That number in the title is an exaggeration but not by a lot.  It’s been an emotional week. As I wrote about before, I am taking on a new adventure and moving to a new counseling practice. This means having to say good bye to a lot of my clients.

If you’ve never been in therapy, nor been a therapist yourself, you probably won’t quite understand how difficult it is to end a counseling relationship.  I am saying goodbye over the past two weeks, to people I have known for years, sometimes more than a decade. It is tough on them and tough on me.  Sure they can come with me to my new practice but there are two things that make that difficult. One is the location of my new practice. The other is the insurance differences between the two practices.  A little political plug in this non-political blog…if we had fricking universal healthcare, like the rest of the civilized world, the second issue goes away!  Sorry. Back to my non-political blogpost.

The counseling realtionship, if it’s a good one, is like nothing else on earth. As a therapist I am willingly invited into people’s lives. They share with me some of their deepest secrets…things they haven’t and couldn’t share with their spouses or parents or friends.  What an honor that is…to be a part of a person’s life and see them fight through difficult times and come out better and happier people on the other side.

Saying goodbye to a 21 year old man who I first started seeing as a 9 year old kid is hard. He used to hide within his hoody and was extremely shy. Now he is in college and plans to be an archaeologist. Looking for things hidden!

Saying goodbye to a teen girl that told her friends, when they questioned her seeing an old man for counseling, that he is my best friend and I tell him everything. Wow! Difficult is an understatement. There is still some hope there that her parents will drive the extra miles. They seem to get how important the counseling relationship can be.

Saying goodbye to a sixty year old man who I have seen for a decade. We have led somewhat parallel lives including the loss of a teenage daughter. Yes, very difficult.

Then there is the not knowing what happens in the lives of these people you care so much about.  Will his life as an archaeologist take off?  Will she have a successful career as an attorney? Will he finally get to enjoy his retirement?  Enquiring minds want to know! So do caring therapists!

But, as another therapist told me that  he read…If you want to be successful in life, learn to love change!  So here is to moving on to a new practice, creating more rewarding relationships and never forgetting the clients I am leaving behind.

 

 

 

 

 

Chunky is a delicious, small candy bar that you rarely see anymore.  I don’t know if they even still make Chunky Bars. Google search ahead!   But when I hear the name Chunky, I don’t think of that scrumptious combination of milk chocolate, raisins, and peanuts. I think of a teacher from my high school. Mr. Richard Smith, aka Chunky.

When you think of the word teacher you usually picture a Math, English, or History teacher. Mr. Smith did not fall into that grouping. He was more of a jack of all trades type of teacher. He held many roles in our high school. He was primarily the Driver Training teacher. He was our Athletic Director. He was a wrestling coach and before that he was assistant wrestling coach.  He always fit into whatever role the school asked him to play. A role he filled for a lot of us students was confidante. He had an easy, down to earth style and was easy to talk to.

I knew him most as a wrestling coach, especially when he had the role of assistant coach in my freshman year.  He did all the work at practice. Mr. Blose was the head wrestling coach, but he used to find a place to sit against a wall and Mr. Smith ran the practices. Mr. Smith knew his wrestling, and he worked us hard, but he also knew how to have fun.  If you have been reading my blog for a while, you may recall that I have named myself the worst wrestler ever. That is not a reflection on Mr. Smith.

He, and my dad, taught me to drive!  I tried recalling Driver Training classes from high school, but I can’t remember even one!  I do remember, though, taking the car on the road with Mr. Smith in the passenger seat ever ready to press the extra set of brakes he had on his side.  We would go out in groups of three students. One would be driving and the other two would be in the back seat. It was tough to drive with a teacher to your right and two of your friends in the back seat trying to make you laugh. We would usually head toward Lehigh Furnace, where Mr. Smith lived.  I always wondered if he was checking on his wife!  We would go up over the Blue Mountain on some back road, come down into Ashfield on the other side and then back to the school.

When I look back on my high school years I can think fondly on memories of Mr. Smith. Other classmates may have had different experiences but I remember him always as a caring man, who was dedicated to Slatington High School and its students.

