Ride This Train

If I was going to compare life to anything, it’d be like riding a train on a long trip. You get born onboard and you don’t exactly know when you’ll get off. A train pulls a lot of cars and as you roll through the countryside of your existence, you change cars a lot. Every day you make switches. Maybe you start out in the domestic car, waking with your spouse, having breakfast together in the family dining car, but then you leap across the connector to the business world compartment where everyone is dressed for success and busy as can be trying to please the boss. It’s a constant game of train hopping, of wearing your different hats and fulfilling your varied rolls in life.

There are special days on the timetable of your calendar, anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. These are as important in your life as your job or anything else. You build traditions around these dates and as your family grows, so do these happy obilgations. Birthdays punctuated the year and in those years of childhood this meant some type of home party or outing for each child. Laurel’s was in March, which meant it was between the coming or going of Easter and another big dinner and get together at my parents, both for her birthday and for the holiday.

Noelle’s birthday was near the other great Christian holiday, Christmas. When someone is born that close to December 25 you must make certain you do not blend the two events. Each child deserves the distinct focus of her own birthday. 

My father and my wife both celebrated another year in October.
June was the big month, though. My Grandmother’s birthday was on the eleventh and then came my mother’s birthday on the 21^st. The 21^st was also my parents wedding anniversary and generally Father’s Day fell on or near this date as well. A week later my birthday came. Just to complicate things, my wife’s best friend’s birthday was on the 24^th and my longtime friend from childhood, Stuart’s fell on the 30^th. As far as all the family dates we always went out to some restaurant to celebrate, such as The Peddler’s Inn or The Black Angus. It was an extra special celebration for my Grandmother for she turned 85 that June.

Even Darryl’s birthday could add to the business of things. It fell on the 24^th of August, which put it on or near the Wilson Family Reunion we all attended every year on the last Sunday of August. Of course in 1984 Darryl was still a bit too young to grasp what was going on.
Unfortunately, Lois didn’t attend the reunion with us that summer as she was sick.  No, she wasn’t pregnant again, but she was getting sick a lot, especially when she was supposed to go to gatherings of people. She always came down with something that kept her away from other people. We didn’t take too much note of this at the time.

 We had big dinners each year on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Since the children had arrived we had Thanksgiving at my parents, where my Grandmother did most of the cooking, and we had Christmas at our place, where Lois did the meal. We went to this arrangement feeling it wasn’t right to drag the kids away from all the toys they received to rush up to grandma and grandpa’s. There was always a big feast at my parents on Easter Sunday as well.

Then you had the lesser holidays to content with, New Year’s, Memorial Day, Independence Day and Labor day, plus Halloween and day trips to the beach or Dutch Country or where all. Every week was church. Every day was busy. Family life is a full time job of its own and except for Laurel, our kids weren’t even in school yet, let alone a lot of extra activities. Those things were yet to come.

What did come was my 25^th High School Class Reunion on the tenth of November. Twenty-five years, really? I don’t think we went to Lois’ class reunion that year, even though it was the 25-year milestone too.

Lois and I managed to get time off alone by dropping our brood off at my parents several times over the year. We weren’t getting any of those long vacation trips we used to take, though.  The longest we could squeeze in was a two-day church retreat to a camp in Maryland.

We also got another weekend together in New York beginning on December 15 as I attended another American Management Association seminar that coming week. The usual thing, we went up on Saturday morning and Lois stayed over until Monday before taking the train home. I remained the rest of the week to take classes in “Quality Control in the Service Industries”.

Riding the business compartment there was another big deal of a project I was heading up that summer. It was bigger than most of my past projects, at least in the sense it involved far more divisions throughout the bank making it more complicated. All projects generally require a team of players. This one was notable by the number of high level members. Here is a picture of the Team:

Projects of any magnitude required a sponsor at vice-president level or higher .Walt Whittaker sits at the head of the table. He was the vice-president over one of the largest divisions of the bank, Deposit Services and Data Preparation, and had been picked by Barney Taylor, then Chairman and President of Wilmington Trust as this project's sponsor. I was named as the Project Manager and that is me seated to Walt’s right. Seated from my right are Dale Haring, an intern at the time (more about the interns later), and Etta Harper, who was an Assistant Vice-President and Head of Data Preparation. Behind Walt, standing to his far right is John Behringer, Assistant Vice-President and Head of the Savings and Operation Section of Deposit Services. John was also the man everyone assumed would eventually more up into Walt’s position when Walt retired. Most of the others were from Information Technology (known in those days as just Operations). These included Chris Honorowski, a brilliant programmer who I worked on several projects with; France Shelton, who will talk about in a later chapter; Jean Byassee, at that time Chris Honorowski's boss; and Ed Newman, almost the stereotype of a computer nerd. Charles Stone was from Marketing and Tod Hughes, I believe was from Finance. I am not sure anymore what areas Thom Holden and Rick Tindall represented. The three absentees were Anne Freebery, Assistant Vice-president over the Deposit Operations Section; John Kipp, Vice-president in the Information Technology Division; and Rick Wilhide a vice-president in Retail.  A lot of bucks were represented here.

