Indiana Oh Indiana

Political views and their values are some of the most difficult things for me to understand. Their furor is almost religious in many of those who are displaying signs on front lawns but also their establishing social systems with mentally locked gates designed to keep out poisonous thoughts of the opposition. There seems to be an adrenalin rush in unsympathetic views of the opposition’s “other party” that gives people a false idea of loyalty based upon almost black and white interpretations of good versus evil more treacherous than facts.

Looking at Democrats and Republicans reveals a staunch kind of loyalty sometimes going back to parents and their own family members in a sometimes clan-like loyalty from our parents and other family members in a feud that epitomizes the “us versus them” ethic, going back hundreds of years in an almost hereditary acceptance of social superiority over factual data.

Emotions and facts too often wage war against each other in what would otherwise be comic shenanigans on Gilligan’s Island, maybe because self-righteousness is one of the oldest sources of true comedy.

I remember family gatherings when I was growing up that, among thirty guests, would occasionally find one uncle or aunt stepping on a political comment that in the group was like stepping on a landmine. Vocal volumes would rise until Grandpa would take out a brandy decanter to calm the men down while the women rolled their eyes in almost a comic despair.

The rancor always subsided by the wee hours when we were all prepared to face the cold winter air outside and return home to our warm beds and the fact that we had once again survived another familial bout based upon American politics.  JB

For the past two years I’ve had the feeling that I’m some kind of marionette floating around rather a small puppet theater, my strings controlled by someone else. I know I’m alone and that others everywhere yearn to participate fully in life again without the shackles of the pandemic’s safety net or the political rancor that was somehow a part of it.

Just as I was beginning to feel that the world was crawling back to “normal,” our economy experienced what, to me and many others, seemed like a collapse of independence, our political system becoming more and more a child-like war game based upon points and awful opportunities to sneer at the opposition. I developed the psychotic fantasy of everyone from CNN and Fox News being given weapons to obliterate each other as in some kind of computer game.

Then came news items about Vladimir Putin’s plan of attacking the Ukraine, the possibility of devastation and violence bringing me almost to tears. The world I thought I knew just a few years ago had become a cesspool of suspicion, snide political criticism and too many “truths” turning out to be like fake Rolex watches. Yet further reflection made me realize that the world really hasn’t changed very much over the past several years, at least when it comes to world politics. JB

Waiting patiently for my 80^th birthday to pounce upon me in a little more than a year, I still miss my parents and siblings (David and Connie). I think of them daily through reminders in almost every room of my house.

In the sunroom I see the China cabinet that holds a complete set of Mom’s dishes and, across the room, Dad’s mahogany clock that chimes four times an hour on top of a bookcase beside which is an oval-back French chair that was Mom’s favorite because of the blue flowers on the silk upholstery.

Upon a desk in the living room are two photos of my parents at age twenty before they were married. Such things are triggers of recollection that remain parts of my life, like lifelines of comfortable connection.

The hardest part of aging for me is that feeling of nostalgia for all those whom I have loved who are no longer with us, except in old photos and warm memories of happy times we’ve shared. It’s not that my life isn’t about other people and things that are still here. It’s about emotional and spiritual connections that remain through love that can’t be put in a drawer and easily forgotten.

Love isn’t something that can be closed like a wonderful old book and put on a shelf to be forgotten. It’s something that becomes part of us, even after the physical remnants are long gone but stay in an emotional way to remind us that it was real as a kind of optimistic view that we will meet again someday. JB

I suspect that in most homes, there are books of family photos. Such collections in many houses tend to be on top shelves of closets or even in attics where they sometimes become forgotten visual histories of the residents.

Those accumulations of memories are sometimes forgotten until a loved one passes away so that a powerful need for happier times arises as a kind of balm to help soothe the awful sense of loss over final goodbyes.

An irony occurs when most tears are shed over the funniest or most embarrassing images of us when we were most vulnerable at our youngest times.

Family photo albums are like time machines that can take us back to the recent or distant past as a reminder that time has taken us all on inescapable journeys back to both joys and sorrows that accumulate over many years so that images can bring back those whom we have loved and sometimes those whom we have forgotten over time. Those photo albums open forgotten doors of memory and experience that sometimes show us the width and breadth of lifetimes and open doors we may have thought were closed forever.

