I watched a TikTok video by a guy talking about the TV series, Normal People. I’ve never seen this show. but it made quite the impression on him. He said that it changed his life and that it made him realize that the reason he watches so much TV and reads so many books and watches so many TikTok videos is that he loves chasing feelings. That struck me. Aren’t we all chasing feelings every single day?

I can remember the best dessert I have ever had. It was Tres Leches cake. I ate it on a warm summer evening, under the Mexican stars, in Chihuahua. Now, every time I order a dessert, I am chasing that wonderful feeling of deliciousness and ambiance. I haven’t succeeded yet, but it is sure fun trying.

Wouldn’t we all want to get that thrilling, topsy turvy feeling of falling in love for the first time? Or making a connection with someone you know will be a lifelong friend? We chase those feelings every time we meet someone new. Will this person be my person, the one who adds joy to my life?

Some of us are athletic. Some of us are not. I am among the latter. But, I ran a marathon in 2001. That feeling of accomplishment sticks with me. Those feelings of exhilaration and relief stalk me. Every time I go for a hike or do anything physical, I am chasing those feelings.

How about the first moment you see your newborn, your first child? How about your wedding day (or days, as the case may be)? What about high school graduation? Your first home? Your last day of work, forever? Seeing a double rainbow, or a shooting star. Seeing great works of art? Reading wonderful books?

Every day we awaken, we begin a day of chasing those feelings. Most days, a large majority of days, are much more mundane. Most days we just follow our routines. But the potential is there for more than that. I think that’s what we live for, those momentous feelings.

Since we live most of our lives in the mundane, we need to find pleasure in the everyday. The gentle sound of rain. The crunch of snow under your feet. A damn good muffin! The feeling of new sheets on your bed. The fragrance of opening a bag of chips. Finding a twenty dollar bill in the pocket of your winter coat.

It’s all about the feelings, “the feels”. Either the momentous or the mundane, let’s try to live our lives with more passion. Let’s chase feelings.

In defense of my dad, he was born in 1910. A lot has changed since then. I can remember riding, as a child, with him on the PA turnpike. If someone passed us, he would say “Wow, that guy’s going a mile a minute!”. Even going for a walk on Slatington’s Main Street, if a car was going faster than normal, he would exclaim “That guy’s going a mile a minute!”. A mile a minute is only 60 mph! But in my dad’s world, that was recklessly fast. Today, if you are going 60 mph on the PA Turnpike, you are a hindrance, an obstacle, and object of derision.

I must say that I miss the slower pace of my childhood. Life was slower, summers were longer, and old age seemed light years away. Older people always said, the older you get, the faster time goes. So true. I remember worrying about turning 70. In six months, I’ll be 72. It feels like yesterday. Didn’t I just take my last swim in Northern Lehigh Pool this morning? No, that was three months ago.

Didn’t my son, Andy, recently catch his first fish? No, 46 years ago! Didn’t my daughter, Emma, just pass her driver’s permit test? No, she’s been driving 5 years already. Has it already been thirty-four years since my daughter Amy’s death?

Where did all those years go? What was I doing all that time? How I can I slow it down? I think maybe the only way to slow the pace is to withdraw a bit from our hurry up world. Limit the time you spend on social media. I find it amazing that those thirty second TikTok’s can kill two hours in a flash. Another way to slow it down is to savor each minute. Throughout the day, take the time to check in with all your senses. Mindfulness. All I have is this minute.

George Harrison entitled his first masterful solo album, All Things Must Pass. George, you were right. But did they have to pass so quickly?

I started this post at 8 am. It’s now nearly 10. Wow, that’s like a mile a minute!

In 1964, many of us in Mr. Dorward’s sixth grade class, sneaked transistor radios into class to listen to the arrival of the Beatles in NYC. We couldn’t wait until they were on American soil. Over the next several years we eagerly awaited new songs and albums. When Sgt Pepper’s was released, it changed the music world forever.

In 2023, with half of the Beatles dead, a new Beatles song gets released. I’ll admit I was hesitant to listen because I heard AI was used to create the song. My assumption was that it wouldn’t really be them, it would be fake. A little research proved me wrong. This was The Beatles! 43 years after John’s death, there was his voice. 22 years after George’s cancer death, there was his guitar. Ringo provided his superb beat and Paul added his genius and his harmony.