    What made this project so important to everyone was not just its uniqueness; it was the opportunity to show up all the other big banks and put them in their place, even thoughthis was another one of those “new-fangled” ideas that most were saying couldn’t be done, including some of those pictured as on the team. Wilmington Trust was going to introduce something called “Self-Service Banking” with totally free checking accounts. And, of course, despite the sceptics, we did it. We were not only the first bank to offer this service in Wilmington and Delaware, and the whole Philadelphia Region, we were the first in the good ol' USA to do it, perhaps the world.

There had been a couple of banks that tried offering free checking previously, but all these attempts had failed. The industry was convinced the whole idea was a big money loser. Now we thought we had the technology to make it work, even though a number of those inside The Bank were fighting it. However, at the same time, Congress was getting on the Banking Industries for not providing cheap services to those in the low income brackets. This helped our cause. This project would not only bring us the important youth market we believed it would, but would answer any criticism from Washington.

It was exactly what we claimed. There was no service charge, no minimum balance and no per check charges. The only actual restriction was you could not go to a live teller for any transaction an ATM could handle, which were the majority of transactions people used banks for anyway. You could do a deposit or a withdrawal of funds at an ATM. You could get your balance from the machine. These ATM would also print out a short bank statement if you requested one. Therefore, if a Self-Service Customer choose to go to a teller for any of these items they would be changed $2.50 per transaction. If a customer went to a live teller for a transaction the ATM could not provide, there would be no charge. This also applied if the ATM was out of service. Each new Self-Service Customer was issued a Bank Card to use in ATMs and a packet of checks. Checks were free as long as the customer ordered generic ones. If they wished a picture or fancy design on the checks they had to pay extra.

We promoted this new product heavily at the University of Delaware and other local colleges as the perfect account for a student. The theory was that as students graduated and became successful in life they would stay loyal customers of Wilmington Trust.
Checks once cleared were not returned to the customer with monthly statements. The cancelled checks were stored at the bank for 30 days (although in reality we kept them for at least 90), then were put on microfiche. If a customer needed a copy of a cancelled check, the bank would provide one at no charge. This storage of Self-Service items had implications for another product idea down the line, Check Safekeeping.

Also in 1984 Wilmington Trust’s CEO incorporated an Intern Program. Each year, going forward a

group of students would be picked from the Local colleges as interns. They would serve in this position for one year, during which they would be shifted throughout the bank departments, divisions and sections to learn everything in the operations. They received no pay for this and only the possibility that a job might be offered at the end of their one-year tour.
I was named to develop and conduct the training within our Divisions. One of the first things I did was write a booklet called A Guide to the Deposit Services Division. This contained a brief explanation of each unit by section. We would use the booklet as a handout to new employees and during some presentations the Bank did in the coming year.
My program was a combination of on-hands experience and lectures from several managers and myself about what we did and how we did it. The course was several weeks long. During the last days I gave a final exam. The program was designed to assure that no one would fail, not because it was easy, but because we attempted through clear language and repetition that everyone would get it.
There were 12 Interns in the initial group (and it pretty much stayed around a dozen each year thereafter). Most were from the University of Delaware and the vast majority were men. I can't even remember if we had any women in that first group.  There were only three who were hired at year end, and one of these left after only a few months. The two who stayed were Dale Haring and Fil Sherry.

This was interesting to me. Fil Sherry (pictured left) had scored the lowest on my final exam and he had been something of an annoying presents. He was always showing up late for training sessions and invariably got up to take phone calls, disrupting everyone else. He was lackadaisical and disinterested. If it had been in my power, I would have kicked him out of the program.
Remember this because Oil Sherry will play a major roll in my own career.

The train ride through 1984 ran pretty smoothly. We looked with great anticipation to the stations ahead. But when you ride this train of life you can't always be sure what is around the next bend.

On to That Final 20%.

