I have always tried to keep this blog non-political. But sometimes something happens that will make me change my focus. This is the fifth full day that we know that we put an admitted sexual predator, a rapist, in the White House. Again.

It’s bad enough that he is a racist and a fascist and an insurrectionist and didn’t care that his Vice President was nearly hanged. Let’s forget about that for now. My biggest hurt, my biggest disappointment is that we rewarded a pedophile with the highest job in the land and not a jail cell.

Maybe it’s because I have daughters. I have a granddaughter. Maybe it’s because I love and respect the many women in my family and friend circle. Maybe it’s because I counseled rape and sexual abuse victims for four years of my career. Maybe it’s because I’m a human being.

For all of those who did vote for him, would you feel the same if it was your daughter he ogled backstage at that teen beauty contest? Would you feel the same if it was your wife he “moved on like a bitch, even though she was married”? Would you feel the same if it was your sister he raped in a dressing room? What do you tell yourself when you see pictures of him with Jeffrey Epstein and know that he was one of the most traveled passengers on his plane? Do rich men really have the right to grab women by the pussy?

The message we have sent to our girls is that money is more important than they are. It’s already starting in school with boys chanting “your body, my choice”! I guess that is a message women have been hearing for centuries. I thought we were growing as a society. Apparently, we are going back.

I’m not perfect, and I know that this may come off as preachy. But come on. Are cheaper eggs really more important than respect for our women and girls? I may lose followers with this blogpost. I can live with that. This country has so disappointed me, I’d move if I could. But, I can’t. So instead, I plan to lessen my use of social media, to become more active locally in causes I believe in, and to reevaluate my friendships more closely.

And for the 53% who voted for Trump, enjoy your cheap eggs and keep him away from your daughters.

On a warm September morning, in 1957, well over a hundred shiny, happy five-year-olds were excited to be starting Kindergarten that day. Little did they know that they were also forming a bond that would last forever. This was the birth of the Slatington High School Class of 1970.

We all made it through elementary school. Five different schools: Lincoln, Roosevelt, Peters, Slatedale, and Walnutport. We learned how to read. We learned how to add and subtract. We learned how to share. We learned manners and respect. In our last year of elementary, we were shocked and gladdened by the arrival of The Beatles. We suffered through the Cuban Missile Crisis by hiding under our desks!

We came together as a class when we all went to Junior High in a beautiful orange brick building on Main Street. Carved in the building facade was “With All Thy Getting, Get Wisdom”. We got more than wisdom. Here we learned more interesting subjects, like Library Science, and Shop and Home Ec. Here we learned to dress up (coat and ties for boys) on Assembly Program Thursday. Here we learned to dance. Here we turned into teenagers.

Four years of high school at the top of Kuehner Hill. We worried about the Vietnam War and its upcoming draft. We made it through the British Invasion and the end of The Beatles. We fought the dress code wars. Our relationships became more serious. Our lives became more serious. We graduated in June of 1970, the 121 members of the Slatington High School Class of 1970.

There are 100 of us left. Triple figures but, still our numbers are dwindling. We are planning our 55th year reunion. When I think of those class members who have died, I can remember interactions with every single one. That’s the blessing of a small high school class. I can’t believe how many years have passed, and how quickly. I’m lucky to be one of the last one hundred. From shiny happy five years olds to weather beaten and world weary seventy-two-year-olds. What a life it has been. I love my Class of 1970. Go Bulldogs!

I’ll end with this. We will, eventually, be down to one classmate left. I hope it’s me! Go Bulldog!

This is my first blogpost in some time. I was having difficulty finding something new to write about. I guess that’s a good thing, right? A mundane life with no real complaints. But, as we all know, life doesn’t work that way for long. There is aways something just around the corner. It can be something joyous. It can be something devastating. But there will be something. Here is my something and a lesson I’ve learned.

My nurse told me that, as I was waking up from general anesthesia, I was mumbling the words to Forever Young by Bob Dylan. A good song, for sure. Appropriate at that time? I’m not so sure. I had just had a spreading melanoma removed from my scalp and replaced with a skin graft from my neck. I was quite the sight. A fragile contraption, called a bolster, balanced on my head to hold the graft in place. A foot long gash on my neck. Frankenstein’s monster comes to mind. Maybe my song at that moment could have been Linda Ronstadt’s “Poor Poor Pitiful Me”. But here is where the lesson comes in.

This is my third bout of cancer. Two melanomas with a prostate cancer in the middle for good measure. Those two types of cancer are two of the most survivable of all the cancers. Maybe I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I lost two siblings to cancer. I’m still alive. Maybe I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I lost my own daughter to a blood cancer. She got seventeen years of life. I’ve had seventy-two. Maybe I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. But I will. At least for a little while. I still have this gash on my neck.