It’s a haunting song, both figuratively and literally. Is it in my top 50 Beatles songs? No. Is it wonderful and memorable and tear inducing? Yes, yes, and yes. To hear John’s voice and Paul’s voice together on the lyrics “Now and then I miss you”, incredible. The last words John said to Paul, before John was killed and after a visit was: Think of me now and then, old friend”. No wonder Paul needed this song to be completed.

So, The Beatles are back. For me they have never really left. They, and all their solo work, have been the music of my life. Their tragedies and their successes have in some ways mirrored my own. Their aging has been my aging. Their end foreshadows my end. When that time does come, hopefully decades from now, if you attend my Celebration of Life, be prepared to hear the music of the Fab Four. Everything from “Love me Do” to “Now and Then”. Thank you John, Paul, George and Ringo.

I’m stealing words again. This time it’s a line from a John Keats poem. Yesterday I deleted something from my bucket list. Falling Water. The iconic Frank Lloyd Wright architectural masterpiece, built for the wealthy Kaufman family of Pittsburgh. I had high expectations going into this. My expectations were far exceeded.

I’m not an expert on architecture, nor Wright, nor Falling Water. But I was struck by one particular aspect of this home, that I think applies to all of our everyday lives. The home is beautiful inside and out. It is built over Bear Run, a creek that flows through Pennsylvania’s gorgeous Laurel Highlands. The home is deep in the woods and is built with nature in mind, for materials and for aesthetics. The home is built over a waterfall, hence the name Falling Water. But, you cannot see the waterfall from anywhere inside the three-story home. Wright knew that if you see something every day, you could easily lose your appreciation for it. He wanted the Kaufman’s to go outside. He wanted this thing of beauty to awaken the senses at every look.

How many things in our own lives do we not appreciate because they are just a part of our lives? I’m reminded of something my late brother, Gary, said once as we traveled through Lehigh Gap. “We, living in the Lehigh Valley, don’t appreciate how beautiful it is here.” The fog lifting off the mountains of the gap. The rolling farmlands of New Tripoli. The confluence of the Lehigh and Delaware Rivers. The steep hills of Trexler Nature Preserve. The beautiful parts of our cities. The classic skyscraper, the PPL Building. The old buildings of Moravian College. Of course, I could go on.

Even in our own homes, we forget the beauty that surrounds us. When is the last time you really looked at the art on your walls? Or watched the sunrise from your kitchen window? Or really looked at your home as you drive into your driveway? Or admired the landscaping that you chose?

Yes, a thing of beauty is a joy forever. But we are not here forever. To be alive at the same time that Falling Water exists, and to be able to tour it. That is a joy. But seeing the beauty that surrounds you right now is a joy as well. Our time here is so short, a little appreciation can go a long way to making that short life joyous.

I stole that title from a Toby Keith song. Let me start with the story of the song itself. Toby was playing golf with Clint Eastwood. Clint was 90. Toby asked Clint how he stayed so young and vital. Clint told him that every day he looks in the mirror he tells himself “Don’t let the old man in”. That’s how the song came to be.

Sage advice, for sure. As I approach 72, I’m taking that on as my new mantra.

That old man is knocking on the door every day. He’s there when I catch myself watching old reruns of Hazel. He’s there when my Spotify play list has no song newer than 1970. He’s there when a nap looks more inviting than a hike in nature. He’s there when I decide to drive the scenic route rather than the much quicker Rt 22. He’s there when I choose a vacation that’s in the opposite direction of people.

Hazel was a good show. Sixties music was the best. Naps are lovely. Scenic routes can show you nice scenery. And vacations in the middle of nowhere can be fulfilling. But there is a big wide wonderful world out there. The old man wants you to stay in the past. The old man wants you to stay just where you are. The old man wants you to crawl into a fetal position as you wait to die.

There are tons of art and culture yet to explore. There are risks to take to stimulate your senses. The great American novel is yet to be written. There are beautiful sunrises, and radiant rainbows. There are jokes yet unheard. There are loud booming thunderstorms. There are people you haven’t met yet, that could change your life.

There is too much at stake to let the old man in. With each passing year, his knocks get louder, but I remember that I have the key.

Yesterday I attended a funeral. I hadn’t seen, nor talked to, Sterling in about twenty-five years. When I was told of his death, I was shocked. I always remembered him as a healthy, vital man. Of course, a lot can change in twenty-five years. The other shock was that Sterling was about six weeks younger than I am. It’s always hard to see that. Even though it had been twenty-five years, I was drawn to attend his funeral. I’m still trying to figure out why. Even back then, we weren’t particularly close. Sterling was my supervisor for eight years in the nineties.

