40 Years Later - We're Still Here

John Lennon was all of 24 years-old when he wrote the following:

There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all

Brilliant stuff, but goodness, to be in one’s mid-20s waxing nostalgia, it’s hard not to conclude that he hadn’t lived long enough at that point to have earned the sentimentality for the past.

At fifty-eight, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic myself, having just attended my 40th high school reunion with around 100 of my former classmates, some of whom I hadn’t seen since the day I graduated.

What I especially loved about the reunion is that none of the nonsense that occupied our adolescence matters anymore. No one cares who was popular or not, who played sports or who played in band, who dated or didn’t date or broke up with whom, who got into trouble with teachers, who was a loudmouth and who was reticent, who did drugs or who abstained. None of that stuff matters. All that matters is we’re still here, as at least a dozen former classmates are not.

But you’ve survived. I’ve survived. Sure, we’ve been kicked around some, maybe more than some, but we’re still here. We’re single or married or divorced or remarried and maybe divorced a second time. We’ve had children or not, and they’re doing amazing or they’re having difficulties, and we’re best friends with them or we’re estranged, or maybe they’re living with us or close by or in a different state or country. We don’t have grandkids yet or maybe we watch them a few days a week. We have a wonderful job or we’re cobbling together a career to make ends meet. We’ve retired or we’ve been laid off by our most recent employer. We’ve purchased a home – maybe two homes – or we’re renting or living with our ailing mother. Our parents are alive or dead or suffering from dementia or perhaps they’re still having the time of their lives. We live near the city and still attend rock concerts, or we live a secluded life in the boonies. We travel around the world or we haven’t left our home state in decades. We remember high school fondly, with dread, or not at all. We’re as healthy as can be or we’re working through our latest bout of cancer or some other challenge.

Whatever the case, you’re here. I’m here. I’m delighted that we’ve both survived. Let’s hope we can do it again in ten years.

A Neighborhood's Fraying Fabric

Recently scanning through my journal entries from years ago, I was taken with just how many people have passed through my life. Scores and scores of coworkers, bandmates, classmates, neighbors, friends – even family members – who were once cornerstones of my existence, I no longer keep in touch with, not because of any conflict or falling out, but through a gradual decline of contact until there was no contact at all, a sort of relational evanescence. John Lennon wrote of such a phenomenon in the song “In My Life” when he was all of 25 years old, but I’m now 55; the number of people I once knew but no longer know is staggering.  

Making me feel even more uneasy is the change I’ve witnessed recently in my own town and neighborhood. One might be quick to undermine the superficial relationships that we naturally cultivate over time, but their absence can lead to a real sense of loss. When walking my dog to a nearby park, I used to have a 50/50 chance of running into someone I “kinda sorta” knew: Chris who watched Cubs games in the garage, Colleen who could talk my ear off with her banter, Margaret who’s oldest was in my daughter’s grade. Now all of them have moved away, as have several other neighbors who once lived on my street and other friends from my town who’ve opted for greener pastures further out in suburbia, or further still in states like Florida or Colorado.

Gradually, the fabric of the neighborhood as I once knew it is fraying. People who weaved in and out of my life have left dangling threads, and I’m beginning to feel that the ties that bind me to my home of 23 years are becoming looser, leaving me uneasily untethered.

I’m a creature of habit. I like my house and the stuff in it. I like walking the dog and seeing the same people every morning. I like sitting on my front porch with my wife and having familiar neighbors stroll by and say hello. I’d like it even more if my kids lived a few blocks away, stopping by for a quick chat or a Sunday dinner, but this is not to be, as none of my three children even live in the same state as me, much less the same neighborhood.

Carol King once sang, “Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” Very few it seems. And I fear becoming the last old guy on the street who people point to when discussing the history of the neighborhood. “Ask Paul. He’s been here forever.”

One day I may have to make the choice of either relocating simply to move with the times or staying put and becoming lost in time. I wish there was a third option: everyone staying where they are.

