Does that title bring back any memories? It is the title of a wonderful poem by W. H. Auden. It was featured in the movie “Four Weddings and a Funeral”.  So I don’t break any copyright laws, I encourage you to find a copy and read it. It popped into my mind today because, later, I am attending a funeral.

I have attended many, many funerals over the years as loss seems to be a regular visitor to my life. The vast majority of the funerals I have attended have been pretty traditional. A viewing the night before and just before the service the next day. Then the service itself, followed by something at the cemetery and ending with some sort of meal or social gathering after.  That is what I grew up on.

Today, with cremation becoming more and more popular, that traditional funeral is disappearing. It is now just as common to have it be replaced by a memorial service or celebration of life, often weeks or months following the death. Either way, traditional or more modern, the funeral is a necessary way to bring closure to the end of someone’s life.   It is a way to bring loved ones together. It is a way to heal old wounds. It is a way to think of our own mortality.

The first funeral I attended, I was only six years old. My best friend in first grade, Ricky Serfass, died in a sledding accident in front of his home on Church Street in Slatington. I had no idea what was going on but my parents thought it was the right things to do. In hindsight, I am not so sure.  I still can picture him in the casket holding a Superman flashlight.

Of course, we have all seen funerals on TV. On TV funerals, the eulogy tends to take center stage. I can honestly say that I have never attended a funeral where eulogies are part of the service, other than a few words by a pastor or priest.  I thought that it was just a TV invention but I have been told by clients that, no, it happens all the time.

Funerals, especially when we get older, make us think how we would like to be memorialized at the time of our death. Many people have completely planned their funeral ahead of time. My plans are muddled in my head, but I know there will be Beatles music, great lines from great literature, and lots of desserts!

I can hear the birds chirping as I write this. Sounds like a beautiful day!

You have silently sneaked into our neighborhoods, our homes, our bodies.  You have taken away our friends and our family members.  You have scared us…..sometimes to death.

You wait around every corner. You are in the foods we eat. You are in the air we breathe. Sometimes, you just hide in our genes. You do not care if we are rich or poor, young or old, nasty or nice.   You are hated by everyone. You are feared by everyone. Everyone wants you gone from this Earth. Go away…..please.

Cancer affects us all. We all know someone suffering from this dreaded disease. I have been diagnosed twice with cancer. I had a malignant melanoma removed from my right arm. I had prostate cancer and had my prostate surgically removed. This July, I will be ten years cancer free.  It should be a day to celebrate, and I will. But once you have had a cancer diagnosis, you wake up every morning hoping that it has not returned or that a new cancer has not formed.  It is scary stuff!

So what can we do with this silent invader? We can fight it with every fiber of our being. Big picture, we can support cancer research by donating money, or time, or just running in charity walks and races. Small picture, we can reach out and support those suffering with cancer now. Be a friend. Be a ride to a doctor appointment. Be a shoulder to cry on.

For ourselves, we can fight by taking care of ourselves. Though it is no guarantee, eating a healthy diet of closer to natural foods and getting off the couch and exercising certainly can’t hurt. Perhaps the best thing we can do is focus on early detection. I am alive because I put embarrassment aside and let the doctor do his thing every year. My oldest brother is dead, because he did not. Two diagnoses of prostate cancer, only one survivor. So, get to your appointments. Get the testing done. Fight it with all you have.

I’ll close with a quote from a Dylan Thomas poem. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Fight, fight against the dying of the light.”

It’s Tuesday, so I will be working the next two days and, therefore, no blog. See you Friday!

 

I’m a lucky man in that I have gotten to see so  much of our beautiful country.  There are ten states that I still haven’t visited. Bucket list!  I got to see many states because of my job as an HR representative for Minerals Technologies.  That’s for another blog post. The other way I got to see states was a cross country road trip when I was twelve. My dad, mom, sister, niece, nephew, and I traveled from Slatington, Pennsylvania to Pomona, California to visit my big brother Don.