Suffering is a part of life. It’s unavoidable. There is so much suffering, in so many different ways. From the natural ones like illness and weather events, to the man-made ones like war and poverty. I guess the fix is to either learn to complacently live with it, or to help others alleviate their own suffering. The other fix is to remember all the positives in our lives, in spite of the suffering. I believe there really is a wonderful world out there!

Health update: They got all the melanoma. The bolster is off my head. The gash on my neck is healing quickly. The skin graft is taking, but it itches like crazy! Oops, it could be worse.

Recognize this place? Here’s a clue, it’s fictional.

Did you ever read a book and felt drawn into the location and the characters so much that you want to live there? Beartown is my book.

Did you ever look at a painting and imagine yourself in it? Check out “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte” by George Seurat. You will be choosing your spot on the grass.

How about a television show? Did you ever want to live in Mayfield with the Cleavers or Mayberry with the Taylors. My place is Cicely, Alaska, with Joel and Maggie, Ed, Marilyn Whirlwind, Chris, Maurice, Holling, and Shelly.

I just completed the six seasons of Northern Exposure, now on Prime. I loved the show when it first aired, in the early nineties. I love it still. Yesterday, I watched the last episode. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a series that concluded so beautifully. It brought a tear to my eye. In case you’re not a Northern Exposure fan or never even heard of it, I won’t go into any details.

But what I took from watching this series again was this lesson. Art gives us these moments, these experiences. But we have to be open to them. We have to allow ourselves this escape into other worlds. Life isn’t only about wealth accumulation every hour of every day. Life isn’t just about celebrity worship. Life isn’t only about elections and politics. Especially not that last one!

There are many worlds out there, in all of the arts. Let’s go find them. As for me, on this very hot July day, I’ll spend a little more time in Cicely and the episode when the town came out to see winter’s first snowfall. They all greeted each other with “Bon Iver”, which apparently means good winter. Just like the folks of Cicely, we are all in this crazy world together. Let’s all wish each other well.

In my profession, I probably use this phrase at least a few times each week. If it’s something that is out of your control, just let it go. Good advice, yes? No. Great advice! With my clients, I usually add the caution that I know it’s not as easy as I make it sound. In my personal life, I try to let things go. But I’ve found that one area in particular, it is close to impossible. That is worrying about my children.

All of us parents face the same dilemma. We want our children to go through their lives with minimal issues, few tears, and nothing but sunny days ahead. Guns and Roses said it best in their classic song Sweet Child of Mine, “I’d hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain”. The problem is that is impractical. No, it’s impossible. This is especially true, when your children are grown. They are out there living their lives, having successes and making mistakes. We can’t make decisions for them. We can’t fix their mistakes. The best we can do is to be there to offer advice (if asked) and to be a support if they are flailing.

My daughter, Emma, just spent ten days far from home. Her visit to Greece went well. I’m happy to have her home and safe. But truly, that was a rough ten days for me. What if the plane crashes? What if she loses her passport? What if she gets sick? What if she gets separated from her travel group? Of course, none of that happened. The ups and downs of being a parent. She’s home now, a senior at Cedar Crest College, ready to start her summer internship. Sunny days ahead!

My son, Andy, is about to turn 50. Yes, 50. He’s living a good life. A good marriage, two great kids, a beautiful home, and a job he doesn’t hate. I like when he asks me for advice. It makes me feel needed. But truly, he is handling his life much better than I did mine. But, he knows, I’m here if he starts flailing.

Then there is my daughter, Amy, who died nearly 35 years ago, when she was seventeen. The eleven months from her diagnosis to her death, were the most intense months of anxiety in my life. All that worrying, for nought. She died anyway, on a bright sunny morning 2000 miles from home. My spiritual beliefs tell me that she is somewhere on Earth living a new life. I hope that it is better and longer than the one she shared with us.

As I get older, and my children get wiser and more independent, I will become less of a force in their lives. But that’s okay, because they will have many years later without me. As for now, I’ll continue to try to let things go. I wish for all of us, sunny days ahead.

I often try to start these posts off with something clever to draw readers in. As you know, I often use song titles. This title is a song that doesn’t quite hit the mark for what I am writing about. Today’s post is about aging. I hope I haven’t lost you already!

