storm the previous night knocked out TV reception and I had fallen asleep at 7:70pm.  

My car was encased in ice and looked like the small freezer in the old GE refrigerator I grew up with.  The little box that needed to be defrosted with an ice pick every now and then.

After deicing my car, I decided to stop for hot coffee and what I'd hoped would be an adequate breakfast at a local coffeeshop.  This little diner was as traditional as they get.  Int had been there forever, and parts of the premises looked like it.  There were four other people inside this cafe.  One cook. two waitresses, and one other old guy, like me.  

Back in the day, especially in some parts of this country, I'd have stuck out like a Democrat at a Trump Rally.  Not so any more.  My age and appearance, gray beard and all, gave me the freedom to blend in easily.  Now, this may not seem like such a big deal, but as someone who has lived much of my life in the role of "other," it was astonishingly refreshing.  As the waitress trope refilled my coffee cup, and the local country music station droned on with every song sounding the same, I realized I looked like I belonged.  The food was barely passable, and I left more on my plate than I usually do, but I also left a generous tip because, after all, these employees needed a break from a job that was hardly their dream version.  I thought for a minute about what kind of lives they lead, about the other guy who sat at the other end of the counter from me, and how many places around this country there were where this scene was repeating itself.  

It Happened

 "It's in the blood."  That's what a horseman once told me when I asked how he got started training race horses.  I knew exactly what he meant because it's in my blood too.  Now, I don't train horses but my interest and enthusiasm for them is certainly far beyond the norm.  

People often find that mystifying when they learn of this strong interest of mine.  "I wouldn't have expected that you'd be into horse racing,"they frequently say.  People make assumptions, don't they? I think, too, that many of their assumptions about horse racing are wrapped up in stereotypical beliefs and the tab ops of gambling.  For many folks, you can't be interested in race horses, unless you gamble on them.  Not so.  But then, I do bet a few bucks from time to time.  

"If there were no betting on horse races, I'd still watch them," I tell them.  I don't really think they believe me, but it's really true.  My interest in horse racing and thoroughbred breeding began early in my life well before the days of modern communication when I followed the local racing scent in Los Angeles through a once a week TV program and of course the daily newspapers we all read.  Papers...plural...is correct because about 60 years ago there were morning and afternoon papers and sometimes even a "Final Edition" late in the day.  

I knew my grandfather liked t play the ponies.  But he lived 3000 miles away and was more interested in trotters and pacers rather than flat running thoroughbreds.  New York, his home had more than a few standard bred tracks only a bus ride away.   think when he visited and stayed with my family for about a month when I was 13, he found his way to Santa Anita or Hollywood Park a few times.

 As a 10 year old, I began to follow the Southern California racing scene via the Saturday "Race of the Week'' broadcast on the local CBS channel.  My dad and I would watch together as the horses were introduced, some background given and then the race and post race coverage would follow.  We'd make our picks and then revel in our genius, or wallow in our disappointment,  We saw such local greats as Native Diver, TV Lark, The Axe II, and Round Table.  I knew the jockeys by name because among that colony were such icons as Bill Shoemaker, Laffit Pincay, and Johnnie Longden. Of course the legendary race caller, Harry Henderson, was very much in evidence too.  

In the summertime, I'd wait for the afternoon newspaper to arrive and go immediately to the Sports section to see the race results from the previous day and then look at the entries and handicapper's selections for the next day.  It was great fun, cost nothing, and gave me something to look forward to.  Sure I was a bit more involved in major league baseball scores and college sports, but following the races was often just as joyful.  

As I reflect back on my love affair with horse racing, I recall something from the 10 year-old days of my life.  In our living room, we had an oval, sort of brown woven rug.  It sat in the middle of the living room floor and I occupied the center of that run while watching TV with my family.  In those days (late 1950s) the family TV was a piece of furniture.  It was often encased in wood with double doors to shut out the screen when desired.  That rug became a race track on which to re-create memorable races I'd seen.  I had a small stash of plastic cowboy vs. Indians, complete with their plastic horses.  Most kids growing up in that era had them.  I'd long eschewed the people and just played with the horses.  The rug made the perfect racing surface.  That oval was home to my recreations of the Kentucky Derby and other big events.  I'd line up between 10-20 horses and then with the roll of a pair of dice the horses would one at a time make their way around the oval.  Stir of a horse race in slow motion.  But...it provided some thrilling finishes and gave me the opportunity to become the announcer.  My little track on a rug was much more fun than any of those spin a wheel paper horse racing board games available at the time.

