Dad’s birthday was March 18, so St. Patrick’s Day just started the celebration in my childhood home. My parents were not big drinkers, but a little Irishness and the “wearin’ o’ the green” seemed to get the laughter rolling without a lot of alcohol. Shared laughter as a vital part of family love is one of the greatest gifts my parents gave me.

Dad was also a firefighter. The bagpipes at his funeral were as much for his profession as for his Irishness. The American tradition of bagpipes at funerals for police officers and firefighters stems from the our “potato famine” Irish immigration days, when many Irish immigrants could find no other work than the most dangerous professions. For awhile in the United States, being a firefighter became synonymous with being Irish. The bagpipe tradition has endured.

Interestingly, my father also chose the firefighter’s life for economic reasons. His family had a tough time during the Great Depression. He left school at the age of 14 to help support his family. After the war, Dad’s firefighter-brother-in-law sold him on firefighting as a “depression proof” career.

I was named after my father, so indirectly I too was named after St. Patrick. Until college, I was actually called Pat at school and Trish only at home. In high school (in those long lost days of only one land-line phone per household), boys would call up and ask for Pat; and (much to their terror) the next voice they heard was that of my father. 

With the start of college, I chose Trish for both public and private venues and ultimately legally changed my name from Patricia to Trish for consistency’s sake. I sometimes wonder if I’d have become a whole other person had my parents chosen “Patty” as the at-home nickname. Either way, it is a testament to the loving family environment my parents provided that, even in those break-away teenage years, I chose to become who I was in their home over who I was among my school friends.

Thank you Dad. You’ll always be the true St. Patrick in my life.

Whether or not you believe in an afterlife, it is a truism that our loved ones watch over us after they’re gone - at the very least poetically; and in our memories, most certainly psychologically. It is from them that we learn to love and learn to laugh - core skills of personal resilience. Love and laughter endure far beyond the death of any or all of the beloved.

pontificate 2: to speak or express opinions in a pompous or dogmatic way -  merriam-webster.com

I had one of those interesting wonder-if moments after my post on quieting down. I wondered if conversational fatigue is a natural part of this path through and beyond middle age. After all, middle age is as much about attitudinal change and gaining perspective as it is about chronology. Doesn’t some part of the getting of wisdom involve developing a certain laissez-faire equanimity about a lot of things that seemed overwhelmingly important when we were younger? Perhaps, I thought, everyone quiets down as they age.

Ha!

Just circumstantial evidence supports the opposite. The very afternoon of my musing, I ran into Liz, the 80-year-old antithesis of my theory. I share a 90-minute, parking-lot conversation with Liz about once a month. Liz was a next-door neighbor when I was growing up in Seattle. She moved to this area after her daughter bought a property not far from us (one of those small-world serendipities.)

A contemporary of my parents, Liz is one of those people who NEVER stops talking (as is her daughter I’ve discovered). At this point in her life, Liz’s monologue is rife with a long thread of what’s-wrong-withs – what’s wrong with the world, the country, our small town, the internet and all associated technologies; and on down to her favorite subjects – what’s wrong with her children and grandchildren.

I do have to give Liz this much – she is a colorful and somewhat gifted orator with a well-developed (if consistently judgmental) sense of humor. She was a cocktail waitress in her formative years – back in the day when all cocktail waitresses wore – well, not much. Her bawdy, occasionally-profane tales boost my tolerance of her stream of complaints. With time and a change in my own perspective, she’s evolved from just a gossiping busy-body into something of a tolerable character. I like characters. (I’ve been told I am one.) When I run into her, unless there is something truly pressing, I give her my time and my ear. We always end our conversation with her invitation for me to come by for tea. I haven’t so far. I guess I’m not quite that tolerant.

I have to admit that for us quiet types, effusive blabberers can be a conversational boon – all we have to do is listen and nod occasionally and “conversation” takes care of itself. And although Liz is an extreme, she is certainly an excellent reminder that not everyone values quiet serenity as a life goal. (In fact, a little googling leads me to suspect quieting down as a function of aging is rare – just another behavior on the list of hermit idiosyncrasies.)

But back to Liz. As entertaining as Liz can be, I always feel a little sad when we part after a conversation. I always think I should take the time for tea; after all, it won’t be too long before we won’t be meeting in parking lots anymore. I’m saddened that she’s entered what’s probably the last chapter of her life so dissatisfied with the way things have turned out. I’m saddened that, given the very peripheral nature of our friendship, she confides in me as much as she does. Perhaps I’m the only safe forum she has for her complaints.