Over the past six months or so I have noticed that I am a little less steady on my feet. Not that I am falling all over the place. But going down stairs, I am more likely to use the handrail. While hiking a rock filled trail, I am more cognizant of foot placement. Standing on an overlook, I don’t get too close to the edge. Sometimes it feels like the boat is rocking. I got that song title in!

The little things that happen, when we age, can sneak up on us. Like when I look in the mirror, and I see myself looking more like my dad. When I find it harder and harder to get up off the floor. When I try to get out of bed in the morning and I need to wait until I am in just the right position. When getting into and out of a kayak is a major undertaking. I know it could be much worse, and I’m thankful that it isn’t.

Then there are the microaggressions, from others, that increased upon turning seventy. The assumption that I wouldn’t know who Harry Styles is. The assumption that I need help carrying something to my car. The terms of endearment used for me, by strangers, that wouldn’t be said to a man in his forties.

Then there are the things that I can no longer do well, because of aging. I’d rather read a paper menu rather than scan a QR Code. I’d rather order food from a person and not a kiosk. Getting out of a parking garage without difficulty at the pay center, is becoming more rare.

I am thankful that I am pretty healthy and hike regularly. I’m happy that I stay current with popular culture (Tik Tok addict here!) and world events. I’m happy that I am still interested in learning new things and am always looking forward to a new book to read.

My birthday is this month. 72. {May babies are the best!). Maybe it’s this upcoming birthday that triggered this post? I do know that because of aging, and the increase of technology, my world is getting smaller. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. As long as that small world is filled with the people and the things that I love most.

That was a long one! That’s what she said! Oh, and I always try to end these blogposts with a little humor!

Today I attended a memorial breakfast for someone I worked with thirty-five years ago. We worked together for about nine years in a dirty, old, red pigments plant in Easton. Pfizer’s Rust and Dust Division. Our careers went in different directions and I neither saw him nor heard about him for decades. A few months ago, he reached out to me. We met for breakfast at an Allentown diner. Bob Keller was the same kind, funny, optimistic man that I knew so long ago. Sadly, though, a few weeks later he was dead.

I was shocked by this death. He had just been telling me about his hopes for the future and all the things he wanted to accomplish and experience. He recently wrote a book. He, also recently, graduated from Muhlenberg. He loved life. He loved his family. He loved people. Even though I only saw him once in thirty-five years, I miss him.

A few weeks after that I saw his obituary. I learned another adjective to describe him. Humble. Working at Pfizer, we were all a bunch of knuckleheads. Doing our jobs but having fun. Most of us were in our late twenties and early thirties. We were learning about life and about being parents. We were learning how to get red iron oxide pigment out of the pores of our skin. I told you it was a dirty place! We were young, full of life, and tinted red. Knuckleheads!

I was completely surprised to find that Bob had an operatic singing voice and was a nationally recognized soloist. Bob performed for the Queen’s Jubilee. He was also an inventor and has patents for several mechanical/chemical processes. Humble. He didn’t share any of that with anyone but his family. Everyone at the breakfast today expressed their shock about this information. He was humble…and surely not a knucklehead.

From all of this I learned a few things. First, treat every day of your life as an opportunity. It goes by way too fast. Bob died at the young age of 69. Second, all of us have our secret lives. I’m pretty open about mine in this blog, but there are some things you will never know about me. The lesson is, don’t be judgmental. You never have all the information. The third thing I learned is that I hope I am living the kind of life that will be honored and remembered, like Bob’s was this morning. More succinctly, don’t live your life as a knucklehead. RIP Bob Keller.

Last night I saw “Mamma Mia!” at Northwestern Lehigh High School. Those Northwestern Tigers put on a great show. The girls who played the four leads were fabulous. Their voices, their facial expressions, their energy, and their chemistry made for a fun evening. I hope they all slept well, as their final performance is this afternoon. Sorry, folks, the show is sold out.

Every time I see any performance by kids, artistic or athletic, my mind goes to two places. First is my feelings of hope and optimism for all of these young lives. My wish for them to have wonderful lives sometimes makes my eyes leak, just a little. Which of them will have fabulous careers and great marriages? Which of them will have solo lives filled with joy and adventure? Which of them will find the cure for cancer? Will one of them become president? Of course, all won’t be successful. Some will have failed marriages and dead-end careers. Some will go down the path of addictions. Some may even die of leukemia at seventeen. Ah, there it is. My own daughter, Amy, only made it to seventeen. Maybe that’s why I wish so much goodness for all of these kids.

