What A Park!

Yesterday, I went walking with a friend at Laguna Lake Park. We hadn't walked there for some time as we had become enamoured of Bob Jones Trail south of town. We loved walking on a smooth path (it's a bicycle path)through the oaks and sycamores.

We parked near the lake, not too far from the area where people aften come to feed the birds. Sure enough, there were many of them waiting--birds, birds, birds! Geese, gulls, ducks, coots, and others I couldn't name, were gathered there, some squawking loudly, as if in protest, some just standing in the sun, and some running hither and thither looking for morsels of food.

As we got out of the car, a small gull stood nearby. He watched us, waiting to see what we might have to offer. He wasn’t afraid of us at all. I’m sure he was hoping for a hand-out, but we had nothing to give him, and went on our way, leaving him to ponder our selfishness.

The Lake looked like a big blue gem sparkling in the noonday sun. There was a fresh cool breeze coming from the direction of the ocean, and I was glad I had brought my jacket and scarf, which had almost seemed unnecessary when we started out.

We took the road along the shore, and walked toward the small dock form which people can launch their boats. We could hear all sorts of bird sounds—songs, twitters, and chirps, coming from the trees we passed, and yet we couldn’t see one bird.

It has never failed to amaze me how hundreds of birds can hide themselves completely in a tree, even a small one. And then, if something disturbs them, they rise up out of that one small tree like a sudden cloud of birds.

Because of the recent rains, the grass was smooth and green, not the dusty brown you see in the dry months of the year. I thought I saw a ground squirrel in the meadow a few yards away, and it reminded me of one we saw once on a hot summer day, standing on his haunches trying to eat something from the top of a dry weed.

Just as we stopped to watch him he lost his balance and fell over backwards. He looked so surprised! But he got right up and tried again. After nibbling for a moment, he went over backwards again. This time, he looked a little sheepish, but still, he got up and took another whack at it. We were admiring his persistence in the face of confusion, but, alas, he fell back again. I swear he looked embarrassed, if a squirrel can be embarrassed!

When we continued on our way, he was still looking up at the weed, as if wondering what he should do next. I have a feeling he figured it out in the end and got what he was striving for.

After walking for some moments along the shore, we turned and followed a shady path that ran between two rows of eucalyptus trees. It led us to another path going back in the direction from which we had come, past the refurbished restrooms, looking very spiffy, and then past the off-the-leash playing area for dogs.

We wondered how the owners know the dogs will get along and play with each other instead of growling and snarling and getting into fights. I don’t know the answer, but dogs of various sizes, shapes, and colors were cavorting about happily with no signs of tension at all.

How lucky we are in San Luis Obispo to have this large and beautiful park! It’s set apart so completely from the hustle and bustle of the city; you feel as if you are out in the country, even though across the lake you can see houses, docks, and boats. You can’t hear any sounds of civilization, not even the traffic along Madonna Road.

In every direction you can see hills, either close by or far away, and, in addition to the rather tame assortment of birds that wait for food, wild birds come looking for food, either in the park itself, or along the edge of the lake. We have seen egrets there, and sometimes even Great Blue Herons standing still, waiting, in the reeds.

I don’t know of anything more beautiful than the sight of a Great Blue Heron opening its enormous wings and taking flight. What a privilege to see such lovely wild things up close!

No matter how contentious and crazy the world may seem to be, there are still beautiful things in it to enjoy.

A New Year

I've been listening today to comments about the New Year: Should we or should we not make New Year's resolutions? If we do, will we keep them? Why do so many of us male resolutions and then not make a serious attempt to succeed? And so on.

I think that if you make a resolution because you think you ought to, you will probably fail. If you make a realistic resolution about something you seriously want to change about yourself, you up your chances of success. Especially if your resolution is specific, measurable, and has a time limit.

On the other hand, the idea of making a change at the beginning of a year implies that this is going to be a different kind of year than the one just past.

The only trouble with that is that no one can live a year at a time. You can visualize a wonderful year in which all your bad habits are gone, but you can only live it as you go, one day at a time, or sometimes, one moment at a time.

Now that I am old, I have given up worrying about what I ought to do, and instead am having a lot of fun figuring out who I am, what is important to me in my life, and then living with as much enthusiasm and integrity as I can muster.

I like the Dalai Lama's comment: "My religion is kindness."

If I have a resolution, it is one that is within me this year, last year, and next year: to be kind, kind to myself and to others. I don't mean a sentimental, slushy kindness that condones everything. I mean an attitude of kindness and grown-up understanding in the face of both wrong doing and right doing.