I don’t even know if Mr. Smith is still alive. If he is, he must be in his mid to late eighties.  But he is alive to me every time I turn left onto Center Street, in Slatington, from Main. He taught us how to make a left turn by using the manhole cover as a guide. He would tell us to make the turn and stay to the right of the manhole. “Now that is a perfect turn”.  When I make that turn today, and I completely miss that manhole cover, I think how proud “Chunky” would be.

 

 

I am feeling a little philosophical today. What brought that on?  Driving out of Southside Bethlehem, this morning, and onto the Hill to Hill Bridge, I saw the former headquarters of LV Railroad. At one time, LV Railroad was a thriving business serving the very industrial Lehigh Valley. That got me  thinking about one of my strongest beliefs, that affects how I live my life, that everything single thing has a lifespan.  Along with that, during that lifespan, there is a peak. A day, an hour,  a minute where everything is close to perfect, followed by a decline.

Maybe for LV Railroad it was 1940?  Who knows?  But there was a high point of that business.  My hometown of Slatington also had a peak. Maybe it was around 1915 when slate was king. The coal region towns were all, at one time, thriving. That is no longer the case. How about Sears?  Remember Allentown being named an All American City?

I think this applies to our lives as well.  Bruce Springsteen, in the song Glory Days, tells that story. The character in the song had his peak in high school. That may be true for some of us. For others, it is when their career hits its summit.  Others still, look at their peak as when all their children were still at home.  It is different for everyone, depending on values and experiences.

When I talk about decline after the peak, I don’t mean that has to be negative. We can lead wonderful, fulfilling lives after our peak.  I am only saying that I believe there is one day, one  hour, one second where you are on top of the world.

Thanks for letting me get that little philosophical rant out of the way.  I’m not sure when the peak of my life was. I know it is in my past and that is okay.   My life is pretty wonderful and fulfilling now.  Maybe I got you thinking. Maybe you disagree. I would love to hear your thoughts.

As far as LV Railroad goes. We can enjoy some of their remains by walking on the Lehigh Valley’s many Rails to Trails.  A legacy! Get out there and enjoy this Spring! I hear it is just around the corner!

 

 

What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet! I can’t take credit for that. That was Shakespeare, I think.  Maybe it was Ben Franklin!

I’ve always liked my  name, Dennis. It is a good solid name and was very popular in my day.  Even though, spelled backwards it is Sinned! My graduating class had three boys named Dennis. Dennis Solt, me, and Denis Dorward. I’m not sure why Denny Dorward only had one N. Maybe his parents really liked Canada.  I remember reading an article about a decade ago stating that the name Dennis was poised to make a comeback! Yeah, that never happened.

Our class was filled with Roberts and Davids. The girls names were pretty standard then too. We had our share of Brendas, Barbaras, and Debras (Deborah).  Boys names from my class that were a little unusual were Ivan, Maurice, and Leslie.  She didn’t graduate with us, but we did have an Algetha!  And, of course, we had a Dawn who later became a Shawn. Unlike today, that was extremely rare.

I never had a real nickname other than the ever endearing Denny. Here are just a few nicknames from the Slatington High School Class of 1970. Fudge, Bubba, Sam, Super Lew, Special K, Cue Ball, Noodle, Whipper, Snowy, Yum, and Minnow!  Where are they now and would they still answer if called by that nickname? My guess is no.

During my high school years there was a popular song called The Name Game.  It started a trend where everyone would use their name and put it into the song. It was a hoot!   Yeah, we had some exciting times in Slatington.  I am going to try to briefly explain. You take a name, let’s say Shirley.  Here goes: Shirley, Bo ber ley, bo na na fanna fo firley. fee fie mo mirley Shirley!  Yes, It was a simpler time, even though trying to do that to a beat was pretty difficult.  I bet you are all trying to do it with your own names now!  Let’s hope your name isn’t Chuck! We all got a big kick out of that one!

The last thing on names is that it is difficult to have a first name for a last name. My last name is George, a classic first name. Whenever someone asks me for my last name, and I say George, they will inevitably say…NO, your last name!  Arghhh!