Don is my oldest brother and he was eighteen years old when I arrived on this Earth. A story suggests that he was on his senior high school class trip when I was born. There is a picture, I wish I could find, from my dad’s employer’s company newsletter of Don holding baby me.  Awww.  Don joined the Marines right after high school and ended up being based in California. He fell in love with the place and never came home except for an occasional visit. He got married there. Began a career there. Had two kids there.

So, back to the trip. My dad bought a used station wagon just for the trip. He never could afford new cars and this one was questionable for a 6,000 mile journey. We piled into the station wagon. Only a few miles outside of town, a Charles Chips (remember them?) can fell onto my three year old nephew’s head and he began to wail and wail and wail. I remember thinking that this is going to be a long, long trip!

My dad did all of the driving. He was the only one who had a license. His goal was to drive 600 miles a day in order to get there in five. He pushed himself, to exhaustion driving close to twelve hours every single day. This was before the Interstate Highway System! We stayed each night in a motel with a heated pool. That was the reward for a long day on the road.

Somewhere along the way we ended up on the fabled Route 66. I can still remember a lot of the towns we passed through, especially through the southwest. One night we stayed in Gallup, New Mexico. There was a huge Native American gathering happening in the town. I remember my dad deciding to visit a bar a few blocks from the motel. He liked his Ballantine beer. My mom was so angry, and so scared. She was convinced that he would get into an altercation with a Navajo and come back to the room without his scalp!

We called my brother when we made it to California. Needles, California.  He let us know that we still had another 250 miles to go!

We eventually made it and stayed about a week and had the long ride home. A wonderful trip of a lifetime.

Writing this, and leaving so much out, I think that maybe there is a book in here somewhere. Hmmm.

Bright sunny day today…a great day to get out on the road!

 

 

I like women. I believe they are the stronger sex, by far. I think they would have done a much better job of running the world, than men have over the past thousands of years. I am not a big fan of men, in general, even though I am one. I think men are too into machismo  and being intimidatingly strong.  Women are more likely to talk about feelings and emotions than men are. Men like to talk about sports.  I know I am stereotyping here and I hope I haven’t offended any of my male friends.

Speaking of friends, most of my closest friends are women. I think it has always been that way. I feel less judged and more able to talk about important things.

My relationship with the opposite gender has been an interesting part of my counseling career.  One of my first counseling jobs was with The Program for Women and Families, in Allentown.  Their primary mission is to help women who have been incarcerated get their lives and families back.  Well, because I am a man, I was not allowed to be alone in counseling rooms with female clients. There was a fear of a lawsuit based on false allegations. Instead, I was assigned the angry male perpetrators of domestic violence.

Luckily,  Crime Victims Council of Lehigh Valley was much more progressive. I remember being interviewed for the job of Sexual Abuse and Rape Victim Counselor. I asked near the end of the interview if women are going to want to talk to a man about these issues. They said they didn’t know but they really wanted to try it. I took the job and was the first male sexual abuse counselor in the agency. It was a wonderful experience for me. I can remember only two clients who refused to talk with a male counselor. One was a radical feminist who told me she hates men.  The other was a Muslim woman in a full burqa. In the four years I worked there I accompanied, and counseled, three women during their rape exams. This was extremely rewarding and gave me a sense of just how strong women are.

While at CVC, I also spent most Friday afternoons counseling female prisoners at Lehigh County Prison.  I worked with them on their abuse issues, as most of them had had horrible lives filled with physical and sexual violence , usually at the hands of men. Maybe this is where my dislike of my gender has its roots.

These women prisoners remain the population I have most liked working with.  They were funny, and hopeful, and unbelievably strong.  Here is a funny story about one of my favorite prison clients.  She was in for prostitution and impersonating an officer. It turns out she was angry about the dollar amount some guy offered for her services. She made believe she was a vice officer, made him get out of his car and stand facing a wall, and then took off with his car!  We laughed about this the rest of the session. I often wonder, like I do with most of my clients, how she is doing today.  That was close to fifteen years ago.

Time to end this blog post. It started out going in one direction and ended up in another. Sorry for my lack of focus. It may not have been the best for my readers but it brought back good memories for me.

