The Twilight Zone

Only people of my generation— and their numbers are dwindling—will get that title reference and start singing the theme music. But for those who missed out, it was a TV series about the mysterious, inexplicable, far-fetched stories ranging from Martians landing to someone suddenly able to read everyone’s thoughts. Whenever something out of the ordinary happened, my friends and I would start singing "Dee-dee-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee." 

 

And so when I returned from my long bike ride yesterday and reached for my glasses in their case in my front pocket, they weren’t there. I searched the house for all the places I might have set them down, knowing that I had just used them reading at the beach before setting off on the bike ride. Nowhere. They simply had disappeared. Dee-dee-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee. 

 

To make it yet stranger, I had a similar experience the summer before, when I returned from a bike ride with both glasses and case gone from my front pocket. Bike riding is a pretty vertical activity (at least on my bike) and it made no sense whatsoever that they could have fallen out of my pocket. But just for my idea of fun, I drove my route in the car with granddaughter Zadie and had her looking for them at the side of the road. And lo and behold, after a few miles, there they were!!! Astounding! Dee dee dee dee. Of course, they were broken, but it still set my mind at ease that they hadn’t simply vanished into the Twilight Zone.

 

So Zadie and I got in the car yesterday to look for this missing pair and……………

 

We didn’t find them. And they still haven’t shown up in the house. Just gone. Vanished. 

 

Perhaps we’ll be shopping in town someday and pass someone wearing them. 

 

Or not. 

 

Dee dee dee dee…

 

Friends

And so the days proceed apace up north on Lake Michigan. The grandkids help me with my solitaire game, join me for morning oatmeal, sit on the couch with me while I read The Island of the Blue Dolphins to them. We frolic in the lake, build sand castles, play paddleball and frisbee, walk on the beach and occasionally up the steep sand dune called The Sugar Bowl. And often, in the late afternoon, a new joy— all of us nestled in with our own books. We are a family of readers and we are so happy to welcome the next generation to the club.

 

This morning Malik was talking to his Mom about his friends and included my wife and I. Given the amount that we play together, hike together, read together, watch movies together, there is some truth in that. Such a contrast to the parents and grandparents of my childhood. The idea of an adult being a friend with a kid just didn’t really exist. We lived in worlds apart and mostly happily so. We had no desire to hang out with adults, who sat and talked about boring things, did weird things like sit and pay bills, drank disgusting beverages and might occasionally play catch with us, but never climb trees or jump in puddles or twirl until they fell down. And they certainly had no desire to watch cartoons with us or listen to our fart jokes. Or talk to us about our ideas or hopes or dreams. The going maxim at the family gathering dinner table was “Children should be seen and not heard.”

 

So I was intrigued by an essay by John Steinbeck (from America and Americans) called Conversations at Sag Harbor. Written in 1961, it talks of a trip he took with his two sons and begins:

 

“I do not subscribe to Togetherness, which seems to foster active dislike between American parents and their children. A father being a pal to his son not only is nonsense but can be dangerous. Father and son are natural enemies and each is happier and more secure in keeping it that way. 

 

Last year we decided to go to Sag Harbor. Ours is no attempt to be pals but rather for each side to spy out and neutralize the changing weapons of the other. In the car trip there, we passed a few guarded remarks—weather, how we felt, how good it was to be together—not really fighting, just feinting and getting the range…”

 

 You get the idea. But as one reads, you see they had a marvelous time together, filled with deep conversation and memorable activities. 

 

Malik is now at the beach doing yoga with his aunt, Zadie just woke up and scared me from behind as I write (as she does each morning), last night we built a fire on the beach, toasted marshmallows for s’mores, sang songs and looked for the Big Dipper in the night sky. Tonight some guests will come and we’ll all play Charades after dinner, kids and adults alike. I was happy to be a parent of young children in the 80’s, a grandparent of young children in the teens and a teacher of young children my whole life. I’m willing to be stern and strict as needed, understand and respect the clear boundaries between the kid’s mind, heart and body and the adult’s, but my lifelong pleasure in playing with children has kept the child in me alive, that young boy who I admire, respect, enjoy and am glad to have by my side.

 

Had he lived in a different time, I think Steinbeck would understand. 

Body and Soul

Today was the bike ride day, a 10-12 mile Rails to Trails ride through the woods without changing gears— flat, flat, flat (amazing for a San Franciscan!) with a perfect temperature and a beautiful dappled light path. One way ended with a swim in Crystal Lake and a picnic lunch, the return trip rewarded with an ice cream from the bike rental/café shop ( a necessary enticement for my young grandchildren).  Then the adults went another eight miles back to the cottage. Grab a towel, go to the back lake and plunge in the waters for a vigorous half-mile swim. 

