Has 77 become the new 65 (which is just a night's sleep away for me)? Why do we tend to hang on to these numbers as if they represented something important about who we are? Sure, your friends and family need to know how many candles to put on the cake, and, at 77, insurance companies will run when you apply for long-term care insurance. It's what's within those 77--or for me 65--years that matters. So I'll let you be a couple of hockey sticks. Those hockey sticks have won championship tournaments, been lovingly cared for, polished, refinished, buffed. They've practiced, practiced, practiced! Their woodgrain has mellowed and grown smooth, gentler, but hold their necessary strength. The Ol' 77s have been taped and waxed repeatedly to reduce friction between the ice and the blade. They are sleek; they're passed with honor to the next generation who receives them with gratitude. They are more than hockey sticks. They are (I'm going to let others fill in the blank here) _________________.
Thank you for sharing this, Richard. I'm finding as I get older, I'm thinking more about the legacy I will leave behind. I also think as we get older, for many of us, it's easier to share vulnerabilities -- we know (finally) that we are not alone in our failures, insecurities, etc. We finally realize that really nobody has their sh-t together.
"Who cared what the puppeteer thought when the puppets were engaging and the story well-told?" -- sadly, no longer the case with today's (excessive) cancel culture!
I have been doing a lot of thinking the past few months about what to do with the rest of my life. I’m not 77 yet but I will be in a few months. Looking forward to reading about how you become more yourself as we all approach that dark forest.
There are no interlopers, Kathleen... And, for what it's worth, every time I start a story or a novel I have what's often been said to be a good thing, "a beginner's mind."
That you would turn 77, double canes, upside-down and into hockey sticks, speaks volumes. I think it might mean you’ve reached the point where the man dares to attempt to transform his life into legend. :)
Whew! What a thing to have to live up to! And thank you for liking "Commodore Perry's Minstrel Show," Mishelle. It is the book of which I am most proud.
Love it! I don’t follow any of the writer’s circles for a long time now. I am curious, did it ever get the attention I thought it deserved? Would you care to share why you are most proud of it??
Alas, Mishelle, the book sunk pretty quickly, as 'heavy' books are wont to do! Why am I must proud of it? Well, I guess because it took me a decade to write, and I'm still basically satisfied with every scene.
Before Pandemic I never thought that I am old. whenever Tv talked about elderly people and warning them my son said :it is not about us. but one day they said people older than 55 should be careful and .....that day I understood that I am not young anymore . CURONA virus put a mirror in front of my face.
A couple of weeks before I turned 74 I had a dream. In my dream, I awoke suddenly behind the steering wheel of my Subaru Forester. I had been driving at night for a long time along a lonesome road in winter; everything was covered in snow. There were no trees or bushes, just snow and a narrow road that stretched into the distance as far as my headlights could reach.
The engine was running, idling, but the vehicle was not moving, so it seems I had fallen asleep after driving until three or four in the morning but had not gone off the road. I awoke and knew I was in a dream and I also knew that it was very early in the morning, that I had been asleep in my dream and was now awake in my dream.
I was not aware we are both in the hockey sticks phase, in my case only until June. Both in my career and subsequent writing history I stuggle against an inate sense that its a terrible shame to let the truth get in the way of good story.
Isn't it funny how literary fiction periodically manifests this very tense relationship with 'literal' truth? So much for "based on a true story," or other disclaimers that are meant to give a direct-but-gentle permission to the readerly imagination.
How accurately can one see anything when viewing it through the branches of those ancient trees, anyway? And certainly there were always forests, even before the one now in front of you, filtering the light and scenting the air.
Nah... only the sense of place was based upon my experiences in Nigeria... the rest was just made up. Donnelly's? A bit... but I was an equal opportunity drinker
I'll bet you knew The Mill. It was torn down recently. The Iowa City I knew is gone, although the big mirror and its frame from Donnelly's is in a bar called Mickey's.