I see we are not calling them Senior Centers anymore. Some are retitled "Center for Balanced Living."I don't know what that means? What is it? A retirement community for Wallendas? Some state is renaming every one "Active Adult Center". That sounds too much like a gym to me. If I walk in the door will somebody yell, "Give me ten!"What if I don't feel like being all that active?

Why can't we ever call anything what it is? I guess people can't face the truth. I'd be happy with Senescent Center, where the Geezers and Biddies play to they drop...dead.

Frankly I'm fine with being a senior citizen. By gum (old geezer slang word), I earned it. I will not be robbed of my right to be old. And don't give me that mishmash of 70 is the new 60 or 50 or perhaps they're calling it the new 20 by now. Seventy might be on the cusp, but 72 old, man.

They have this thing called life expectancy and it says for us dudes it is 76-77 years. That puts me four or five years away, so if I ain't old now I never will be. This life expectancy thing is a bit suspect to me. Some agency puts out list by countries and the United States ranks 51 on those lists. I think its just political. Got to watch anything put out there may be some manipulation for political reasons. Like they are back on this Global Warming kick again at the United nations, even though there hasn't been any increased warming for 17 years. they dismiss this as a "pause". If it's been seventeen years, i call it a trend.

But never mind, we're talking about life expectancy and those world types say 76-77 for us fellows. Yet, if I go to the Social Security Agency I am told I can expect to live another 13 years, which would make me 85. Furthermore, the CDC (Center for Disease Control) says I got 19 more years to go, which gets me to 91.

No matter how you cut it or who you believe, 72 makes me an old man, maybe on the young side of old age, but old nonetheless.  One way I figure is this. That 91 sounds like a reasonable number to me. Most my family lived up close to that. My mother died at 92 and my father at 94, so I got pretty good genes in the aging game. So if we round off at 90 and divide by 5 we get a pretty good breakdown of a life's divisions: childhood, young adult, career years, middle age into retirement and old age.

I worked until I was 70 and then full retirement kind of happened. That was a couple years ago so I'm now in stage 5, - old age.  I have arrived in my 73rd year and essentially the last 20% of my life.

(By the way, remember, when you celebrate your 72nd birthday it means you have finished up 72 years. The day after you birthday you are working through your 73rd years.)

This is not a complaint about being old. If there is any complaint it is about those who deny it, won't accept it, lie about it, flee from it or fear it. Get over it. Everybody gets old unless they die young, so celebrate and embrace it, you have survived.

I will tell you I don't feel much different in my brain. My mind's image of myself is basically the same as ever, so I guess your subconscious does lie. In my head I look like I'm maybe 25. I don't see an old man when I look on the mirror either, so mirrors must practice deception, too. I see a man with a white beard and bald pate, but he doesn't look grizzled and worn to me. Ah, but when I see photographs of me, then I wonder who is that old man and why do I have a picture of him?

It's my body that really let's me know I'm old. It sneaks up on you and you don't always realize what

the body is saying, but gradually you get the message. For example, I'm a walker. I have walked places all my life, often for just the pleasure of the walk. My friend, Ronald Tipton, and I used to walk up and about the hills around Downingtown as children and that exploring by foot has remained a lifelong habit for both of us. When I worked, I would walk away my lunch hours and take a long walk in the evening after I got home. And these days I go every morning to one of our local parks and traipse away four or five miles of varied terrain, up hill and down.

But then I was passing everyone who appeared before me and if walking with companions would need slow or stop occasionally to allow them to keep up. Now I notice everyone is passing me. I feel I am stepping out at a good pace, my same old pace, but apparently not. I also know I am walking the same distance in more time.

Ignoring some recent health issues, such as my half-paralyzed right hand, the two main fingers stiffened

by arthritis, there is another obvious indicator that I have moved into old age. Strength. I was never an Arnold Scwartznegger, but I had some amount of strength. I us to lift weights to keep toned and I could press 120 pounds straight over my head and I did arm curls with 35 pound dumbbells. Now I struggle to carry a forty pound bag of kitty litter into the house.

Don't take this little missive as morbid. It isn't focusing on death. Death isn't just around the corner. Remember, the CDC says I have 19 more years...at least. No, I am just being realistic and admitting that in many ways I am pass it. I'm content with that. I'm happy with that. Much of the fuss and feathers of life are over. I look forward to a simpler, perhaps more placid remaining 20% of it.

Also my big hope is I will return to regular entries in what have been becoming my long neglected blogs.