The other place my mind goes is to nostalgia. Of course! There is a piece in the show about remembering when you were seventeen. I’m the inverse of that now, 71. When I was seventeen, I had so much fun. I loved school and my classmates. I loved my little Corvair. I loved my hometown and my wrestling teammates. I loved having my whole future ahead of me. I wonder if there was someone in the stands, watching me wrestle, wondering what kind of life I would have. I hope so. I think, in these scary times, we all need to think about each other a little more.

At the end of “Mamma Mia!”, the entire cast and crew came on stage to sing “Waterloo”. It was wonderful. There it was, right in front of me. The youth, the energy, the optimism, the potential, the fun. Have wonderful lives, kids! Treat every single day as a wonderful adventure, because that’s just what it is!

Don’t worry! I’m fine. Well, as fine as a moderately active, sweets addict at seventy-one can be. The title refers to a book I am reading, “No Cure for Being Human” by Kate Bowler. It’s a memoir of Kate who learns at age thirty-five that she has stage four, metastasized, liver cancer and about a year to live. I just finished the chapter entitled Bucket List. She writes that all of her counselors are urging her to do things she’s never done, to learn new skills that she’s never mastered, or visit places she always wanted to see. Kate was not sure about any of those. Her thought process had an effect on me. What would be on my bucket list if I only had one more trip around the sun?

I know I wouldn’t spend time finally learning to play the guitar. I wouldn’t wander around the walls of Machu Pichu. That climb has now passed me by. I wouldn’t zipline though the Amazon Rainforest, nor run with the bulls in Pamplona. No, my list would be much simpler. I would try to replicate, as much as possible, my life to this point.

I’d spend time in Slatington, in the area of Second and Main. My junior high once stood here. My elementary school right behind it. It’s now a little park. I’d sit on a bench and remember all the fun I had and the kids and teachers that I met. Later I’d ask to visit the Northern Lehigh Middle School. That was my high school, Slatington High School. Here I learned and matured and made memories that still warm me on lonely nights. Next, drive by the Slatington houses I lived in. Six!

I would do a little travel, but not to somewhere new. I once had a corporate HR job where I traveled a lot. I’d want to drive again through the Columbia River Gorge from Camas to Wallula, Washington. I’d want to drive, through birch forests, from Wisconsin Rapids to Park Falls, Wisconsin, listening to Wisconsin Public Radio. I’d want to drive to Dryden, Ontario from International Falls, Minnesota and hopefully again see a moose run across the highway in front of me. I’d want to once again drive through the rural south and see magnolia trees and churches on every corner.

I would, of course, spend lots of time with my family, sharing memories of the people that populated our lives, aunts and uncles and cousins long gone. We’d talk about all of the places we laughed and cried. The old cabin at Lake Wallenpaupack, Indian Trail Park family reunions, and fun at OCNJ. I would tell them all how much each one of them means to me and that I will miss them.

I have realized something important writing this blogpost. I have had a wonderful seventy-one years. Of course, I have had my share of sadness and pain. but without sadness, we wouldn’t appreciate happiness. I don’t need new experiences. I don’t need new skills. I don’t need anything really. It’s all good.

Again, I am seriously fine and looking forward to a few more decades. If I don’t get that, it’s okay. It’s been a hell of a ride, so far.

All of my regular readers know that I am Mr. Nostalgia. This year with Christmas fast approaching, I have been trying to think back to my youthful Christmas mornings. I draw mostly a blank. I remember going to my siblings’ houses on Christmas morning. I can recall a special present or two or three that I received over my childhood days. I don’t remember our Christmas trees, except for getting them at the Shell gas station on Walnut Street in Slatington. Here is what my mind keeps going back to, a Christmas ornament. One particular ornament.

It was a Christmas tree ball, so big it always had to hang on a thick lower branch. It was bluish purple, not particularly beautiful. It was as big as a grapefruit! Not the grapefruits in the stores today, but the big fat juicy grapefruits we knew as children. I am pretty sure this ball had been in our family for generations. Maybe it came from my family that grew up in the coal regions, hence the dark color almost like coal. I wonder whatever happened to this ball. I wonder why it’s one of the only things I remember about boyhood Christmas mornings.

I may have discovered the answer. This decoration was big and dark and heavy. That may be an overarching theme of Christmas for me. My mom died on Christmas Day, when I was fifteen. My dad died the day after Christmas, when I was thirty-one. Today, the joy of the holiday comes in flashes. I can hear a Christmas carol and smile. I can see kids lined up to see Santa and feel happy for them. I can revel in delight, seeing my family open presents. But, hanging on a lower branch of my mind is that big, dark, heavy, and fragile ball. It’s been there since, Christmas, 1967.

Wishing all of you the happiest holiday seasons, whichever holiday you celebrate, or even if you celebrate none.