Perhaps she’s lonely. Her judgmentalism may have set her up for that. I certainly would not want to be one of her children – or grandchildren. It sounds like Liz tries to micro-manage her whole family, down to the smallest circumstantial details, often using financial rewards or threats as the pivot point. Many of the behaviors Liz disapproves of in her children are, in fact, part of my own routine. Liz doesn’t know that, of course. She doesn’t actually know me very well and when we talk, I don’t need to talk.

Unfortunately for Liz (and in spite of her occasional entertainment value), Liz tops my list as the kind of elder I don’t want to become: the judgmental pontificator. The source of much inter-generational divisiveness, the loudest pontificators seem quite certain that, having lived a certain number of years, what they’ve learned must surely be gospel.

I’ve got news. What you’ve learned through experience is not gospel – it’s just a chronicle of your experience within the circumstances of your life. Yes, we do learn from experience, but much of what we learn that way cannot be taught. By the time our children enter high school, most of what they learn is coming from their own experiences, not from our pontifications. Yes, they’ll still need a few more years of guidance, and parenting is really a lifetime commitment, but the rapid change of today’s world almost guarantees that many of our children’s life experiences will be very different from ours. Most of our pontifications later in life (certainly by the time our children reach 30), especially those in the realm of specific circumstantial formulas that worked for us, already don’t (or soon won’t) apply at all. Let it go. The world is not going back to the way it used to be. The happiest among us find ways to celebrate that, even participate – not continually denigrate.

There’s a word for the belief (or desperate insistence) that everyone else (including your adult children) should do things the way you always have, make the same kinds of choices you always do, and live their lives as a reflection of the way you live your life. You may think the word is caring, but it isn’t. Most often, the word that best describes those manipulative, mini-me expectations is CONCEIT.

The good news is it’s never too late to stop trying to change others, especially other adults.  It’s also never too late to consider changing yourself – the one part of the equation over which you have some real control.

Share wisdom if you’re asked, but skip all the petty circumstantial stuff – what car to drive, what clothes to wear, your preference for certain neighborhoods or professional choices.  The kind of wisdom to share is the stuff that holds up beyond culture, fashion and clique; the stuff they’ll need to survive the greatest changes and the direst circumstances – the health crises, natural disasters, wars and economic downturns -  the inspirational stuff like courage, tolerance, love and compassion. But even that kind of wisdom is best taught by demonstration not with a diatribe of empty shoulds.

Demonstrate serenity and acceptance. Demonstrate inclusivity, not exclusivity. Overcome judgment. Demonstrate peace. Demonstrate love without circumstantial conditions and expectations. If you can train yourself to consistently prioritize and demonstrate any of those (or even a couple of them), not only will you be happier and healthier, you’ll probably mysteriously discover you’ve also overcome most of your complaints about the way things turned out.  Don’t be surprised if your need to pontificate declines accordingly.

I’m not pontificating, mind you. All I really know is what works for me.

The wordiness of life has been bugging me more than usual lately.

It’s been almost six weeks since I’ve written anything for this blog and I have to confess there were moments when I seriously considered abandoning the endeavor.  I’ve talked about these phases before. The unusual element this time is I abandoned other writing as well.

Initially I thought it was just my standard hermit reaction to a recent surge of activity with Tools-n-Gizmos.com, our online business. I’ve always been someone who seeks quiet in response to the noise of making-a-living – I suspect it’s a recuperative balancing act necessary for many introverts.

But business has leveled off (for some reason it always does as summer approaches), and my psyche is still predominated by a very specific contemplative thread on the value-of-quiet vs. the silliness-of-CHATTER. Even when out “conducting business” my people-watching is repeatedly drawn to others’ noisy exchanges of (to me) useless irrelevancies – a large part of many conversations it seems. Then I reflect on the potential irrelevancy (to others) of my own chatter. I apologize if this post is rapidly becoming a self-fulfilling demonstration.

Maybe it’s a life phase thing based on the over accumulation of redundant verbal experiences.  Buddy Kathy and I did one of our periodic art studio tours a couple of weeks ago. Since then, I’ve felt restlessly drawn to re-prioritize painting over writing. I am only a recreational painter and my attraction to painting has less to do with artistic inspiration and more to do with exploring  the wordless – fresh reflective ground. Quiet reflective ground.

Or perhaps it’s just that when us quiet types quiet down, we ultimately seek absolute zero. The call to and need for silence may be the basic hermit motivation. The lucky among us have arranged our lives to accommodate that need, at least periodically.  I keep coming back to Thomas Merton’s words at the end of the short video I posted about him:

“This solitude confirms my call to solitude. The more I’m in it, the more I love it. One day it will possess me entirely and no man will ever see me again.”

I’ve already discovered something by writing this much:  just as talking-about-love is not the same as love, talking-about-quiet is not the same as quiet.