Gates...and I Don't Mean Bill

When you think about it, life is a series of gates.  At birth we push through the gates of our mother's birth canal and at the end someone pushes us through the gates of the graveyard. In between we constantly confront new gates. Some are closed to us. Some are open.  When we do pass through one it may be into a great pasture or a narrow chute. Whichever it is, we are always inside a new stockade of regulation or restriction for that is what gates hang on, fences.

Don't think this is so?

Well, walk far enough across your independence and eventually you'll belly up against a wire or rail or picket.

That is unless you are a Bill Gates. Forty-Billion dollars can buy you a lot of open range. Even so, eventually every Bill Gates of this world will have someone push them inside a fence they can't buy their way out of.

But I, like most, am no Bill Gates. I am just an ordinary Joe (or Jill for my desires aren't confined to sex or creed or race) who always craved freedom. I like to think I went my own way, and often I did and have the scars to prove it. You see there are those barricades surrounding the phases of our life. If you are trying to climb up the rails rather than using the designated gate, you're going to be pushed down a lot.

There are, of course, many bad reasons why a fence might have been erected about our lives. Human history is full of people imprisoned behind the rails of prejudice and ignorance.  But I'm not specifically talking about social justice here.

Many of these imprisoning pens were entered by choice. We voluntarily surrender some of our freedom when we go to school, take a job, pledge to a life partner, join the Armed Services or enter a movie theater. Enter a movie theater? Certainly, if you are a considerate, decent person, don't you give up your freedom to be disruptive and rude so others may enjoy the film? Yes, I know, some people don't and what do we think of him or her? When we allow that kind of freedom it makes life miserable for us all.

There are fences we stand behind for safety. If the barrier keeps us from standing in front of an oncoming train, it is a good thing. We could demand our freedom, push through the railroad gate and stand in the headlight glare of the streamline limited. We can grab such moments of freedom like standing on those railroad tracks or maybe running red lights. It may be a brief moment of exhiliration and the next gates we stand before will either be the pearly ones or the Gates of Hell.

But now I find many of the fences have come down. Most of these life phase gates I have already passed through. At 70, the gate of age has blown open and I see it as the last great beginning, where I may have as much freedom as I can expect in this world. I have nothing left to prove to you or myself, really. I am pass worrying about promotions and status and fame. I don't have the desire or need to impress anyone. I've seen enough to know most of what they call politics is being played out for the umpteenth time with little change. Oh, the actors may be different, but the lines are familiar.

Yes, I know total freedom will never come. Kris Kristofferson sang, "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose." I don't want to be that free. There will always be fences somewhere. I still see the temporary, but very close slats of having a job holding me in. That fence will come down someday and I hope there is a vast field of freedom beyond, although realistically there may be other fences being erected as I type. You know, the barbed wire of poor health perhaps.

Nonetheless, I feel more free today than I've ever felt; I am excited about having thrown wide the gate of old age and look forward to this new adventure. I don't even speculate on how big this pasture is, just I have the freedom to explore it.

Death, by the way, isn't a fence. It is a gate.



All photos by the author, except the second, taken by my wife:


Gates in the middle of the trail through Alapocas Run State Park, Delaware, 2010.


Me atop a horse pasture fence, 1968.


"The Gates of Hell", Rodin Museum, Philadelphia, Pa., 2006.


National Cemetery, Gettysburg, Pa., 2005.

Now What? Looking Ahead.

Well, another year has come. What is ahead? Adding another digit on time will mean I'll be 70 this year. It is a nice round number, rolls off the tongue much easier than all those sixty-somethings, 67, 68, 69. 69 is one of those numbers that always brings a secret smirk. I'll be happy to reach 70. Wasn't that a lifetime limit once? (Some say even Biblical: Psalm 90:10a "The days of our years are threescore years and ten.") I know as a child somebody 70 was a real old person at the end of their alloted three score and ten.

I don't see that gray-beard on the bridge as my old man look, but as my rugged Ernest Hemingway look. Ernest never made it to 70. Didn't make 69 either. He pulled a trigger at 63 and messed up his walls something awful.

So what am I planning for the year ahead. It certainly isn't the Hemingway solution, I don't even own a shotgun.

We never quite know for sure the what and when of our final solution, do we?  Therefore, it isn't worth fretting; however, I thought mine was to be flocked to death by geese on the first day of this new year.

Off for my morning walk, January 1, just after dawn, I parked at Alapocas lot Number 2. As I got out of the car a small V of geese came over the adjoining golf course to my left. They corrected their coordinates as I exited my car to fly directly above. I don't like geese flying overhead, not with the reputation loosey-gooseys have.