Enjoy your Sunday!

 

 

This is my 26th blog post. I have written every day that I said I would since I started this blog. There is no end in sight, especially if my readership continues to climb.  Because we live in an amazing world, there is never a lack of things to write about. But the fact that I am still writing is a shock to me in another way.  I am terrible at follow-through. The absolute worst!

I have started so many diets, or “lifestyle changes”, only to see every single one fail. I am sure that is true for a lot of us. So, is it lack of willpower?  A lack of meaningful reward? For me it is usually something as simple as a glazed doughnut in the lunchroom. It sits there calling my name and looking so delicious. Okay, I will start again next week!

The same thing with exercise programs. I have been a runner off and on for decades. Note the term off and on. Why not just on? I have belonged to gyms. I get a good streak going and something happens. In the case of exercise, it is usually an injury, or a rainy day, or a cold day, or a cold. Oh, there are many reasons to stop a good program. Doesn’t it just feel good, sometimes, to stay in bed?

I have started many meditation practices. My longest streak is nine days. Even though I enjoy meditating, and feel the results,there is always one day where I just say meh. That day turns into two, then a week, then a month.

I’ve begun several Great American Novels. I am awesome at first lines! Even the first few pages go well…..and then it gets difficult.  So, just journal instead? That doesn’t work either. My streak of journal entries is shorter than my meditation streak.

Disappointingly, even when it comes to taking a principled stand, I lack follow-through.  I remember when the Berlin Wall came down and Hess’s (remember them?) was selling pieces of the wall. My stand was never to shop at Hess’s again. How dare they profit off the suffering of millions. Then, it was probably a great sale on something I needed and principle out the window.

More recently, I pledged never to eat at Burger King again after they moved their headquarters to Canada to avoid paying taxes here! But, have you tasted their new Crispy Chicken Sandwich? It is delightful!

So, in conclusion, if not for lack of follow-through, I would be a svelte, marathon runner, who writes best-selling novels on the side and is known far and wide for his principled stands on the issues of the day.

I think I will keep working on that….at least for a day or two.

Enjoy this warm, sunny Saturday!

 

When I tell someone I am a Licensed Professional Counselor I usually get one of two reactions. From someone who has been in counseling before the response almost always is  ” I don’t know how you sit and listen to people’s problems all day long”.  From someone who has never been in counseling the response inevitably is “That’s got to be an easy job. All you do is listen to people talk”.  I even once heard “Why do you need a Masters Degree, just to talk to people?”.

Let me dispel those two myths. We don’t just hear peoples’ problems all day long and we don’t just talk to people. We work hard. Damn hard. It is definitely  the most exhausting job I ever had. It is the most challenging job I ever had. It is the most rewarding job I ever had.

Exhausting, because when you sit with a client, you are always “on”.  You can’t  think about what’s for dinner tonight or wonder how the drive home will be. You must listen to every single word because missing one word can change the entire meaning of what your client is trying to tell you. You have to watch for changes in body language. Any change can mean something. You have to listen to changes in tone, and pace, and content. Everything is important. You do this for at least 53 minutes for each client. That is a workout! Then you get just a couple of minutes to write a note, grab a snack, maybe pee, and greet your next client. Sometimes this happens ten or twelves times a day.

Challenging, because you never know what a session is going to bring. You can prepare for a session and the client arrives with something entirely different to discuss. You have to be able to think on your feet. The things you say and the advice you  give can have a profound impact on a client’s life and a client’s decisions. You need to be confident and you need to get it right.  You are focused on your client no matter what is going on in your own life. You are helping your client even when you aren’t physically well. There are days when you are just not feeling it but you need to perform anyway. There are days where you just want to say to a client. “I don’t know what to tell you”.  But, of course, you can’t.

Rewarding, because sometimes it just clicks and you know you are helping and your clients are doing amazing things. There are the times an anxious client tells you they were able to do something that fear held them back from before. Or a depressed client tells you that he was able to enjoy a beautiful spring Sunday. Or a couple, previously on the brink of divorce tells you they had a great date night, and a long conversation, and they are now confident about their future together. I could go on, but I am sure you get the point.