 

The other day I watched a flock of geese fly over head in their familiar V shape.  Hmmm. Should I tell the joke? Ok.  You know when you see a flock of geese flying in a V formation and the one side of the V is always longer?  Do you know why that is? There are more geese on that side! Hardy har har!

Ok. Back to my blogpost and birds. I can remember, very vividly, playing in my back yard on Dowell Street, Slatington, in the early ’60s. I would often be amazed by the sheer number of everyday birds that would fly overhead, in a giant, seemingly never ending flock.  You could literally count thirty seconds before it came to an end. You just don’t see that any more. Maybe it is there and I am too busy to be watching the sky. But I suspect they really aren’t there any more.

Another thing I miss is nuns. Oh, I know there are still nuns around. I probably passed several at Wegmans this morning.  But I wouldn’t know it. They have lost their habits. As a child I can remember seeing nuns with full, dark blue habits and wimples (love that word).  They would be shopping at the Acme or at the five and ten.  They almost always seemed to travel in pairs. Sisters.  I was always a little in awe. Of course, not being Catholic, I never had to face their wrath.

I miss long summer days with no responsibility in a world where fear didn’t rule our lives.  We would sleep in, wake and have breakfast, and then head outdoors.  No one worried about us. We had the run of the town and the creek and the fields.  Be back when you hear the 5 o’clock bank chimes.  Maybe the only admonition, from our parents, was to not swim in the slate quarries.  We didn’t always listen.  Good times. Good times.

Do you know what I don’t miss?  Getting up to change the channel, or volume, on the TV. If you are going to make a case for why today is better than back in the day, that might be the place to start!

 

 

 

Ch-ch-ch-changes…turn and face the strange…ch-ch-ch-changes.  Sounds like a David Bowie song, right?  Nope. It was me singing in the shower this morning. If you’ve wondered why I haven’t written a blogpost in some time it’s because I have been very busy. A change is coming to my life and it requires a lot of work on my part.

No. I am not moving. Even though I love moving and have moved a bazillion times in my life, I am staying put here in Schnecksville. For now, at least!

No. I am not getting married. Even though I love weddings and have been married a bazillion times in my life, I am staying put here in bachelorhood. For now, at least! Though a move is much more likely than a marriage.

Is it new knees? New shoulder? New car? None of those!

Am I transgender? No. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

Changing my party registration to Republican?  Hahahaha. No to that one too.

I am leaving Bethlehem Counseling Associates after nearly fifteen years. I am turning to face the strange and am joining a new practice in Allentown, Otto Psychological Associates.  It is hard to leave a place that has been home for that long.  I have nothing but good things to say about Bethlehem Counseling. If you need some counseling help, I recommend them. But they have outgrown me.

I am going to a much smaller practice. From over thirty staff to six.  A good fit for an introvert who is in the twilight of his career.  In a previous blogpost, I wrote how my small high school class of 121 was more to my liking than my daughter’s 1000 classmates. I am hoping that that applies here as well.

There is a lot of work to changing practices. There will be a lot of emotional goodbyes to co-workers and to some clients.  But I am very confident that this is the right move for me at this time.  Wish me luck, please! My blogposts may be a little more sporadic until I get settled. Maybe, while you wait, you could listen to some David Bowie…maybe Under Pressure!

Cue the scary music!  Maybe the music from the original Halloween would be appropriate.  Maybe Tubular Bells from The Exorcist would be better. Ok, music on. They are there before me and reach all the way to the ceiling of our gym. They challenge me to conquer them, but they know my fear. They have defeated me before. My classmates encourage me. The teacher smirks. He knows I will fail.  It’s time. The music reaches a crescendo as I reach out toward my nemesis.  I tell myself I can do this, but I don’t really believe it.  It’s time to climb the ropes! Do we have to?

We did have to. And, yes I failed again. Upper body strength was never my thing.  I hated trying to climb the ropes. It was embarrassing. Plus it hurt your hands!  That was just one of the many things I disliked about Junior High gym class.  But, I will get to that.