Nothing happened, they soon disappeared, but then another little gaggle came across the fairways straight on my course, and then another and another. Little patrols of feathered formations each flying exactly overhead as I walked down the hill from the lot. It was as if I was ground control.

Then the clear blue sky cleared of all birds-on-the-wing for the short time it took me to almost reach the underpass on the street. Suddenly there was a commotion like you never heard. It shook the earth this grand honking cacophony. I turned in the direction of this sound of geese honking in full throat, many geese.

Over the hill they came, this tremendous swarm like some invading air force. I thought the birds had revolted, that Alfred Hitchcock's profile would appear on the wall of the underpass and I would disappear as bloody pulp beneath beating wings and pecking beaks. It really was an awesome and noisome sight.

(I counted and there are over 300 geese in my photo and I didn't even capture the rear guard.)

Then the  geese broke off into groups and went flitting here and yon. All coming back after a big New Year's Eve gathering, I suppose, a bit tipsy, a bit confused as to how to start the year.

So where does one, goose or man, begin a new year? I'll just start where I left off the last year.

I will take my usual early morning walks on my non-work days. I did so today and the rest of the photos accompanying this diatribe were taken on the new trail I tried. (I mean a new trail to me. The trail itself was as old as dirt; in fact was dirt. So, since I am also as old as dirt the trail and I had common ground and got along famously.)

This time I crossed the Rubicon, the Brandywine Creek anyway, to the other half of Brandywine Creek State Park. I have never walked that portion. I decided let's give her a go, me lad.

I remembered to tuck my cell phone in my pocket for the first time, too. It just occurred to me that I never tell anyone which park I am headed off to walk. What if something did happen or I got lost? No one would know where to begin looking for me and I knew no one would even suspect I headed to this particular place.

Anyway, we all know I am going to go on trudging down some woodland trail alone, that's just my nature, but isn't new news.

I don't think I have any new news actually.

Wife, working, walking, writing are pretty much the four big Ws of me life.

Wife will be a nice round number this year as well, fifty years married. I don't foresee any changes there.

Work, well, work I must.

Just where do I intend to go in my writing going forth?

For one thing, I want to get back to doing entries in my "Night Writing in the Morning Light" Blog, which I haven't yet, and continue adding to "Nitewrit's Own Harmony", which I have.

I wrote a post covering Jesus' reading of Isaiah and being accused of blasphemy as a result and almost getting thrown over a cliff;  my little examination of "Jesus Is Rejected in Nazareth", mostly from Luke 4:16-30. It is an adventure story.

As for "Drinking With Elder Men", I collected related posts from last year into several books. There are seven of them.

A Writer Walks and Writes of Walking (Rambling thoughts as I went ambling)
Bends of the Brandywine: Adventures of The Kid as a Kid (A kind of autobiography)
Lava from the Lair (Some of my past published essays and commentary)
Life, Death and the Lonely Art (Title pretty much describes the subject matter.)
Modern Inconveniences: Living with Frankenstein (My struggled with today's technology)
Pretzels for Lunch (My Life in Philadelphia)
This Old Man (Everything else)

If someone has an interest in reading these narratives, here is what you do. Once in my blog, go to the right hand side and down to the title, "Keepsakes:  Related Post Subjects" This is an index (Labels if you prefer). The books are listed first. Simply click on a book and its chapters will pop up. Click on the chapter you wish to read.

I will be doing the same thing with whatever I manage to produce in this The Year of Our Lord 2011.

There will surely be another volume of rambling stream-of-consciousness thoughts illustrated by photos from my hikes. I can't help myself; its what I do.

I have no title for it yet, perhaps the "Frigid Photographer".

No, that won't work for the whole year. In a few month it will warm up, the trees will bud and next thing you know I will be happily sauntering about in just T-shirt and shorts; not even sox.

So perhaps the "Naked Photographer"?

Of course, that would be deceptive, but "Near-Naked Photographer", I don't know? Still, when I look at the list of my "Most Popular Posts" or my stats, there were two essays I did last year that rank at or near the top.

"Mirror Mirror on the Wall Don't You Show Then What you Saw" and "There Is Nudity In This Post" both spoke of or hinted at nakedness and my readership spiked up when both appeared. Now I know what draws the public curiosity, so "Naked Photographer" might be just the thing to draw an audience.