Being a counselor is a wonderful job. I am glad I chose this profession. Like any job, it has its good days and its bad days. Writing this made me realize that we should never make assumptions about anyone’s job, because until you have done it, you just don’t know.

No counseling for me this Friday. Today I can be “off”.

 

“May babies are the best!”.  I have heard this phrase off and on throughout my life. I certainly agree, being a May baby myself. I haven’t heard that phrase used with other months, even in passing. Maybe it’s the way it flows off the tongue. May baby sounds a whole lot nicer than August baby.  Proof again that language and the way it’s used is so important.

So what makes May babies so special? I may have just lost my readers who are not born in May, but let me proceed. May babies are conceived out of late summer passion, invalidating the famous rhyme…when the weather’s hot and sticky.  Evolutionarily, in caveman times, babies born in May had the best chance to survive, because of abundant food and warm temperatures.   I always thought that more babies were born in May than any other month. I have a niece and an uncle born on the same birthdate as me. My research shows though that that’s not true. Most babies are born in late August or September, which suggests a certain amorousness around the holidays. Understandable!

But back to May babies. We are either Taurus or Gemini, stubborn or curious. If you don’t believe in astrology, how about some Roman mythology? May is named after the Roman goddess, Maia, the daughter of Atlas. Not buying mythology either?  How about this? May babies are born into the most beautiful and temperature friendly month on the calendar. The trees are flowering yellow, pink, lavender, and white. It’s warm in the daytime and cool enough for a good sleep at night. May starts with a holiday, May Day, and ends with Memorial Day weekend and the unofficial start of summer. It is an awesome month to have a birthday!

“The world’s favorite season is the Spring. All things seem possible in May.” – Edwin Way Teale.

I am ending here because I am anxious to get outside on this beautiful first day of May. By the way, my birthday is on May 22.  I wear an XL shirt and 36 x29 pants, but a gift card from Barnes and Noble would suffice. 😉

 

 

Yesterday I spent a few hours walking around cemeteries. Yeah, it’s what I do. To me, cemeteries are fascinating places, filled with stories, and filled with history.  Walking into a cemetery is like walking into a library. There is biography, there is history, and there is mystery.  Here’s an example of a mystery in Slatington’s Fairview Cemetery:  There is a woman buried there who died at the age of 32. She is surrounded by the graves of her four children, who it appears each died at the age of two all within a few years of each other. What could possibly have happened to this family? What could this woman’s life had been like?

Most of my family is buried in that same cemetery. The exception is my paternal grandparents. They are buried in another part of town in Union Cemetery. My paternal grandparents, Wilmer and Lillian George, are not a typical topic of conversation when my family gets together. Apparently, they were not as active with the grandchildren as my other set of grandparents. But my mission was to find their grave and pay my respects.

I haven’t spent much time over the years walking in Union. But I did yesterday. It was like going on line and drifting from one distraction to another. Look, there is my family doctor when I was a kid! Look, there is the mayor when I was in high school! Look, there is one of my least favorite teachers! Look, there is someone from my high school wrestling team. I think you get my point. The cemetery is an actual record of our own lives. And a reminder of our own mortality.

I worry that future generations will not have the same experience I am having when I explore in a cemetery. The trend seems to be cremation and a saving or spreading of the ashes. No permanent record for explorers to stumble upon on a Sunday afternoon. No one will find my tombstone on a Sunday walk. I have other plans.

I did find my grandparents’ graves. It helped that I knew their stone was red rather than gray. There was the biography, and the history, full names and birth and death dates. There was also the biggest mystery of all…..Where are they now?

Enjoy this windy Monday….heat wave starts tomorrow!

Shhhhhh.  Be still. Don’t say a word. Listen. What do you hear?  Nothing?  Isn’t that wonderful?!

