Today is the last Sunday of summer. Summer gone. Another one bites the dust. A shout out to Queen. It’s got me thinking about time and how fast it is moving.

We have minutes, hours, days, weeks months, years, decades and centuries. I find it interesting how each of those measurements take precedence at different parts of our lives. Think of a birth. Those first few minutes are so important. Push, Mom! Cut the cord, Dad! Make sure the baby is breathing. Minutes go by and we go from our home in the womb to our place in this big, wonderful world.

How many hours did we nap as an infant. That was important then. How many hours since the last poop. That was important too. Can parents of an infant get eight hours of sleep? Well, maybe one of them can. For the other, each hour of sleep is like a Godsend. We count in hours because hours are more important then.

Days become more important once we start school. Is it Friday yet? A holiday means only four days of school this week. Only eight days until we have to give the speech in English class. Thirteen days until the prom. Twenty two days until graduation.

We enter the workforce and suddenly weeks are key. I get two weeks vacation! We call it a work week. It’s how we measure our time. That big report is due in three weeks. Months take precedence when we begin to start a family. How many months pregnant are you? The baby is how many months old. Vacation time comes in the summer months, because the kids are out of school.

Years are always important. It is how we measure our time on Earth. A year is one trip around the sun. We mark the end of each year with a celebration. We made it through another year. I hope it wasn’t the year of living dangerously, unless you like that sort of thing.

We don’t usually think about decades until we are older and start looking back. I was born in the 50s but came of age in the 60s, the swinging 60s. There was the me decade in the 70s, the roaring 20s, and the gay 90s (1890).

That leaves the century. Centuries are for the historians to worry about. The 20th century was dubbed “the American Century”, probably by American historians. There is one way we think about a century on a personal level. Will I live a hundred years? It’s possible, but unlikely. I had an aunt reach 100 and died a few days later. I don’t expect to live a century. I eat way too many sweets! My hope is that all of the Tastycakes I have eaten only take about a decade off my life. I would like to see 90! How about you?

Enjoy every minute and every hour of this day! Like the Moody Blues sang, back in the 60s, we only get 22,000 days! That’s 31,680,000 minutes. But who’s counting?

“Once you had a child, you were never safe again.” That quote comes from a wonderful book, “Count the Ways” by Joyce Maynard. Eleanor, the main character, thinks this to herself after a friend loses her young daughter to cancer and Eleanor begins to obsess about the safety and happiness of her own children. It’s true. Once you are a parent you are never safe from worry and fear and obsession about the lives your children will live.

From the first drive home from the hospital (don’t get in an accident! don’t get in an accident!) to their first day of school (I hope they make friends). From the day they pass their license permit test to the day they get their first car. From high school graduation day (my work here is done) to move in day at college (I hope they make friends). Wow, what a scary, tumultuous, yet wonderful journey. But even when they are adults that fear never really ends.

I have three children. My greatest desire for them is that they have a better life than I did. I’m not complaining. My life has been mostly good. But even if my life had been perfect, I would want my kids’ lives to be even more perfect. Ahh, the life of a parent.

My first child, Amy, had a short life. Seventeen years. “If I die young bury me in satin. Lay me down in a bed of roses. Take me to the river at dawn. Send me away on the words of a love song”. Yeah. That song. My fear for her, still, is that wherever she is now needs to be a good place. If she is living another life, as I believe she is, I hope her parents love her and that she is as healthy as she can be. I hope they are still playing Guns and Roses on the radio, wherever she may live.

My second child, Andy, is soon to be forty seven. He has a good marriage, two children, and I think he is happy. So what am I afraid of? Oh just those life events that seem to come out of nowhere. He, like all of us, has weathered some of those already. Fingers crossed he continues to handle them well.

My last child is Emma. A freshman at Cedar Crest College. She seems to be happy, when not in Statistics class. My fears for her are bigger because she has so much of life yet to live. Will she find the right man to share her life with? Will she find a fulfilling career? Will she be financially stable? I hope that I taught her enough.