At age 15, I was invited to accompany a neighborhood family on their trip to Del Mar, the beautiful oceanside track near San Diego.  My mom gave me a few dollars to which I added about 4 or 5 others I'd saved.  My friend's father placed a bet for me on the first horse race I ever witnessed in person.  $2. to win on a horse called Never Happen.  He won; I got a huge adrenalin rush, and haven't been the same ever since.

Community Anyone?

 Community is a word with mostly positive connotations.  Despite the fact that its root also produces such loaded words lime commune and communism, people generally feel good about belonging to a community.  A sense of community is regarded as a good thing.  We all belong to several communities.  I suppose there is a community of bloggers, just as there is a community for most subcultures in this world.  I know people who work in the horse racing community have a strong sense of their shared values.  It's an alternative universe and like most communities, they take care of their own.  Most people only see the frontside of a racetrack, that is, the grandstand, turf club, bleachers, and apron in front of the racing surface.  But over in the barn area is the "backside" aka "backstretch" where dozens of grooms live and work alongside vets, trainers, exercise riders, and vendors of feed, tack, and even food.  Clearly a small town.  

In the last few months a community has developed in the morning Tai Chi classes offered in my neighborhood.  Probably because there are many seniors with common interests, but nevertheless a tight-knit little community of people who show up despite the ailments of old age and sometimes the challenges of transportation.  These folks really care about each other's well-being and after only knowing one another for a few months they are beginning to share more time and depend on one another.

In my neighborhood, we have a "Safer Together" community that is related to our emergency response team.  Your neighbors are your first responders in case of major emergency and it's important to know them so you can be there for them if needed.  

Many teachers I know consider their students and classrooms as a community.  English teachers I worked with all saw their classrooms as "a community of writers."  In community there is help, safety, and comfort.  We define ourselves by other people, so it makes sense that we feel positive about spending time with them.  To do otherwise seems unnatural.

"Man is by nature a political animal."  So said Socrates.  He meant not that we love and are political, but rather we are meant to live in community.  The polis, (Greek city-state) is where we desire to live, among others.

In the little postwar So. California town where I grew up there was a grocery store called The Community Market.  It was larger than a mom and pop store, but smaller than today's huge big box versions.  It truly served our community, selling everything from canned goods, to 45 rpm records.  There was a butcher shop within, and a mini hardware store.  We relied on this business for everything until sleek newer chain grocery stores came nearby drawing off many of the customers.  Yet the Community Market continued to exist long into the next few decades.  I'm pretty sure it's gone now, but in this current climate on online ordering for everything it would have been doomed anyway.  BUT... This just in, a little research, as evidenced by this picture reveals what I knew as the grocery store called Community Market is now called the Community Center.  At the same location, it appears to be a food bank serving the current community.

Next month I hope to begin teaching a writing class for seniors.  If my local Parks and Recreation department can survive all the current budget cutting, this idea of mine might actually happen.  If so, I imagine it as a community of people who want to stimulate their cognitive thinking skills by remembering the important stories of their lives.  Of course, any age can do this, and I welcome anyone who wants to join the community.  

My Two Cents

 Among the things that the current "wood chipper" administration is eliminating, is the penny. That's right, the shiny copper-colored 1 cent coin will be no more.  Its lowly amount has no place in our lives any longer and the Emperor, despite wearing no clothes, has called for its elimination.  

True, it has become mostly an irritation to most folks, but the U.S. penny one has many uses and was often a welcome addition to our pockets, change purses, and glass coin saving jars.  On occasion, people were paid solely in pennies if the person doing the paying wanted to make a statement to the recipient of the debt.  That might not be possible for too much longer.  But the fact that millions of pennies lurk in the corners of our homes and inside couch cushions and coin banks, their need may one day emerge.  

When it costs 3 cents to make 1 cent, the logic of continuing to mint pennies seems ridiculous.  Hence, the penny's demise.