Of Pandemics, Performing and Toilet Paper

Nobody told me there'd be days like these
Strange days indeed
most peculiar, Mama
-        John Lennon, from “Nobody Told Me.”

The lyrics of this Lennon tune keep running through my head.  It seems almost quaint that a mere three weeks ago I was writing about the upcoming baseball season and how my Brewers were in jeopardy of laying a big old egg.  I would take the egg at this point, as even bad baseball is preferable to no baseball, and with the MLB pulling the plug on the start of the season – wisely so – humanity is left to squander away its evening hours without the benefit of America’s Pastime. 

So what to do?  Be productive, I guess, or at least spend time with things that make you feel good.  So far I’ve managed to stay sufficiently busy during the social distancing phase of the Global Pandemic, but I recognize many factors are in my favor.  There are many people who are suffering either from illness, anxiety, loneliness, or sundry other ailments that afflict mankind without the added misery of a pandemic.  It’s important to keep that in mind and spend a moment each day giving thanks.  I am thankful for the following:

1)    I live in a safe neighborhood that allows me to go outside regularly.
2)    I have enough money to buy food, pay for utilities, keep up to date on my mortgage, etc.
3)    Neither I nor anyone in my family is sick.
4)    I live with two other people and have an additional two visitors, so I have plenty of social interaction.
5)    My neighbors are out and about and I’m able to enjoy conversations with people outside my family.
6)    My wife still has her job.
7)    My religious institution is doing a wonderful job of having a virtual gathering each day to learn or converse.

Add to these blessings that we all live in the age when connectivity allows for so many time-sucking pursuits – some of them even moderately noble – that many of us have no excuse not to use our time wisely. A pandemic thirty years ago would have been much more challenging with fewer opportunity to kill time, though I’ve somehow managed to accomplish a number of goals in an old-fashioned manner.  I’ve almost completed gutting my basement, I built a wooden record rack with one or two more planned, I finished recording demos for my next album, and I performed for my neighborhood block with an impromptu duo, to wit, The Highland Avenue Coronavirus Band.

Unfortunately, haters love to hate, and a very sanctimonious and unobservant woman took it upon herself to record a video (while driving her car!) and share it on our neighborhood Facebook page in an attempt to publicly shame us for failing to pay heed to the seriousness of society’s current predicament. I think it’s important to note that social distancing does NOT mean no socializing.  It means socializing at a distance.  When my neighbor Dean and I performed for an hour yesterday in front of maybe three dozen people, families sat in clusters because they’re…um…families, but then sat at least six feet apart from each other, as per Governor Pritzker’s orders for our fine state of Illinois.  The poster of the condemning video apparently doesn’t understand this. Fortunately she received a number of negative comments online and promptly removed the video. Chalk one up for humanity.  And good neighbors.  And music.

Even the toilet paper shortage – a shortage of our own making, mind you – hasn’t gotten me down.  I arrived at a Target store last week right at the opening bell but still too late to grab a package of Charmin, and as I walked out empty-handed, a woman hoisting two large toilet paper packages – one in each hand – offered to share some of her lot with me.  Really, it was the least she could do, as she shouldn’t have grabbed two packages to begin with, but so often humanity fails to do the least it can do, and in this instance she met my low expectations. I told her no thank you and felt a warm fuzzy feeling that maybe, just maybe, we’re all in this crazy pandemic together. 

All this is to say that I hope you’re all doing okay.  If you’re able to volunteer at a food pantry or call on an elderly neighbor, please do so (if you’re healthy).  Keep in touch with friends and neighbors – at a distance – and take some time to do a crossword puzzle, read a book, play with your kids or cook a nice meal.  Hang in there, and pray that come June or July we can once again spend our evenings enjoying nine innings of baseball.

Speaking of which, I may need to amend my predictions for this year’s Milwaukee Brewers.  I’m on it.  Now if only the Milwaukee Bucks would do right and return the money I spent for three tickets to this Friday’s game!