Don’t think that I spend all my time worrying about them. I don’t. I have my own issues to worry about. I continue to revel in my children’s successes and am amazed by their accomplishments. I strive to have an optimistic outlook about their futures. But, as Joyce Maynard said, “Once you had a child, you were never safe again”.

I spend a lot of time in Trexler Nature Preserve, often along the Jordan Creek. I’ve written about Trout Creek, in my hometown of Slatington. I volunteer at Lehigh Gap Nature Center, along the Lehigh River. I love watching the water and I love watching things float downstream. I think that whatever is floating on the current is off on a grand adventure.

Yesterday I was thinking how much our lives are like those rivers and streams.

A river starts out as nothing more than a trickle. Even the mighty Mississippi, way up in Minnesota. That river trickle is like our lives as infants and toddlers. Not a whole lot is going on, but we keep moving forward, getting bigger along the way. Our elementary school years are that river getting wider, other streams join us like we gain friends throughout the school years. You know what else is happening to life and that river? It is getting faster and bigger still.

Eventually that river, just like us, reaches adulthood and the real journey begins. Now that river is big and strong and ready to face whatever lies ahead. The twists and turns represent the explorations of where we want to go, what we want our lives to look like. The rapids are life coming at us fast and hard. We can weather that whitewater because we are young and positive.

But things start to happen to the river and to us. Trees fall into the water blocking the river’s flow; just like trauma and life events slow us from our potential. Dams built on the river are outsiders affecting our lives. There seems to be a never ending series of obstacles to that river and to our life progress. But every once in a while, when the water gets deeper and we get more introspective, the pace slows to a nice meander. We can’t enjoy it for long because here come more rapids, here come more downed trees!

What’s at the end of the long journey? For the river, it’s a bigger river, or a bay or the ocean itself. For us, who knows what lies at the end? We all have our own beliefs, our own religious traditions. But, just like the river ends, our life as we know it will end. So the one thing we do know is that we need to enjoy all of that. All of the twists and curves. All of the downed trees. All of the dams. All of the streams that join us. All of the rapids and the slow meanders.

Let’s all get into a whitewater raft and enjoy the adventure.

I have a coffee mug that says, “Dad, you are my guardian and the champion of my dreams”. I’ve tried to take those roles seriously in my life. I think, mostly, I have succeeded. Do I have a few regrets? Of course I do. Don’t we all?

I have had the honor and privilege to help raise two daughters. What a wonderful experience it has been and continues to be. My daughters were born thirty years apart. I was twenty when my daughter, Amy, was born. I was fifty when my daughter, Emma, was born. They were born in two different eras. They were different children, but in some ways very much the same. And me? Yes, because of thirty years of life experience in between, I was a much different father the second time around.

It’s been an emotionally exhausting week for this dad. On Thursday, Emma moved into her college dorm. On Saturday, I remembered Amy’s death from Leukemia thirty two years before. I cried a few times over the last couple of days. Men can finally do that, right?! It was frowned upon when I was growing up. Stupid societal norms! I hope that one thing that I taught both of my daughters is to just be yourself and not worry too much about what others think. It took me a lifetime to learn that.

Back to my mug. As Emma is now an adult, my role as guardian is changing. As for Amy, I am still the guardian of her memories. I will continue to be the champion of Emma’s dreams until my last breath. I want her to have a better life than mine. My Buddhist beliefs allow me to continue to champion Amy’s dreams, in the many lives she will live after ours together ended.

Those thirty years of life experience between my daughters’ births taught me one very important thing. Everything has a lifespan. Amy’s death at seventeen validated that! Next year I turn seventy. That scares the hell out of me! The end of my lifespan is approaching rapidly, too rapidly. I can only hope that my daughters, wherever they are at this very moment, can say that their dad loved them immeasurably. I hope that they can say that he taught me about love, about having respect for yourself and for others, and to always help those with less than you.