Our Junior High Gym class was not in our school. Attending required a one block walk, in all kinds of weather, to Smith Hall. Smith Hall was the site of a huge gym, locker rooms, shop classes, and band rooms.  Our teacher was Mr. Arthur Miller. He was a fit, though not muscular, man and the son-in-law of one of the town’s two undertakers.  He didn’t have much of a sense of humor. He also taught science.  We had gym twice a week in our gym uniforms purchased at Marty’s Sporting Goods. Mr. Miller was very organized.

One quarter would be volleyball, the next, basketball. That would be followed by the dreaded gymnastics. The last quarter we would do a myriad of activities, some of them  out side. I liked volleyball, though I wasn’t very good.  Basketball was fun, but I was always a pretty short guy. Doing things outside were better, especially if it didn’t involve a softball game.

Notice that I left gymnastics for last? The ropes! The pommel horse! The balance beam! The parallel bars! The vault! Uneven bars! The Rings!  For an unathletic boy like me, walking into the gym filled with equipment was like Jamie Lee Curtis walking into a scary house in Halloween.  The way I would feel, after another failed attempt at the parallel bars, was like Linda Blair in the Exorcist…head turned in circles, cursing like a demon, and ready to puke!

But I made it through! We all did. Looking back I try to think about what Junior High gym class taught me. It showed me my strengths and weaknesses. It forced me to take on challenges. It taught me the value of self-deprecating humor. It encouraged me to try new things. Maybe the most important thing it taught me was a valuable life lesson. You will have to go through things that are difficult and that you absolutely despise. But it will end. Everything has a life span…even the gymnastics section of gym class.  And who knows? The thing that follows may be the best thing you ever did in your life. For me, in Junior High, I think it was lunch. Yes, lunch! Porcupine meatballs and split pea soup! Beats climbing ropes every, single, time!

 

 

Don’t worry. This is not a political rant. But I am going to mention Bernie Sanders. I recently saw a Facebook post of Bernie with the words underneath…you are never too old to rage against the machine. I am a big Bernie Sanders fan. I tend to like people who rage against the machine.  I don’t mean rage in a violent way. I just mean people who stand up to challenge the status quo.

That got me thinking of how that concept got into my character.  It must have been put there in my childhood. I know it started with my dad. I wrote about him before. He always supported the underdog and had little regard for those who think they are better, because of money or career.

Teachers were another influence. I have also written before about my sixth grade teacher, Walter Dorward.  I wrote about his age, his senility, and his cluelessness. But, he was maybe the first example, in my school life, of learning how it is important to challenge authority. Here is that story. We had a reading program called SRA. We read stories, answered questions, and moved up levels. One story we read opined that dogs had no feelings toward their owners. The author believed that they only hung around their owners because they are a source of food.  Some of the girls in our class objected to this opinion. Kay Kester, who sadly is no longer with us, led the charge against the author. Mr. Dorward encouraged this and found the author’s address. Letters were written in protest, and sent to the writer.  Our teacher could have just let this slide. But he didn’t. Rage against…

Coach Cassebaum, our football and wrestling coach, came to Slatington specifically to rage against the normal way we did sports for decades.  His unorthodox ways brought life to our school and to our athletic programs. He taught us that if you work hard, and challenge the norm, good things could happen.

Having gone to high school in the ’60s, English teachers were influencers of the way we think about standards and culture. I can remember, vividly. analyzing the music of The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, and others, all with an eye toward challenging the status quo.  Thank you Paul Turner, Carol Turner, and Edie Roeder for that!

Sara Miller, our German and Latin teacher, taught us that things don’t always have to be done the same way. She went out of her way to give the less popular, the less extroverted, a chance to shine.  As an introvert, I especially thank her for that.

I hope this got you thinking about people from your childhood who influenced you. I didn’t even get to the people from popular culture who had a great influence. Thank you John, Paul, George, and Ringo…and others.

One last mention of rage to end this post. Dylan Thomas’s most famous poem is “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”. As I get older I am adopting his philosophy from the poem, spelled out in the first few lines. Do not go gentle into that good night / Old age should rave and burn at close of day; / Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Kind of deep, I know! But at a minimum it means I will be writing this blog for decades to come!  Fingers crossed!