But the penny once had so many uses.  There was a time when city parking meters took penny's.  As a child, I recall the distance sound of placing a penny the slot of those meters.  Each cent bought about 5 minutes.  A handful of pennies was all that was needed for a day of errand running.  Today a nickel buys a minute, a dime two, and a Quarter buys 5 or six minutes.  Feeding a parking meter is upwards of $5. for a day of shopping or running around.  A penny could once send a letter, then a postcard.  We know how often "forever" postage rates change now.  Hard to believe there once was a 1/2 cent stamp. That went by the wayside sometime in the 1950s.  Two or three of those could send a postcard.  But who sends postcards in the age of cell phones?

In childhood, the penny once was the coin of choice for buying candy and starting a coin collection.  Like many of my peers I had those little blue penny collection books.  It was very cool to heck my change and find a penny dated 1906 or perhaps one from the Great Depression dated 1932.  Then there were those dark, almost black steel looking pennies from WWII dated 1942-45 or so.  Indian head pennies were also a real find and actually did show up in your change once in a while.

When I first started teaching I taught a number of 9th grade World History classes.  There was one particular lesson on primary sources that depended on the penny.  Kids would take their seats and find a penny on their desk.  It was necessary to tell them not to disturb the penny before they had a chance to pocket it or throw it at someone or something.  Usually they still had it with them when class began.  What followed was a worksheet with a blank space and a set of questions.  

"This coin on your desk is all that remains of a once prosperous civilization," I'd announce.  In the space provided, students would first draw both sides of the coin.  Usually it had Lincoln's head on one side and the Lincoln Memorial on the other.  They'd account for all the words and numbers on either side too.  The questions involved making hypotheses about what could be learned about the civilization from just one coin.  Things like they wore beards, and built large stone buildings were discovered.  The numbers and words led to theories about language and time.  

For a squirrelly class of ninth graders this was always a successful lesson that cost no more than37 cents.

There is one memory of pennies that still hurts.  It was tied to blind antisemitism during my Junior High years.  Kids would throw pennies at those suspected of "being a Jew."  This learned stereotype  was practiced by those vulnerable to hate and ignorance.  One time, after witnessing such behavior, I even heard one kid  say to another, "Do you know why Jews have such big noses?  It' where they put all the pennies."  

Ha Ha, Motherfucker.    A penny for my thoughts?

Nobody is going to miss the penny.  Its value has disappeared.  It is now obsolete.  But its history as a symbol of a simpler time will long remain.  It speaks volumes about the civilization that created it.

Letting Go

 I continue to deal with the question of what to do with all the material things one manages to collect during a lifetime. I have downsized a bit, but there is always more.  What I'm finding is that it's much more difficult to throw away letters, cards, and photographs than objects.

I want to give them some sort of ceremony before I put this ephemera in a trash can.  Burning things in a fireplace seems like the way to go, but that's not possible these days.  Tearing up things I would rather nobody read or see seems rather crude and cruel.  Sure, nobody will know, but it's difficult to destroy art and notes that were originally filled with love and concern.

To make matters worse, I've recently been sent envelopes of similar things that once belonged to a good friend of mine.  After he died, his partner began sending me records, books, and some of his fly fishing gear.  Now I'm getting newspaper clippings, cards, and bits and pieces of his books, chapbooks, and knick knacks.  Perhaps if I create my own ceremony by placing everything I decide I don't need to keep in a small shoebox type container, I can let go of all this clutter in a respectful manner.  Sort of a coffin type deal.  

The landfill is hardly a good home, not exactly the ocean, but it serves the purpose.  It's a letting go, a final farewell.  If you are going to move on, you really have to move some of the trappings of a lifetime on as well.

It's also a good way to clear out some of the small boxes that I keep accumulating.

Play Time

 Play is the work of childhood.  So the experts tell us.  But a child's play is no longer what it once was.  Child psychologists have recently expressed concern that children today are losing valuable skills because their play and playtime has been rapidly changing.  These changes include more adult supervision and less time outside.  

One of the consequences of this seems to be the inablility to solve conflicts on their own.  

This got me thinking.  How does children's play today differ from what was play in my childhood.  One obvious difference is that children rarely play outside in their neighborhoods any more.  Gone are in the street baseball games and summertime classics like "red light, green light."  

To be sure, the rise of computer technology has a lot to do with this.  Combined with the fear of childhood abduction, it's easy to see why the neighborhood issue quiet outside these days.  What a tradeoff.  