Let me end this post, and lighten the mood a bit, with some lyrics from the John Mayer song, “Daughters”:

So fathers be good to your daughters, Daughters will love like you do. Girls become lovers who turn into mothers, so mothers be good to your daughters too.

As most of you know, I am a semi-retired Licensed Professional Counselor. I work with people, regularly, who deal with anxiety in many forms. In the past five years, with the increased polarization of our society and with the pandemic, anxiety is now a majority of my caseload. For the most part, I think I am very helpful with most of my clients. I wish I could say the same in my own life.

I’m not a very anxious person, for the most part. I tend to be mostly laid back and chill. Sure, I worry some about money and I worry a little less about death. But don’t we all. As I’ve gotten older, I get stressed while driving in heavy highway traffic. But again, nothing disabling. Unless it comes to my daughter, Emma.

Emma is moving into a dorm, at Cedar Crest College, this Thursday. It’s big event after a year of big events. Think Senior Prom. Think high school graduation. My gnawing fear in all three of these is that something will happen to ruin it. The prom was outside at Steel Stacks. What if it rains? What if bullies ruin the night? Graduation was at the PPL Center in downtown Allentown. What if she has an accident on the way? What if she gets lost and misses graduation? What if her car breaks down? Of course, none of these things happened and the prom and the graduation went off without a hitch. I’m sure move in day will also be easy as pie.

I finally figured it out. My Aha! moment. My older daughter, Amy, did miss all of those things. She spent what would have been her senior year gradually dying in three different hospitals. She missed her Senior Prom, of course. She didn’t get to graduate with her friends and fellow classmates. She didn’t even get to think about dorm rooms and mini-fridges and microwaves. Her life ended when it should have been just starting.

So there it is. I want so much for Emma to have a great life, that I have been letting what happened to Amy cloud my judgement and keep me from fully embracing the good things that are happening. Well, that ends today. I will stop worrying about doom and gloom and start worrying more about how I am going to fit all of Emma’s stuff into my Crosstrek on moving day. Wish us luck!

Most weekday mornings, for the past two years, I have an early morning hike in Trexler Nature Preserve. I love it there, just after sunrise. You can see more animals at that time. There is often a mist on Jordan Creek. The air is usually crisper and cleaner at that time of day. I love the solitude. But I am not entirely alone. There are a few others who also appreciate TNP in the early morning awakening.

I call them the regulars. There is the older couple, who seem to just meander the trail, not looking for speed or personal records. There is the man who meditates on the banks of the creek, sitting in his lotus position. There is the guy about my age, doing the same thing I am doing, fighting off old age and atrophy! Lastly, there is the skinny blond fortyish fast walking woman who walks back and forth over the same half mile of trail, doing five miles a day. Faithfully.

Here is the mystery. She’s gone. It’s been three weeks and I haven’t seen her. During the first week, I thought she must be on vacation. I thought the same for the second week, but when it entered the third week, I began to really wonder what happened to her. I’ll admit that I started to worry. I don’t even know the woman. We would chat briefly when we would pass each other on the trail. Usually we spoke of the weather. She couldn’t believe how long past summer I wear shorts. Adding to the mystery, the last Friday morning that I saw her, she said to me “See you tomorrow”.

Unless she returns I will never know what happened to her. Did she move away? Is she in the hospital? Is she recovering from an injury? Is she dead? Come on, you know you thought that too.

This got me thinking about my life in its entirety. I know I’ve written about it before, how people move in and out of our lives, important priorities one year and years later just a fleeting memory. It’s sad really and yet it fascinates me. I often think of kids I went to school with, or colleagues at work, or women I used to love or who once loved me. Every one of those people had some effect on me and who I am today, even if I haven’t seen them for decades. Relationships are so important.

To me, the skinny blond fast walker had this effect. She was a certainty. She would be on the trail, no matter the weather. She was a smile. She was a kind comment. She was a “see you tomorrow”. But will I see her tomorrow? It is looking less likely. Tomorrow starts week four.