I was lucky enough to be twelve years old when Slatington, my home town, turned one hundred years old. What a celebration we had!  Oh sure, we are no Bethlehem, nor Allentown, that have been around for centuries.  But one hundred years is pretty special. Slatington has now passed 150 years and counting.  I no longer live in Slatington, but I live close by in Schnecksville. My thoughts focus on the time of my youth spent in the slating town.

Here is one of those thoughts. Slatington was never known as a town whose citizens care about each other like some other towns in the area. Egypt was known as the Little Town That Cares. Northampton is the Community of Unity.  Slogans? Sure, but maybe something to it? Probably. I am not sure why my town doesn’t have the same reputation. Maybe I am wrong. Feel free to argue this point in comments.  Maybe it has to do with something in the character traits of the Pennsylvania Dutch and the Welsh. Who knows?

But, back to being twelve. Slatington certainly came together for its centennial. We were all one. Nearly every citizen attended at least one event in the week long celebration. A majority of the town’s adults were either Brothers of the Brush or Sisters of the Swish.  Those terms reflect the beards worn by men and the long skirts worn by women.

From old fashioned ice cream socials to fireworks. From ox roasts to giant parades. From sidewalk sales in the business district to old time bathing suit contests at the new pool. There were speeches from politicians. There was a centennial song. Yes, a song! I don’t think you can find it on Spotify! It was a memorable week.

But that week. Just that week. We were all proud to be Slatingtonians! How long did that feeling last? I don’t think very long.

There were celebrations at 125 and 150 also. I, sadly, was unable to attend.  So I can only look back on 1964 and bask in those memories of a town coming together.  A wonderful time to be from Slatington. But from my standpoint, every day is a wonderful day to be from Slatington!

 

I have always been fascinated by relationships. Fascinated by the constantly changing state of relationships. The way people come into your life, are important in your life, and then leave your life. How can someone be so important at one moment and then just a passing remembrance later?  I know that this fascination with relationships is not a typical male trait. But, I think most of you know by now that I am secure in my masculinity and in touch with my feminine side! If that is not too new agey for you, read on.

As a Licensed Professional Counselor, I deal with relationships all day long. It is fascinating to hear about family feuds, broken marriages, divorced parents who put themselves above their children, and support networks of friends that are sometimes more important than family. I am currently working with an aging and dying woman whose son has not talked to her for the past twenty years. She wants to connect again before she dies. Think relationships are no big deal?  Ask her.

Our first relationships, of course, are with family members.  Our parents, at first, are vital for our very survival. Then they are our guides. Sometimes they become our friends. Eventually we end up taking care of them. The circle of life. But sometimes that circle breaks. It can be through death, or arguments, or distance.  Or it can just be because of plain old stubbornness. Sad.

Our siblings are part of our lives even longer than our parents are. We usually share an entire life span.  We also share the same culture, the same upbringing, and usually the same values. How can something as important as that fade because of minor things like perceived slights or outside influences? It shouldn’t.

I’ve written about Slatington High School often. The kids we go to school with, especially those who went to a small school, share the most remarkable time of one’s life. Those teen years are filled with growth and conflict and learning about ourselves. Our friends are important then, why not later. A shoutout to Facebook for reconnecting me with many of my high school friends!

The people we work with are another example of changing relationships. In your working years, you spend more time with your co-workers than you do with your own family. Some of those relationships become strong friendships, a vital support network. But then you change jobs. And you say, we have to keep in touch. But you don’t. Why not? It was important then. Make it important now. Last night I attended a memorial service for the mother of a good friend and current co-worker. It was wonderful to see former, and current, colleagues of ours reach out and show their support. But there could have been more.

It takes five seconds to send a text. It takes a few minutes more to make a call. It may take an hour or more to visit. But what are you doing that is more important than nurturing the connections in your life. I know what you are doing…binging on Netflix, playing video games, reading blogposts (don’t stop doing that)!  I think I sound preachy. I am equally responsible for not doing a good job at staying connected to the important people in my life.  I plan to try harder. When I lapse, I will think of my client who is waiting for that text, call, or visit, from her absent son.

I only mentioned Slatington once today! That memorial service really got me thinking. Thanks for letting me vent!