That's what's fun about being old. You can make up your own mind about yourself. Looking back you can see all the lousy advice you got, and followed, from other people during your lifetime, and all the trouble it got you into. So now, I'm just who I am, and am willing to take all the reponsibility for any train wrecks that occur.

I guess that means I resolve to laugh, be creative, help others, and enjoy life even when things go wrong.

Homeless Man on Marsh Street

Yesterday, as my son, Bill, and I left the pharmacy on Marsh Street, in down town San Luis Obispo, we passed a man with reddish hair and a sad face. As we walked by, I was strongly aware of his feelings of despair, but he didn't ask for anything, so I continued on.

"Do you give people money even when they don't ask for it?" I asked Bill. He said,

"Yeah, I do, when I can tell they need it."

"I wanted to give something to that man in front of CVS. He looked so miserable."

"I noticed him, too. Maybe he'll still be there when we go back to pick up my prescription."

Later, when we came out of the pharmacy, we saw him again. This time he approached us, and asked for help.

"Could you spare a little money, so I can get something to eat?" Bill and I both dug in our wallets for something to give him.

"It was so cold last night, I couldn't get warm...and I was hungry. I'm still hungry." We both gave him some money, saying we wished it could be more. His face brightened into a smile, he thanked us, and started off down Marsh Street.

This poor guy kept returning to my mind. We could tell he was new at asking for money, reluctant to do it, but driven by need.

I thought about how easy it is, now, for people to fall out of the system and become homeless. It hasn't ever happened to me, but it could have. I have often been on the edge, financially, wondering how I would pay the rent. Somehow, I always did.

I live on a tiny income in a mobile home park. I own my home, free and clear, because I bought it years ago when mobile homes were cheap. I don't feel poverty stricken, and yet technically, I am below the poverty level. Even so, what a chasm there is between me and the redhaired man who is hungry and homeless!

My house is warm and dry, I have a bed to sleep in and food to eat. I have a studio in which to paint and a computer to write on. I have musical instruments to play and books to read. There are geraniums, succulents, trees, and a beautiful bougainvillea growing in my back yard. My son, Bobby Jameson, owns the house with me, lives here, and is the reason it is warm and dry even though the roof is 40 years old. He worked on it for months to be sure it could withstand the winter rains, and it has.

So I feel rich. I have everything I need. But the homeless man with red hair has nothing he needs, except the clothes he wears. And you can multiply this man by the hundreds, just in this one town. Worse than that, many of the homeless are women and children.

This breaks my heart. If only I could help! That is, with more than just a couple of dollars.

I grew up in the depression. There were many homeless then too. We called them "hoboes," and we would feed them when they came to our house hungry. They wandered about, "rode the rails," and lived however they could. We were far from rich, but seemed to have everything in comparison to the hoboes. I wished I could help them, and so did my mother, but all we could do was give them food when they happened to come, and now and then a hat, or a sweater, or a pair of shoes.

This disparity of fortune is heart-wrenching. The only positive side to it is that it makes me appreciate all that I have. Because of the homeless man with red hair, I know I am truly rich.

How Are We Doing?

It occurred to me, as I was watching the news on TV this morning, that human beings haven't made much progress since we first arrived on earth. We are still doing the same things, just on a larger scale, and in more complicated ways.

We used to fight man to man. Then clan to clan, village to village, area to area, and country to country.

At first we killed only one at a time. We have made so much "progress" that now we kill hundreds at once, and have the ability to kill thousands.

In addition to continuing to fight each other, the way we treat each other, even those with whom we are "at peace," hasn't improved much either. At least, in primitive societies people worked together, cooperated for the welfare of the whole group. Now we cooperate less and less, and it's every man (or woman) for himself.

In the process of vying with each other for money, property, or power, we lose sight of simple human connection. We don't know how to work together for the good of the planet we live on, but are blinded by desire for personal gain, or for the success of personal agendas.

Couldn't we take a step back and look at what we are doing to each other and to our earth? Can't we pay attention to what it is we are losing?

And if the world dies, where will we live then?

Stories From My Life Now on New Blog

I posted a few stories from my life on this blog, and then realized they are not really relevant here. Today, I started a new blog, Troy Parker Farr--Stories from My Life. I will keep Think About It for other things. There is a link to Stories from My Life in the upper right corner of this blog.