 

I’ve never been obsessive about exercise, feeling that getting up and down off the floor and dancing with kids guaranteed a minimum of necessary physical exertion, alongside weekend bike rides. In my newly (well, over a year now) retired life during the pandemic, I’ve either walked some five miles each day around the city or biked around ten miles. And no surprise— it feels good. 

 

But between counting my swim strokes and noting my miles walked on my phone ap (doesn’t work for the bike), it’s tempting to fall into the numerical pit of fulfilling a certain quota, exercising not just for the pleasure of movement, but to prove to myself that I did the right amount to make me happier and healthier. It’s a slippery slope to equate those numbers to the state of your soul. The science is clear the body and mind are intricately and inextricably connected, that exercise helps oxygenate the brain, tone the body, releases the feel-good dopamine and serotine neurotransmitters— in short, helps the mind think better, the emotions feel better, the body function better. I don’t think anyone can argue with that. 

 

But what about the soul? I think of people like Chopin and Rilke and other artists with frail bodies and constant sickness singing such soulful music and poetry. Would daily workouts at the gym contributed more to their creations? Or distracted them? Or traded in feeling hale and hearty for their explorations into the deep recesses of the suffering and exuberant soul? 

 

I plan to think about this during my 800-stroke swim tomorrow.

In Praise of Teachers

 

When John Steinbeck’s 11-year old son asked his father how much longer he had to go to school, 

Steinbeck replied, “About fifteen years. It’s terrible and I’m not going to try to tell you it isn’t. But I can tell you this—if you are very lucky, you may find a teacher and that is a wonderful thing.” He then goes on to praise teachers with his characteristic eloquence and insight:

 

“A great teacher is a great artist and there are as few as there are any other great artists. It might even be the greatest of arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.

 

Great teachers have these things in common:

 

• They all love what they are doing.

• They do not tell—instead, they catalyze a burning desire to know. 

• Under their influence, horizons spring wide and fear goes away and the unknown becomes knowable.

• Most important of all, the truth, that dangerous stuff, becomes beautiful and very precious.

 

My first true teacher, in addition to other things, brought discovery. She aroused us to discovery to shouting, bookwaving discussions. She had the nosiest class in school and she didn’t even seem to know it. We could never stick to the subject, geometry of the chanted recitation of the memorized phyla. Our speculation ranged the world. She breathed curiosity into us so that we brought in facts or truths shielded in our hands like captured fireflies. 

 

She was fired and perhaps rightly so, for failing to teach the fundamentals. Such things must be learned. But she left a passion in us for the pure knowable world and me she inflamed with a curiosity which never left me. I could not do simple arithmetic but through her I sensed that abstract mathematics was very like music. When she was removed, a sadness came over us but the light did not go out. She left her signature on us, the literature of the teacher who writes on minds. I have had many teachers who told me soon-forgotten facts but only a few who created in me a new thing, a new attitude and a new hunger. I am the unsigned manuscript of that high school teacher. What deathless power lies in the hands of such a person."  

 

And you, dear reader. Have you been so lucky as to find a teacher with that magic that lit up all the years that followed? If so, and you haven’t done it yet, don’t forget to thank them.

 

  

Paddleball for Peace

Back when my first daughter Kerala was 9 years old, we had a memorable peak experience while standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon. You might imagine us standing looking at that unfathomable grandeur at sunset, properly awed by its majesty, its antiquity, its goosebump beauty. A father and a daughter holding hands and contemplating together life’s great mystery.  Embraced by a moment that made the clocks stop and swept us up together into the arms of a profound sense of belonging. A moment we would remember for the rest of our lives.

 

Remember it we did, but it wasn’t as described. The epiphany was us achieving our world record of consecutive paddleball volleys— somewhere around 510, if I remember correctly. 

 

And now paddleball— I mean the simple act of two paddles and a little ball volleying back and forth, no net, no rules beyond seeing how many you can do before someone misses— has come back into my family life. First during the pandemic as an activity with my daughter Talia and another record-breaking volley of 600 plus (the exact figure scrawled down somewhere). The scene was her back yard, not quite as impressive as the Grand Canyon. Achieving our personal best at ages 36 and 69 also had a different resonance, but certainly was satisfying. I did a little with the grandkids during their various visits during this pandemic year and now here in Michigan, we’re resuming it. 6-year-old Malik’s record is 16 and 9-year-old Zadie’s is 37 (and don’t worry, I’m not comparing her to her mother). Today, my wife joined us for the first time and Kerala jumped back in after a 32-year hiatus and using two cloth paddles we found alongside the two wooden paddles and the back of a few frisbees, had a full-family game of 6. (World record was 25). 