And all of the people who have been in my life, wherever they are, I hope they are well and happy. I thank them for showing up.

I’ve had a case of writer’s block over the last few weeks. I think it is because I have been spending time on making a big change in my life. That change is about to take place over the next few weeks. It’s what I mean by my journey home. Let me explain.

My first job, when I was 13, was delivering Grit newspapers to many of the residents of uptown Slatington. Over the course of a long career, my work journey has taken me to many places. I started working in Slatington but have been to places as far away as Tha Toom, Thailand and Netanya, Israel and Aanekoski, Finland. It’s been an adventure and I really haven’t traveled much since I entered the Mental Health Counseling field.

My career as a counselor has also been a journey. Entering this field was not entirely altruistic. I was looking for an escape from the corporate world. I didn’t like the corporate life and the corporate life didn’t like me. The only thing I miss is the money! I started in Mental Health by working in a counseling “factory”, the MH/MR agency of Schuykill County. From there I worked with women getting their lives back after spending time in prison, at The Program for Women and Families. After that it was Crime Victims Council and counseling rape victims and sexual abuse survivors, as well as the families of homicide victims. That was very rewarding work. What followed that was non-rewarding work, counseling sex offenders. The only good thing about that was that the three hours, a week, the sex offender was with me, he wasn’t hurting anyone else. Then came the jump into private practice, where I have been working for about sixteen years. I have followed the typical flow of this career, from agency to agency to private practice. Many clinicians in this field have the desire to have their own solo practice. That is my journey home.

Starting in September, and lasting for a few more years, I will have my own solo practice in my beloved hometown, Slatington. Fingers crossed that it works as I finish my working career at the end of my journey.

“But my words, like silent raindrops fell. And echoed in the wells of silence.” That’s a line from Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence”. I am reminded about the virtues of silence in, this, one of the noisiest weekends of the year. It’s Independence Day, Fourth of July! We Americans like to celebrate with noise, with fireworks, the louder the better. It’s how we roll. As a lover of quiet, I am not a fan. But, I get it. It’s that time of year. But really, 3 am, like last night. Call me Karen, but I do not appreciate that. So instead of going full Karen, I instead will extol the virtues of silence and quiet.

I recently went tent camping. Silence and darkness all through the night. You could see the stars, lots of them. The only thing to break the silence, at 4:30 am, was the quiet sounds of chirping birds. I walked down to the lake and watched the sunrise over the water. Total silence except for the sound of some geese feeding in the water nearby. It was wonderful. It was my time, alone and serene. In a matter of an hour the rest of the campground would awaken, the sound of car doors and cast iron frying pans.

I sometimes do salt water floats at Bethlehem’s Metta Relaxation Company. This is another oasis of silence. Alone, in a totally dark room, lying naked, suspended in a tub of salt water, in total silence except for the slight ripple of water as you move ever so slightly. That silence is broken only by the playing of soft music to let you know your time of quiet and solitude is at an end.

One more. Hiking the Appalachian Trail in the dead of winter. So quiet, and peaceful. No sound except for your footsteps. No bird sounds. Not even the sound of a squirrel or chipmunk running through leaves. It makes you think that you are the only person left on Earth. And, at least for an hour or two, what could be better than that.

Enjoy your cherry bombs and your Roman Candles. I can put up with it for another day or two. But, being the introvert that I am, I will soon be on the lookout for my quiet places. Those places that calm my soul and recharge my energy cells. Those places that make me feel alive. Those places that spark my spirituality.

Happy Birthday, America! No matter how you choose to celebrate, I hope you have fun. For me, tonight I may sleep with earplugs. Ahhhh, the sounds of silence!