I’ll keep you posted – I think.

Uncles worked for Weyerhaeuser and although I grew up in Seattle, my father bought a 40-acre stand of timber when I was in second-grade.  Dad’s shift schedule with the Seattle Fire Department allowed for many days at The Acres, as we called it. Over the years, Dad logged enough timber from the property to pay for it several times over.  When I was growing up, many weekends and most school holidays were spent in those woods.  Here’s an old photo of Dad, my sister and me with a load ready for the mill. I’m the short one. (I don’t get to say that very often.) (And don’t worry, as children, we were never actually allowed anywhere near active logging operations.)

Dad and Mom moved to The Acres after Dad’s retirement from the fire department. I actually helped Dad fell a couple of big trees at The Acres the spring of the year he died (of leukemia). I cherish the time I spent with him in the woods during his last year.  He was still harvesting a tree here and there at the age of 82. He was lucky to be where he wanted, doing what he loved, almost to the end. And, in spite of all the trees removed from The Acres over the years, much of it was still forested when we sold the property…. Balance.

The personal little patch of forest I share with Griz is bounded on two sides by a thousand-acre, well-managed tree farm.  There are few days when I don’t see fully-loaded log trucks on the road. But even with all those logs on the way to the mill, visible or expansive clear-cuts are a rare site. Washington State’s Department of Natural Resources and the timber industry itself do a pretty fair job now of managing the timber harvest and preventing blatant environmental abuse. As with all resource management – balance is the key. Not even private land owners are allowed to fall more than several trees a year without a permit now.  Replant criteria and watershed protections are strictly enforced, too.

Yes, there are still abuses around the edges. Timber theft occurs – it’s one reason we have a locking gate and security system. There are independents who complain about and circumvent every regulation. But things have monumentally improved (perhaps thanks to those fanatical tree-huggers).  The environmental rape that occurred as little as 50 years ago (and which extended back 100+ years before that here) is, fortunately, rapidly becoming just a sad memory.

If you’ve ever walked through a clear-cut area (or tried to) as I have, you’d understand that it really is impossible to clear-cut without creating devastation and tragic habitat destruction. But in the loggers’ defense, I understand why clear-cutting is (at least in some areas) the only economically feasible approach. Just getting logging equipment into the forest and moving big logs out once the trees are down creates a significant amount of devastation.  Once you’re there, taking everything and finishing the destruction as rapidly as possible makes some sense. But carefully monitoring and restricting how many acres can be clear cut at a time is important  – habitat preservation within a certain range of the cut is critical for recovery of refugee species after the timber harvest. Rapid replanting and environmental regeneration benefits everyone, including the timber industry.

Having an innate fascination with all things tool, Griz watches the History Channel’s Axmen periodically. Perhaps it’s because I only see those sections of the show that Griz calls to my attention, or perhaps it’s the way the show is edited in general; but in my opinion, the show should be subtitled “the world’s stupidest loggers.” And I don’t mean to diminish the risks loggers face moving all that weight around in unpredictable conditions (which Axmen actually emphasizes very clearly or perhaps over-emphasizes for dramatic effect). (Logging consistently comes in statistically as the most dangerous [fatalities per capita] profession over fishermen and firefighters.) But I have to file TV logging right up there with other “reality-TV” FUBARs – another sad example where selling the video is probably more profitable than the activity itself. And just like the other “reality” stars, there seems no shortage of loggers willing to voluntarily make fools of themselves for a few extra bucks.

But one thing you definitely won’t see on Axmen is reverence for the trees.  Trying to give commercial loggers the benefit of the doubt, I suppose it’s almost impossible to work that hard and fast trying to turn a profit and still have time (or any inclination) for reverence – for anything – let alone for each tree that falls.

I, on the other hand,  have only been involved in the felling of a few trees. I have always participated in single tree projects – diseased trees, leaners that were threatening buildings, that kind of thing.  I’m sure the commercial loggers would consider it almost recreational cutting -  arborist type work.  I wasn’t even the cutter – I was a cable puller or wedge driver, maybe a choker setter after the fact.  But each case for me demanded a certain reverence. It was always obvious from beginning to end that there was a death involved.  The death of the big old tree was always the final outcome.

There’s a distinctive sequence in the planned death of a big old tree. There’s the long clear droning of the chainsaw as the cuts are made; sometimes there’s the driving of wedges to create the final imbalance; and then there’s the moment when the tree gives in. There’s an agonizing stillness, almost imperceptible cracking noises at first, then slightly louder cracks – a noticeable shudder when the tipping point is reached. As the tree finally topples there’s a groaning sound – almost a death sigh – sometimes the echo of branches breaking (the death tree’s and any collateral damage), then the earth shakes with a distinctive thud when the big tree hits the ground.