Has 77 become the new 65 (which is just a night's sleep away for me)? Why do we tend to hang on to these numbers as if they represented something important about who we are? Sure, your friends and family need to know how many candles to put on the cake, and, at 77, insurance companies will run when you apply for long-term care insurance. It's what's within those 77--or for me 65--years that matters. So I'll let you be a couple of hockey sticks. Those hockey sticks have won championship tournaments, been lovingly cared for, polished, refinished, buffed. They've practiced, practiced, practiced! Their woodgrain has mellowed and grown smooth, gentler, but hold their necessary strength. The Ol' 77s have been taped and waxed repeatedly to reduce friction between the ice and the blade. They are sleek; they're passed with honor to the next generation who receives them with gratitude. They are more than hockey sticks. They are (I'm going to let others fill in the blank here) _________________.
Thanks for your clever riff, Beth, and Happy Birthday tomorrow!
Old people aren't as old as they used to be.
Thank you for sharing this, Richard. I'm finding as I get older, I'm thinking more about the legacy I will leave behind. I also think as we get older, for many of us, it's easier to share vulnerabilities -- we know (finally) that we are not alone in our failures, insecurities, etc. We finally realize that really nobody has their sh-t together.
"Who cared what the puppeteer thought when the puppets were engaging and the story well-told?" -- sadly, no longer the case with today's (excessive) cancel culture!
I have been doing a lot of thinking the past few months about what to do with the rest of my life. I’m not 77 yet but I will be in a few months. Looking forward to reading about how you become more yourself as we all approach that dark forest.
Thanks for the past, Cathy. I think of you, and also of Ross, of course, very often.
There are no interlopers, Kathleen... And, for what it's worth, every time I start a story or a novel I have what's often been said to be a good thing, "a beginner's mind."
That you would turn 77, double canes, upside-down and into hockey sticks, speaks volumes. I think it might mean you’ve reached the point where the man dares to attempt to transform his life into legend. :)
Whew! What a thing to have to live up to! And thank you for liking "Commodore Perry's Minstrel Show," Mishelle. It is the book of which I am most proud.
Love it! I don’t follow any of the writer’s circles for a long time now. I am curious, did it ever get the attention I thought it deserved? Would you care to share why you are most proud of it??
Alas, Mishelle, the book sunk pretty quickly, as 'heavy' books are wont to do! Why am I must proud of it? Well, I guess because it took me a decade to write, and I'm still basically satisfied with every scene.
Before Pandemic I never thought that I am old. whenever Tv talked about elderly people and warning them my son said :it is not about us. but one day they said people older than 55 should be careful and .....that day I understood that I am not young anymore . CURONA virus put a mirror in front of my face.
The only thing to do, Moniro, is to put the mirror away. That's what I'm doing
Richard , my students in Iran and Germany couldn't open the link.
Dream
A couple of weeks before I turned 74 I had a dream. In my dream, I awoke suddenly behind the steering wheel of my Subaru Forester. I had been driving at night for a long time along a lonesome road in winter; everything was covered in snow. There were no trees or bushes, just snow and a narrow road that stretched into the distance as far as my headlights could reach.
The engine was running, idling, but the vehicle was not moving, so it seems I had fallen asleep after driving until three or four in the morning but had not gone off the road. I awoke and knew I was in a dream and I also knew that it was very early in the morning, that I had been asleep in my dream and was now awake in my dream.
I was not aware we are both in the hockey sticks phase, in my case only until June. Both in my career and subsequent writing history I stuggle against an inate sense that its a terrible shame to let the truth get in the way of good story.
Isn't it funny how literary fiction periodically manifests this very tense relationship with 'literal' truth? So much for "based on a true story," or other disclaimers that are meant to give a direct-but-gentle permission to the readerly imagination.
How accurately can one see anything when viewing it through the branches of those ancient trees, anyway? And certainly there were always forests, even before the one now in front of you, filtering the light and scenting the air.
More soon, I hope!
Dreux... Your comments echoed my wife's quite well. She thanks you for them and so do I!
I had been under the impression that the characters in Indigo were directly drawn from your experiences there.
Did you used to frequent Donnelly's?
Nah... only the sense of place was based upon my experiences in Nigeria... the rest was just made up. Donnelly's? A bit... but I was an equal opportunity drinker
If you could recommend one book (fiction or non-) to students, what would it be?
The key is in letting the students choose their own.... And yes, The Mill, I knew it well.
I'll bet you knew The Mill. It was torn down recently. The Iowa City I knew is gone, although the big mirror and its frame from Donnelly's is in a bar called Mickey's.