WAR

I love war
It’s what we’re all living for
It gives us a chance to see foreign lands
And show them their fate is in our hands
I love war

I love war
It’s what we’re all rooting for
It lets us know that we’re the strongest
In every war we stick around the longest
I love war

I love war
It’s what we spend money for
We can’t waste our wealth on education
We have to use it to defend our nation
I love war

I love war
It brings us power galore
It gives us the chance to rely on force
Without any foolish thoughts of remorse
I love war

I love war
It thrills me down to my core
We have bombs that are very smart
We have killing people down to an art
I love war

I love war
It’s what we’re all fighting for
We can’t expect to have a life of ease
We have to support our wars overseas
I love war

I love war
It’s a situation I adore
Never mind health care for those in need
It’s much more important for war to succeed
I love war

I love war
It’s what every patriot’s for
Forget about people whose money is gone
War’s what we’d rather spend money on
I love war


I love war
It’s what we’re all rooting for
We’re the greatest country in all the world
Our guns always ready and our flags unfurled
I love war.

I love war
Peacemakers I deplore
They interfere with all our fun
They don’t know what makes Sammy run
I love war

I love war
It’s so much fun keeping score
Never mind if the rich get obscenely wealthy
It will trickle down and we’ll all be healthy
I love war

BEING LITTLE IN EVANSTON

In Evanston when I was a little girl, and we still lived at 1428 Maple Street, I can remember wandering about a small part of the neighborhood to houses of people we knew. Most of them were Websters—there were at least three nearby houses occupied by Webster families, and most of the other houses seemed to be occupied by relatives of the Websters.

There was a house on the next corner and across the street that had a white wooden double swing in its yard, with seats facing each other. I don’t know who lived in that house. I don’t think I ever knew, but I used to go and swing on their swing with one of the Webster children, or with one of my brothers. It took two of us to make it go. I don’t remember ever seeing the people who lived there, but they never came out to stop us from swinging on their swing.

The parents of the Webster kids we used to play with lived only a couple of houses away from the house with the swing. Betty was a little older and Ronnie a little younger than I. Their father, Ronald, Sr., was one of the first people to become sober in AA, just as it was beginning, but that was years later. The grown-up Websters, Ronald and Betty were friends of my parents for many years.

One Webster family lived almost directly across from us on Maple Street. They had a huge white house and a white picket fence enclosing their large yard. One day as I was walking by, their big dog came up to the fence. I reached out to pet him, but Instead of letting me do it, as I expected, he growled and then barked at me so loudly I was terrified. I was also surprised. It was the first time it ever occurred to me to be afraid of a dog, or any other animal. I loved them and expected them to love me back, which they usually did.

Next to this house was another Webster house, with stairs going up to a big veranda. One winter day, I was on my way home, all bundled up in a winter coat, scarf, hat, leggings, and boots. As I passed this house, I suddenly realized I had to go to the bathroom. I started up their stairs intending to ask if I could use the bathroom, but it was too late. I felt embarrassment, failure, and fear as I became aware of the telltale liquid warmth in my pants. I was afraid of what would happen to me when I got home. I was right. My mother was angry, told me I was a bad girl, and sent me to bed without any supper. That part I didn’t mind since I didn’t like to eat then.

At Ronnie and Betty Webster’s house, their father used to create a skating rink in their back yard in winter, and that was where we all learned to skate. At first we had little double runner skates that attached to our shoes just as roller skates did. They were supposed to make it easier for us to balance, but they didn’t glide very well, and we fell down a lot anyway.

Eventually, we all graduated to single runner skates with high lace-up shoes attached. It took a long time to be able to keep our ankles straight, and at first it felt as if we were skating on our ankles instead of on the blades. Still, it made winter great fun whether we skated well or not, and we all learned in the end.

Once, when I was quite small, I ventured down to the corner of our block and got the idea of continuing on around the block. I turned left at the corner and after a house or two, came to some large brick buildings. I had no idea what they were. I continued to the next corner and turned left again.

Along the side of this building there were insets below the level of the sidewalk that admitted light to the basement windows (I found out later). I didn’t know what they were for, and got down into one of them to explore. There wasn’t anything to see, except the dried leaves at the bottom. Then, for some reason, I began to take off my clothes.

A man in a black suit and hat, and a white collar, came and gently lifted me out. He put his suit coat over me and asked me where I lived. I told him and he took my hand and walked me home. He was very nice to me, not threatening at all.

I wish I could say the same for my mother. She was exceedingly angry and had a lot to say. She made me feel like a fallen woman, if you can feel like a fallen woman at three or four years old.

Even though I remember this incident clearly, I have no recollection at all as to what motivated me to take off my dress. I found our later that the man in black who took me home was a Catholic priest.

My father didn't think much of Catholics in general, but he was very grateful to this particular priest for bringing me home. In fact, he made a point of going to find him so he could thank him for his kindness to me.