Maybe it’s because that was such a challenging time in my life. It was my first job in Human Resources. I was traveling all over the world as the company I worked for was expanding at a rapid rate. Much of that traveling was done with Sterling.

Maybe it’s because working with Sterling made me realize an important lesson for the rest of my life. I’m not meant for the corporate world. Sterling was the ultimate corporation man. It suited him. In his way, he knew that it was not for me. He guided me to some important decisions. He was, in many ways, a mentor. Obviously, we didn’t agree on many things in the HR world, but he was always respectful to me.

Maybe it’s because I learned, firsthand, about my white privilege while traveling with Sterling in the deep south. Sterling was a black man, raised in Mobile, Alabama. He and I attended an information gathering meeting with four white men from a paper mill in Selma, Alabama. It was made clear to them that Sterling was the boss, and I was there to assist. Yet, all the questions and conversation were directed toward me. Sterling and I discussed this afterward and he told me he gets that all the time. He also told me how he often gets followed in stores. This opened my eyes.

I attended the funeral, and I’m glad I did. I knew Sterling for eight years in the 1990’s. The funeral gave me an entirely different view of the man. I only knew a small slice of Sterling’s life. The impression that I got over those eight years, was the image I attached to him for the rest of my life. How wrong I was.

This made me realize that that is true for all of us. We show a small piece of ourselves to everyone in our life. Of course, our close families know us the best. But we even hold our own private things from them. Didn’t Walt Whitman say something about us being multitudes? Humans are complicated. Every one of us is complex. That’s why it is important to keep an open mind in our dealings with others. My favorite quote comes to mind. “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about, so be kind always”.

Goodbye to Sterling. In spite of us being such different people, I’m glad he was in my life for eight of my, so far, seventy-one years.

Those of you who are regular readers of this blog, know that I am Mr. Nostalgia. I love thinking about the past. As I get older, that only becomes more intense. Clinging to the good memories of a mostly happy life.

I drove down an alley, in Slatington, this week. I drove past a high rise for the elderly. It stands on the site of my elementary school, Lincoln Elementary. Lincoln Elementary is where I learned to read. It’s where I learned to add and subtract. It’s where I learned to share. It’s where I learned manners and where I had my first girl crush. Now it is gone. Just a memory. Those who didn’t go there, probably don’t even remember its existence. Sad. We often think of the people we have lost in our lives. But we’ve lost meaningful locations as well. Here are some more of mine.

Smith Hall was my junior high school gym and more. Here I learned how bad I was at gymnastics. Here I learned to play the trumpet. Here I learned how to make a plastic letter opener, a plaque, and a gun cabinet. Here I watched donkeys play basketball! Smith Hall, gone.

My Junior High was a stately orange brick building on Main Street. It was beautiful. Here I attended dances and learned how much I really liked girls. Here was my first time in a lab, my first time in student government. Here was the first time I had to dress up with a tie and a jacket and it not being a Sunday. Every other Thursday was dress up day. In this building’s place is a beautiful small park. But my Junior High, gone.

I worked in two Pfizer pigments plants. We made green in Slatington and red in Easton. Guess what. Yup, both torn down. Here I learned some valuable life lessons and philosophies. Here I made friends that I have to this day. Here I learned the importance of work in our lives. The Easton site is a field of dirt. The Slatington site is a beautiful wetland on the D and L Trail. Both Pfizer plants, gone.

Our lives are a little like these razed buildings. We are here for a number of years, living, learning, loving. Our lives are full and then they are not. Instead, we are gone.

That was a little depressing for a holiday weekend! Sorry about that.

Today, the second last Sunday in August, I should be thinking about the upcoming football season or the cool mornings of a fading summer. I should be thinking about what book to read after the fantastic “Tom Lake”. I should be thinking about the upcoming October birthdays of two of my children.

Oh, I’ll make the attempt to concentrate on those, and more. But the distractions will set in. My train of thought will jump the tracks. I’ll start seeing images of my firstborn, Amy, as a toddler with messy morning hair. Out of the blue, I’ll imagine her hugging her elementary school friends maybe a little too hard. I’ll remember fishing with her and her brother, Andy, at Leaser Lake. I’ll think about the time she told me that all Burger King Whoppers have four pickles, proud of her knowledge learned on her first job. As the evening comes, this second last Sunday of August, my memory of her will be her hairless from chemo sitting in a hospital bed with a Guns and Roses poster on the wall.