 

And so in the way that I do, finding solutions to world turmoil in whatever simple acts I currently enjoy, I’m ready to raise the banner of “Paddleball for Peace.” Again, opposing members of Congress beginning sessions with a mandatory 15 minutes of paddleball in pairs, each session trying to beat their personal best (with no big prizes for the highest score, but also some recognition of such accomplishment). Might that civilize the dialogue, help politicians both the pleasure and importance of working together, soften the demonizing that has become the norm? I certainly think so.

 

Try it yourself. With your family and friends. Or fellow staff members before a meeting or colleagues before getting down to business. Playing games is a game-changer. And paddleball is cheap, simple, challenging and satisfying. Go!

Unplugged

In the middle of my daughter’s Zoom work day up north in our Lake Michigan retreat, the power went out. Ever resourceful, I suggested we go into town in hopes that the power outage hadn’t reached there. It hadn’t. So she got to work in the library, the kids were delighted to take out ten books and when they got restless, we went to the ice cream shop with the promise that this was their treat for the day— no more sweets after dinner. I dropped in the hardware store to buy a paddleball set and we played for a while longer in the park and returned to the cottage, certain that the power would be back on after our three-hour absence.

 

It wasn’t. And our neighbor said she heard it wouldn’t be restored for four more days. She had a generator and generously offered her refrigerator if needed, but the news was disconcerting. Luckily, it was the beginning of a work break for my daughter—exactly four days!— but we began to take stock of the challenges and the solutions. 

 

There was the food in the refrigerator and the absence of drinking water. Solved by another trip to town to get four gallon water jugs, ice for the cooler and putting some of the perishables in the freezer, which would stay cold longer. Without electricity, the toilets don’t flush. No problem. There’s the woods. The shower wouldn’t work. But there’s the lake. The stove wouldn’t work. Leftover cold soup, sandwiches and quesadillas on the propane grill work fine. No internet, no phone service— no problem. The world will go on without us answering the phone or e-mails. We couldn’t finish the E.T. movie we had started to watch with the kids. Who cares? We got books! The old-fashioned kind with covers and paper-pages. The electric piano won’t play. But then there’s the guitar. As for light, we have candles and in the morning, the sun would return. 

 

And so we passed a delightful evening singing by candlelight, talking and joking, reading a bit by flashlight. My wife went next door to our other neighbor and rescued the ice cream in her freezer (she was away for the night) and told the kids we HAD to eat it. Two ice cream cones in one day!! This might give them ideas to cut the power lines for future treats. 

And then in the middle of the night, I was awakened by lights on and the bathroom sink running. The power was back 3½ days ahead of schedule. Naturally, it makes things easier and makes publishing this possible, but the way things are going, we all would do well to practice for live without— or with less—electricity. And discover that it’s not only possible, but sometimes more delightful.  

 

A Sense of Wonder

Whenever I got to eavesdrop on kids at my school recounting memorable moments, they were never about the perfect math test, the well-taught lesson or even the Spring Concert or Holiday Play. They tended to be things like the raccoon getting in their tent in the school camping trip, the snake that escaped its cage in first grade and couldn’t be found, the day it snowed 1/8 of an inch in San Francisco. Things that were the unexpected events that the natural world offers, those moments when we’re not in control, but if we’re lucky, feel part of something larger, mysterious, sometimes a trifle scary, sometimes breathtakingly beautiful. 

 

Tonight there was a distant storm on the horizon of Lake Michigan and we rushed down to the beach to witness it (note “distant”). And my two grandchildren were rewarded by the first jagged lightning strikes they have ever seen in their 6 and 10 years. They were in genuine awe, the lightning not only zig-zagging through the sky but striking their imagination and treating them to one of the great wonders of the world. I don’t know if they’ll remember this particular moment in years to come, but hopefully, they will be witness to more such moments of what Rachel Carson called “our sense of wonder”— lying on the grass on a lazy day looking up at the clouds, at night witnessing the canopy of stars and if it’s August, the meteor showers, watching an entire field of grass waving in the wind. If we would but stop and pay a little attention, such wonders are often all around us. 

 

Having invoked the marine biologist Rachel Carson (more about her tomorrow), here is one of my favorite quotes:

 

“If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienation from our sources of strength.”

 

May it be so.