I have always been a big fan of quiet. Even silence. But quiet and silence are two things  that are increasingly difficult to find. Go to a nice restaurant for dinner and there will inevitably be a table of rowdies nearby or a guy with a loud booming voice.  Listen to some soft music on the radio and some car dealership will come on and start yelling at you. Go to church and someone will have thought it was a good idea to bring a three month old to hear the pastor’s sermon.

I hear myself sounding a little cranky so let me turn that around. There are still a few places where quiet abounds.

There is nature. The sounds that you typically hear when you are in the woods are mostly quiet and natural. Those sounds belong there. The wind moving  tree branches, the  rustling of a squirrel in old leaves, the sounds of birds calling to each other announcing your arrival into their quiet.  I sometimes wish I could live in the woods.

There is your own home, where you can shut the doors and windows, ask other residents to leave, and turn off every electronic device that you own. Okay, that’s not practical and it is rude.

But I have found something to fulfill my need for silence. It’s called float therapy and it is amazing! You can do this at Metta Relaxation Company in Bethlehem (this is not a paid endorsement). You walk into the float room and lock the door behind you. You undress and get under the shower in the corner of the room. From there you enter the float tub, about six feet wide by ten feet long. It is about eighteen inches deep and filled with Epsom salt saturated, warm water. The temperature of the water is meant to be the same as your skin, so you don’t even know the water is there.  You lie back into the water and turn the light out. There is music softly playing, which gradually fades away. Now you are in total darkness and total silence, except for maybe a little ripple of water, for an hour and a half. Wow!  They announce the session as over by playing the music again softly and gradually louder.  Get another shower, get dressed, and back out into the world of noise and light.

Everything has to come to an end including this particular blog post. Enjoy your Sunday and I will talk to you again tomorrow. Remember….shhhhh.

 

So, something usually happens when I tell someone I am from Slatington. There is a certain look in their eyes. Either it is a look of bewilderment because they have never heard of it or it’s a look of bemusement as in….oh, Slatington. Maybe a wink and a nod as in …oh, that’s too bad. Why does this happen? Where did Slatington get the reputation as the West Virginia of the Lehigh Valley? Why is the assumption that Slatington is nothing but rednecks and hillbillies? I was once in a restaurant and I overheard two radio marketers talking about how the farther north from Allentown, the less sophisticated are the people. They said that people in Slatington would buy art that matches their sofa rather than art for art’s sake. (Admission: I’ve done that. Haha)

I didn’t come to Slatington’s defense that day. But I would like to now. Slatington is a beautiful little town of 4,000. It’s built mostly on hills and on the banks of the Lehigh River. Overlooking the town is Blue Mountain. Driving into Slatington from the south, you proceed down a steep hill through the middle of town. It is filled with houses, large and small, that contain beautiful architecture and style. This drive is Main Street and you continue through the one block business district, around the bend, over the General Thomas Morgan Bridge, into what is known as downtown. The street continues until it reaches the Lehigh River and the bridge into Walnutport. This drive was an old Native American trail, known as Old Warrior’s Path. How cool is that!

It was a wonderful place to grow up. It had it’s share of characters, like all small towns do. But it also had some people that did great things. Slatington produced inventors, classical musicians, great businessmen, and professional athletes. There was a time, before my school days, when Slatington was known to have the best educational system in the Lehigh Valley. I could go on and on about my hometown, but that is for other posts.

My question remains, how did Slatington get it’s reputation as inferior and laughable? I think I know the answer. I think it is human nature to need to look down on someone else to build your self up. I did it earlier in the post by using West Virginia as an example of a backward place. Slatington is just a little town tucked away in the corner of Lehigh County, easy to pick on. To validate my point, Slatingtonians (yes, that’s what we are called) looked down on the towns farther to the north. People that lived in Lehighton were known as boobas. Oh my!

I don’t know if this will ever stop. It does seem to be human nature. But I guess we can all stop and think about the things we say and do that affect other people. We can also try to appreciate the beauty of all places and the people that live in them. Our differences make us greater.

Happy Saturday! If you have some free time this weekend why not take a drive down Old Warrior’s Path. You may find it charming.