Tomorrow morning is the anniversary of her death. August 21, 1989. She died just as the sun rose over M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. I think about her more on the day before the anniversary of her death than on the day itself. I think that’s because she died so early in the morning. The rest of that day was the start of 34 years of recovery, and remembrance, for me and all those who love her.

Next Sunday, the last Sunday of August, will be an ordinary Sunday. Go Chiefs! Go Nittany Lions! I’ll be well into reading my next book, hoping it’s as good as the last. Maybe I’ll do some birthday shopping for my two living kids. Or maybe I’ll just reflect on how happy I am to be alive, and healthy, at 71, and having gotten to spend seventeen years, a long time ago, with Amy.

Well, that was unexpected. No, not Trump’s latest indictment. Nor that there are thunderstorms in summer. What was unexpected, was tearing up at a tourist attraction. I have always been the sensitive type, but this came out of the blue. I’m talking about a visit to Bethel Woods Center for the Arts, in The Catskill Mountains of New York.

This beautiful center, in an equally beautiful area, is on the site of the Woodstock Festival of 1969. Yes, that Woodstock. It’s also the site of the Woodstock Museum, a nostalgic magical mystery tour into, not just the festival, but to The Sixties, the glorious days of my youth.

The museum itself got me very nostalgic and it surely made me feel my age. I was struck, immediately, by the informational sign titled Boomer Nation. Right now, according to Gen Z, Millenials, and maybe even Gen X, we Boomers are nothing but old, cranky, conservatives who have ruined the world. One walk through this museum reminds you of the changes we instigated, the walls we broke down, and the hope and optimism and color we brought to music and art and fashion and politics. Boomers changed the world. Some might argue that that is a bad thing. Not to this Boomer. Hope springs eternal!

Back to the title. Sacred Ground. Walking onto the festival field, now a huge bowl-shaped field of green grass, brought waves of emotions. Awe was one. Nearly half a million people sat here, peacefully, listening to amazing music, for three days straight. Joy was another. That I got to live at the same time as this amazing event. Unfortunately, I watched Woodstock unfold on TV, from my comfortable Slatington living room. Finally, the most evocative emotion was one of sadness. I’m 71 now. Woodstock occurred 54 years ago. 54 years gone in 54 seconds. The hopefulness and the optimism and the kindness of 1969 replaced by the cynicism and pessimism and nastiness of 2023. That makes this perpetual optimist, of course, sad.

As I walk away from festival field, I take one look back and see a couple of young people lying in the grass, on their backs, in the middle of the field. I wonder what thoughts are going through their minds. Do they even know this is sacred ground?

I’ll close by highly recommending this trip to everyone, Boomers and non-Boomers alike. Only two hours from Schnecksville! It’s groovy, baby.

Not another Monty Python sketch! Though, who couldn’t use a good laugh on a Sunday morning in July. I’ve had this urge recently to live somewhere else. I mean somewhere else in the United States. Though the way this country is headed maybe I should consider Costa Rica or Finland or Australia! But assuming I don’t want to leave the USA, maybe Oregon or Michigan or even Minnesota or New Mexico.

I’ve been trying to figure out the source of my winter of discontent. I think it is twofold. Primarily, the Lehigh Valley, where I have lived all my life, is changing beyond recognition from the days of my youth. There are too many people, too many cars, too many housing developments, too few good roads, and way too many warehouses! How long until we are the official Warehouse Capital of America?

Secondarily, maybe moving would be a way of getting a fresh start in life. Time is moving so fast, I probably have a decade or two left. I don’t want to spend it shopping in the same old grocery stores, or driving down the same old Route 22, or seeing Parkland School District build yet another elementary school. Living somewhere new would give me the chance to explore and feel rejuvenated.

But, alas, reality speaks. I’m here in the Warehouse Capital for the long run. Financially, a move is out of the question. So, I will just focus on the good things that are still here in the Lehigh Valley. Number one is that most of my family is here. Number two is my beloved Trexler Nature Preserve. There is also the Allentown Rose Garden, many wonderful college campuses, and my nostalgia that lives in Slatington.

I learned something writing this blogpost. If your situation is not going to change, it’s probably better to focus on what you do have rather than what you don’t. Here is something I do have. I can watch Monty Python today and think about their “something completely different”.