This is the one opportunity James Cameron missed with Avatar. He should have depicted a quieter cutting of the big old tree. Rather than all that fire power, the stroke of a laser and then the awesome and devastating impact of a more true-to-life tree death would have been more dramatic. He could have even had the tree fall toward the audience in terrifying 3D. But perhaps, James Cameron has never really watched a big tree die.

I browsed YouTube for a video of what I’m talking about.  This is the closest I could find:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Uh-oh. I feel my logger tolerance waning as I write.

Here’s the thing: The death of a big, old tree is a tragic, awesome and memorable event. At the very least, appropriate reverence should be required every single time.

Click here to view the embedded video.

As my life goes on I believe
Somehow something’s changed
Something deep inside
Ooh a part of me

There’s a strange new light in my eyes
Things I’ve never known
Changin’ my life
Changin’ me

I’ve been searchin’
So long
To find an answer
Now I know my life has meaning

Now I see myself as I am
Feeling very free
Life is everything
Ooh it’s meant to be
When my tears have come to an end
I will understand
What I left behind
Part of me…

As usual, Donna’s post was good thought-food, though for some reason I wound up thinking more about the music than about searching.  (Well, I did spend some time reflecting on what I might have been searching for in 1974 [the year Chicago released Searching So Long] and whether I found it or ultimately abandoned the quest.)  But the music from her post lingered. Part of the fun of looking back at the music is noticing how perspective gives the lyrics refreshing new meaning.

I wound up wondering at what point the music of our childhood (often our parents’ music) transitions to our own music and not theirs. For some of us, it’s that intentionally cultivated point where our preferred music alienates our parents, but that’s not always true. The methods for teenagers to alienate their parents are many and sundry – and always have been. Music may or may not be involved.

But if you’re a music person (even just an appreciator, like me), important memories always wind up tied to whatever music surrounds you at the time of any life passage, phase or event. Ever after, that music stimulates the memories of the associated events and vice versa. I suppose that’s not so great for those who hang on to the lousy memories – and there is some music which stimulates sad memories for me. But I don’t dwell on the sadness when I hear the music. I just reflect on the lessons learned or losses endured and charge onward to a different soundtrack (or playlist) to snap myself out of the maudlin if I get stuck there.

Of course, like other memories of youth, the music of youth often seems more vivid and lasting than some of the later additions. Psychologically, this has more to do with the youthful memories (and music) falling on a fresh canvas than it does (as some youngsters think) with the terminally declining mental acuity of us oldsters. Yes, there is such a thing as age-related memory loss – but not everyone over 40 is trapped in a downward spiral into dementia. In youth, many things, including music, are hooked into memory as extremely relevant because of their newness. Ultimately, experience diminishes the novelty factor and memories in later life are stored in a very crowded filing system. As we mature, we also get significantly more efficient at forgetting (intentionally or subconsciously) the irrelevant. And our definition of relevant changes dramatically – or should.

But I think it’s important not to get stuck only with the music of our younger years. I continue to allow new music to seep into my life. Since I don’t really have any other handy sources and I don’t spend very much online time listening to music, I frequently listen to fm radio while driving as a method of familiarizing myself with new music and younger artists. This gets me 5+ hours per week of serendipitous music discovery. Though listening to radio may itself be an archaic and outdated (hopefully, not dying) method, when I find something I like, I do have an iPod for downloading it.

Of course, whether a song is on the top 40 (if that still exists per se), which artists are dating each other, and what any of them are wearing is totally irrelevant to me.  But I never was into that aspect of the music scene. And I admit, I’ve never developed a true appreciation of rap. But as a writer, I’ve long appreciated lyrics, and rap has significantly improved the lyrics of all genres. There’s as much talent out there as ever.

The old music is important and meaningful, but I think it’s also important not to get stuck with only your old tunes. Like other retreats we inadvertently wander into as we age – closing the door on the new limits our perspective, our opportunities, and our readiness to keep up the search – and therein may be the passage from mature to just plain old.

I was in choir and smaller chorales from one end to the other of my K-12 school years. I have fond memories of the energetic gestalt of group sing – palpable here, I think:

Click here to view the embedded video.

As a naturally introverted youngster, I was lucky to find a group activity that worked for me.  I was also fortunate to attend large urban schools (Seattle) with excellent, well-funded music programs. Choral singing allowed me to develop social skills and a comfort with teamwork I might have missed if left to my loner tendencies. There’s something about the mutual creation of music that allows an introvert to participate, yet still remain partially insulated from the barrage of interaction present in most large group situations.