It's been over 60 years since I've played any baseball in the street.  But there was a time when it was a daily occurrence.  At 8 years of age, a manhole cover made a good home plate, and a driveway a perfect warning track.  On rare occasions if there were only a few kids, we actually played on our front lawns.  My neighbors had one side of their lawn framed off by a hedge.  Pyracantha bushes as I remember.  It made a perfect ivy covered wall like the one at Wrigley Field in Chicago.  We used a tennis ball to avoid breaking any windows should a foul ball go astray.

In my hood we "announced" our games.  One kid or the team at bat, would emulate our favorite baseball announcers, deftly substituting our own last names in with Willie Mays, Duke Snyder, or Roberto Clemente.  

Yes, back then, there were girls games and boys games.  That's just the way it was.  But in my neighborhood, all the kids between the ages of about 7-11 played together.  These games tested the limits of our imaginations and while they were faithful to the prevailing sex roles of the time, they served to teach and enforce all the social skills needed.  

In looking back, I marvel at some of the more elaborate games that I concocted with my childhood mates.  We played "office" when a neighbor place some file folders in the trash.  They were filled with old memos, receipts and miscellaneous documents from a local ice cream distributor.  They looked good to us, and we set up homemade file cabinets, offices with intercoms and secretaries, and name plaques for the executives.  There were coffee breaks (water) and big meetings taking place all the time.  Office was perfect for a rainy day or bad weather of any kind.

In my neighborhood we had all manner of original games.  We played "television" fashioning TV cameras from old blocks of wood and hanging up an old bedspread as a curtain.  "Circus" was a favorite that featured various tricks performed in and around a swings.  When my uncle gave my folks some boxes of used bowling pins another opportunity presented.  He worked for various bowling alleys refinishing the lanes and the old wooden pins made great firewood.  We regularly received a few boxes for our fireplace.  My friends and I pulled out a set of ten in reasonably good condition; no splinters and good paint.  A basketball served as a bowling ball, and we opened our garage bowling alley mush to the joy of my playmates.  We had a bar too!

Yes, I see how many of those sex roles were reinforced by these games.  But our consciousness would be raised in due time.  I often wonder if these games actually made it easier for us to understand how and why these changes were needed.

I know those days and those games are gone, forever.  But there are still ways that children, left on their own, can create their own imaginary worlds.  In what seems like just a few yers ago, my nieces kids, all young adults now, used to play with their grandmothers costume jewelry.  They'd put a hat on me, adorn me with earrings and necklaces and rings, proclaim me the "King."  I was only too happy to oblige, despite looking rather foolish.  I'd like to think this activity made us all a little healthier, mentally

Worst Case

 While the country waits for another Super Bowl, the slow moving coup we're undergoing inches along.  The Constitution quakes, splinters, and seems less relevant every day.  Its unbroken record is serious threatened.  This is no bank crisis that Andrew Jackson faced, this is no civi war, not yet because the house is divided.  This is no Watergate.  This is raw power in the hands of a sociopath and a tech billionaire somewhere on the spectrum.  

Congress needs a refresher course on Separation of Powers.  Why are many in both houses so willing to offer up their share?  The Trump juggernaut rolls over everything in its path.  Where is the outrage from his own party?

The guy hasn't read a book in years.  That's why he can so easily revert to imperialism to back up his strong leanings toward racism, colonialism, and condescension.  He's a walking mess when it comes to understanding history and other cultures.  That's why we can't expect anything other than what we're getting.  

I want to hear from those who willfully placed their vote in his column.  When the regret hits, I want to know what they feel like.  Maybe they feel as little as he does.  Maybe they reserve their emotions for NFL games only.  

Now that the main event is in full swing, we await the chance to change our seats.  If a few Congressional seats can be flipped, the battle for the Constitution will rival any football bowl game.  A line will have been drawn in the sand and the politicos will have to say something or live by their silence.

Of all the changes that the blitzkrieg strategy of Elon Musk and Donals Trump have wrought so far, the one that stands out the most is the gutting of USAID.  This foreign policy strategy has gone counter to the notion of the "Ugly American" more than any other in recent memory. It's apparent that so many of the world's most vulnerable people depend on these programs for food, medicine and other basic human needs.  There is something particularly repugnant about the world's richest man and a would-be dictator teaming up to cut off these people.  In the name of America, this must be overturned at once.