So the next time an annoying relative gets a camera and flashbulbs ready to capture a moment of unison for later on, just remember that someday the result may be priceless, even if forgotten, treasure to bring back for a precious moment those who loved us and those whom we have loved.  JB

Writing is something we can all use to save some of our thoughts and ideas. Whether the process uses a pen, pencil, computer or typewriter is of little consequence. It’s what we have on our minds that means a lot, as we all need from time to time a way to save what’s on our minds (and in our hearts), sometimes releasing it like poison or expression of love and gratitude even much later.

I still have letters written to me by my parents while I was away from home in college. Just holding the paper in my hands brings back more than I can express in words as goodbyes disappear while I’m reading the messages shared by them so long ago.

Though I appreciate the speedy convenience of computers and their efficiency, e-mails for me can’t capture the deliberate and physical creation of what was done by hand while I was still young, and my parents (and grandparents) were still in their prime. The passage of time plays a large part in the special value of such letters, like that of priceless antiques. They represent almost the same sentiments as old photographs or locks of hair, or Mom’s gentle perfume still residing in an old handkerchief.

The mechanism of memory is something we all share on one level or another. We can’t live in the past, but it’s rewarding to know that loving memories of both joy and sorrow still exist in the power of old photographs or letters and that loving recollections remain so that we are still somehow in touch with those we loved, even many years later through those dear, priceless remnants of younger days that we don’t always appreciate while they occur but become like buried treasure as we age.  JB

I sometimes like to believe that when the point of my pen touches a piece of paper, some kind of magic occurs in that inexplicable moment when an idea or perception comes into focus out of yearning, recollection, rage or simple curiosity.

Mother Nature is always a worthy topic for thought and writing, but human nature is what always provides surprises based upon memories, envy, sympathy, hope, love, disappointment, failure or an emotional wandering that can take us to our own pasts or to imagined places that may yet prove to be real in some physical or emotional way.

The feeling of loss that comes from the increasing number of goodbyes to those we love becomes an ever-present reality, but it also spurs us on to appreciating the present and that frail awareness that life is probably too short for us all and is more worthy of being cherished than any of us can ever realize.

All of our minds wander, especially as we glide through our later years with long roads behind us and those whom we have lost in the turmoil of lives we can never appreciate enough until the goodbyes accumulate more and more frequently.

The remedy for coping, at least for me, is to appreciate all the loving recollections of family and friends whose earthly journeys have ended, but whose lives were gifts, not only for them but also to me in my knowing and loving their presence over many years.

The best thing we can do about the wonderful friendships we have is not to take them for granted and to appreciate them as being among life’s greatest gifts, even after the goodbyes.  JB

Every January first morning I sit for a while in my favorite wingchair with a glass of Mimosa (orange juice with Champagne) looking at the Christmas tree while contemplating the previous year. That experience has a cleansing effect that helps me open doors to the year ahead, recognizing my mistakes along with triumphs and hoping the mistakes will be fewer in the new year, ready for fresh views of the world, both good and bad.

Part of this emotional “journey” is for visiting that year in retrospect, admitting to errors and celebrating whatever triumphs there may have been. Each year increases the chances of goodbyes to family and friends who have passed away. That’s one of the painful parts of aging and something we must all endure until the world says goodbye to us too.

I believe the best and most important part of our saying farewell to the previous year is to widen our acceptance of whatever new experiences and people enter our lives. Old doors close, but new ones open to widen our views. Our willingness is a marvelous vehicle for change as well as the gift of those wonderful friends and family who remain and who continue with us on continuing journeys through joy, beauty and sorrow that we need never face alone.

Now I raise my Mimosa glass to the past, toast to the future and to continued life among dear family and friends with whom life becomes a miraculously shared journey.  JB

Most of us have ideas and hopes bubbling beneath the surface of our daily activities. We react, at least internally, to social and political occurrences. I think of my dad, who while watching the evening news, would suddenly explode with expletives about politics or any issues on TV which made me wish that those folks on the TV screen could hear Dad’s language becoming quite colorful with vocabulary for which we kids would be sent to our rooms had we used it, even at a whisper.

That gene from Dad is one I have inherited so that venting during the evening news can erupt in volcanic ways that would probably make any innocent guests utter lines like, “Well, John, we think it’s time we were going home to check on the kids to make sure they haven’t burned down the house or got into the liquor cabinet.”