I finally took the leap and did one of those Ancestry DNA kits that have become very popular. I hesitated in doing so because I always cynically thought that they could just tell you anything. Well the results matched up pretty closely with what I knew about my family genes. I am about 70% English and about 20% German. Most surprisingly, to me, was that the area of England my family is from is Cornwall, that little peninsula that sticks out into the Atlantic from southwestern England. Surprising, because my paternal grandmother told me this a long, long time ago, when I didn’t care about such things.

My curiosity piqued, I immediately started to immerse myself in all things Cornwall. Cornwall, though part of England, has its own language and is more closely associated with the Welsh, the Irish, and the Scottish than with the English. I started reading books by Daphne Du Maurier. I have been watching Youtube videos of the Cornish coast (wild and rocky like Maine). I have been delving more into learning about the cities of Truro. St. Ives, and Penzance (yes, those Pirates of Penzance). I am binge watching Poldark on Amazon Prime. By the way, it is a really good series and the woman who plays Demelza Poldark (Eleanor Tomlinson) may just be the most beautiful woman in the world! But, I digress.

I’ve written a lot about how growing up small town Slatington has made me who I am today. What about my Cornish ancestry? The Cornish people are known to be very reserved. That’s me! The Cornish people are known to be people who suffer and endure. Yep, me too! The Cornish people are known as creative storytellers. I’d like to think that’s me. The Cornish people are known to be big drinkers. Well, three out of four isn’t bad!

Lastly, when I tell people that my favorite weather is wind because it makes me feel alive, I often get quizzical looks. That may just be because my ancestors grew up on this peninsula in the Atlantic, one of the windiest places on Earth. Who knows? Nature or nature? Probably a combination of the two!

I’d love to hear what my readers know about their own ancestry. Leave me a comment or IM me on Facebook. I’m looking out my window as I close this post. The breeze is picking up! Could be a great day!

On this beautiful Fathers Day I, of course, think of my dad. My dad was a bit of a rebel, a bit of an anarchist. He was unconventional and unpredictable. He died in 1983. I think when he died he was pretty happy with his messy, undirected life. At least I like to think that.

When I say he was a rebel, I don’t mean he was driving around Slatington in a pick up truck with a confederate flag. His being an anarchist doesn’t mean he was a bank robber, or pick pocket, or tax cheat. His uncoventional defines him and his unpredictable made him interesting.

Maybe it’s because he was raised in a conservative Mennonite household. Maybe it’s because he grew up as an only child. Maybe it’s because his parents weren’t around a lot, as they owned a grocery store. I’m not sure of the reason, but he chose to live his life in a rebellious way by flouting many conventions.

My dad loved to laugh and loved to have fun. There was not a lot of life that he took real seriously. Unfortunately that included his finances and his health. He was a chain smoking, beer drinking, pool hustling, poker playing, burlesque visiting, door to door salesman. When I was twelve, he quit his job of 25 years just so he could get a retirement payout and use that to visit his oldest son in California. In spite of my mom’s misgivings, he did not regret that even one day of his life.

One thing he did take seriously was his love for me. I came twelve years after he thought he was done having children. I think that he really enjoyed raising me. He and I were buddies and we did a lot without my mom. I will always treasure that California trip. I will always treasure our visits to the Slatington Skeet Club. I will even treasure the George reunions he took me to. They were Mennonite tinged and when it was time for the group hymn sing, he’d say “come on lets find a place away from the crowd, so I can have a smoke”. Good times. I miss him. I love him. As I age I find that he taught me a lot.

I learned not to smoke, nor drink a lot. I suck at pool and poker. I’ve always tried to be more financially responsible than my dad, and mostly succeeded. I have taken my health more seriously, than he did. I am not afraid of doctors. Like my dad, I like to laugh and have fun. The one lesson I am most thankful for is to not always follow society’s path. Take chances if it may get you what you really want. He didn’t care that much about what people thought of him. As I age I am finding that to be true for me too. I wish only that I had learned that one a long long time ago.

Happy Fathers Day! I hope you have good memories, of your father, like I do. Being a father myself, I know it’s a difficult role to play.