There has already been The Naked Cook","The Naked Archeologist" and "The Naked Cowboy" and they all wear clothes. Well, the Naked Cowboy isn't exactly dressed, but even he wears tighty-whities and hides behind a guitar.  Maybe I could employ the common tease from the 1950s men's magazines. I could peek out from behind a bush and the reader can imagine what they wish.

The other grouping I have decided to do I have called "Contankery Road", and that first post of this year, "So New Year's Begins-2011", would qualify to be in it.

"Contankery Road", that's the working title anyway. It may change by 2012. It may change by tomorrow. It has changed a couple times already. I had it, "Contankery Row", but then decided "Road" worked better. I've also considered "Down the Cantankery Road". Cantankerous means bad tempered, uncooperative and argumentative, as in "a crusty, cantankerous old man".

This was kind of a cantankerous old trail I was on this morning. I came to this fallen sapling across the trail early on and fully expected a limbo band to pop out from behind a tree.

"Yo, ho, don't you know?
Yo gotta get down; gotta get low!"

Did I bend over backward and go under?

Are you crazy? Didn't you read the first paragraph. I'm almost 70, for Pete's sake! No, I stepped over it.

Now we return you to "Cantankery Road". I started out calling it plain "Curmudgeonry", but  a curmudgeon is a bad tempered and surly person. I don't feel I am really very surly.

I am not bad tempered or uncooperative or argumentative for that matter. That is why I am still unsatisfied with that title. I may not be either a curmudgeon or a cantankerous old foggy.

I am really a pretty even-tempered dude who doesn't much dislike anyone.

But "Even-Tempered Road", where's the excitement in that?

Maybe if I described what kind of content this collection will contain someone would have a better title suggestion. There won't be any prize for coming up with one though.

I will be writing about certain issues of the times where I have questions. Now I don't want anyone to get confused. I don't do political, don't like politics, don't like politicians and won't indulge in polemics with anyone.

After all, you're wrong, I'm right, and that's the end of it, you twit!

That's how political arguments always end, isn't it?

Anyway, back to the non-political statement on the floor that sounds a little political. I want to write about issues that might sound political, but they won't be because I am interested in knowing what's what, not pleasing somebody's agenda, even my own, if I have one.

Today there is a mother-lode of talking heads and loud-mouths in the Media telling us what to think. This side says that and that side says this and consequently nobody says much of anything helpful. So I have questions — about everything - I'm going to ask my questions. Who knows, someone may have an answer.

But I won't argue with you. You want to argue, find somebody else. There are plenty of political rant Blogs out there in the cyber world with people who would love to take you on or may agree with you and embrace you.

What kind of questions?

How about questions about the law that will soon go into effect banning the incandescent lightbulb? Will the CFLs really save energy? Will they create "Green Jobs"? Are they safe to use? What about all that mercury? Is there all that much mercury?

How about questions about electric cars? Will they really save all that energy? Will they create "Green Jobs"? How far can you drive? How do you refuel; that is, recharge? How long does a recharge take? Will these really do away with carbon fuels? Are they practical?

How about the recent report on improved employment. Is the report looking at prunes and seeing plums? Is the fact first-time unemployment claims peaked in October 2010 really meaningful? Is the fact first-time unemployment claims decreased in December really meaningful? Has the unemployment picture been altered forever?

You know, little trivial matters like those.

We'll see how it goes.

It may be difficult for me because some of those questions touch on controversy. I may express an opinion that another doesn't like and I don't like to be disliked. If you had been paying attention, you will remember I actually started two previous posts off exactly the same way ("On My Fences" and "Lost in Transition"):

"Perhaps the biggest handicap in life is wanting everyone to like you. It fences you in and is a hard rail to climb over. It isn't logical and it borders on insanity.  It's a syndrome. It is self-suffocation.

"And along the line The Kid caught this disease."

I had intended to explain that quote in a later chapter of The Kid's life, but somehow never got around to it.

And unless you are particular;y dense, I'm sure you figured out The Kid is just the youthful personification of this Old Goat. Despite learning very young that if people are going to dislike you it isn't going to matter what you say, I did catch that want-everyone-to-like-me disease.

What else will I scribble about?

Speaking of The Kid, I will certainly continue with his life as he graduates high school and moves into adulthood, gets married, goes to work and all that good stuff.

I may write more about some of the eateries The Little Woman and I go to, assuming we can afford to eat out in 2011.

And I will certainly continue to write of the absurdities of living as they happen.

I hope some Gentle Readers will be there in that distant Blogospeare.

Hmm, the trail is getting a bit spooky looking. I will have to do a post on just what I got myself into down these overgrown lanes.