In fact, most of my friends and family know that keeping the peace in conversation is far easier without any open references to America’s political landscape. This premise, I’m guessing, has socially avoided everything from thrown blunt objects to heart attacks among any visitors who regard me mostly as a calm, level-headed person for whom ugly scenes of verbal political battles are completely unnecessary.

I have noticed in other households brave enough to discuss politics that every idea or observation is accepted until the name Donald J. Trump is leaked into the conversation. It is then that some voices change, becoming louder and more threatening on both sides of the banter.

The most recent shock to my psyche was the Trumpster’s picture again on the cover of Time Magazine. The editors, who seem to have been entranced in a way that completely escapes my understanding so that I need to remind myself repeatedly that I’m still on planet Earth, where dictatorship seems to be getting more popular again for reasons that didn’t use to be so in vogue. The only amusing reference that came to mind was a children’s show of the 1950’s call Garfield Goose, on which a delusional goose named Garfield wore a golden crown and was humored by other puppets and the host, Frasier Thomas (Garfield’s prime minister), to continue believing that he (Garfield Goose) was king of the United States.

History does repeat itself, but now I’m having a tough time accepting a new but similar ethos that is real and in which too many zombified Americans have put their hope in what I feel is a dangerous trust that is going to harm us all again.  JB

I remember that during childhood, the word “goodbye” had a most melancholy effect when it was used to leave the homes of my grandparents, especially during the Christmas holidays when I, my siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered for Christmas dinner followed by live music from fiddles, guitars, a violin, piano, and octet of vocals by my parents, aunts, uncles and family friends. The adults sometimes danced while we kids played board games and ate Christmas cookies.

Such memories are truly sensory and accumulated until I was in my mid-thirties. I still recall the music, the aromas of wonderful food, the sound of delightful laughter, most of which has since been silenced in the grave. Even several of my younger cousins are no longer with us, and the joyful cacophony of those years still comes back to me when I hear holiday carols or any Hawaiian guitar music that recalls our dear family friend, Bill Aronson, who always played it on his own instrument with my relatives singing along. Grandpa played the double bass, Dad played the guitar, and uncles played other instruments, including the piano. The other adults sang along as they all drifted quietly from Christmas carols to Hawaiian hula music, which made me think that Santa was somewhere frowning about that sacristy on the birthday of Baby Jesus.

Even now when I hear Hawaiian music, instead of thinking about  palm trees and hula dancers wearing grass skirts, I remember the very vivid sound of carols played on those sliding strings…and I can smell Grandma’s pineapple upside down cake, pumpkin pies, and hear the joyful voices of my extended family singing and chatting while icy winds blew outside, usually until the wee hours of the morning, when Dad, Mom, my brother David, I and my sister Connie ventured out to the car and pretended that our steamy breath was from cigarettes. We would all then sleep until noon the next day.

Now, almost everyone else has passed away, even cousins much younger than I. I wonder every year what memories others my age or younger have of their family yuletide gatherings. My recollections are all still quite vivid during the season, especially on Christmas Day, when it all comes back to me, like forgotten buried treasure.  JB

I no longer lose sleep over the consistently cruel and mean-spirited Donald Trump. He is now, to me, a simple, completely predictable cloddish cartoon without a speck of empathy, respect (except for Adolph Hitler, Benito Mussolini, and Kim Jon Un) or concern for anybody or anything except his wavering bank account and how he can fleece  people naïve enough to fatten his bank balance by purchasing his rather embarrassing array of  expensive but cheaply made trinkets that undoubtedly make him smile at how stupid his worshipers  really are.

His vanity has no limit in his eliciting snide laughs through his insults at decent folks whom he abhors except for their blind financial devotion (and I don’t mean the funny ones that the comic Don Rickles used).

I often wonder how the rest of the “civilized” world sees us Americans when they see and hear the things about which Trump brags in his generally total lack of empathy, generosity, and kindness, which would seem only an embarrassment to him. It makes me wonder too about the terrifying undercurrent of disappointment and rage as they absorb Trump’s complete lack of respect for anyone who isn’t a multimillionaire (which based upon his level of extreme debt is certainly something about which he has nurtured endless lies over many years.

Add to all this seemingly total disrespect for women, all the middle class and impoverished Americans, and one finds in him, instead of the golden calf, a cheap and rusting statue representing the lowest form of useless and deceptive idol, one that is finally beginning to be revealed for what it really is, a phony whose days of being adored by so many is at last coming into focus, the defeated orange relic about whom everything is fakery and illusion.  JB