My dad loved to take impromptu trips to the hardware store when I was a kid. His business had stabilized enough by the time I was a young teen that he could pick up a tool or gizmo or gadget whenever he wanted it. The trips would usually start with him picking up his keys, walking by me and saying, “Come on, let’s go to the store.” His call to action was always accompanied by a smile.

I loved those little jaunts to the nearby Wagner Hardware or Handy Dan Home Improvement. I never knew what we’d walk out with. The walk in often resulted in the same comment. Dad’s words have stayed with me for 50+ years.

Dad was 43 years old when I was born. He walked crisply with perfect posture, and I was young and energetic. What dad had in posture, I had in pace.  It would only take a few steps after getting out of the car before I was ahead of him, heading to our shopping adventure.

“Slow down and I’ll walk with you,” he would say.

His message was a simple reminder. It serves as a reminder to this day.

Slow down. Slow….down.

Slow down the pace of living, working, planning, measuring success…slow down. You might find that you’ve been missing more than just seeing things; you have left people behind. Some are friends, some are strangers and some are people you love. Slow down and see the opportunity to engage with and listen to people while in line at the store, or when looking at the same items on the shelf as the person next to you. Slow down and see the opportunities that you encounter everyday at work, at the gas station, at church, at chamber luncheons, in waiting rooms.

Before you head out the door again, pause. Slow your pace. Notice throughout your day who you might have otherwise left behind had you not slowed your pace and heard the world say, “Slow down and I’ll walk with you.”

Our backyard neighbor’s truck had not been in its usual place for a few weeks. My wife and I wondered about what might be going on with this man we never met over the nearly four years we’ve lived here. Our curiosity was cut off by our bout with COVID.

As my wife’s recovery progressed, she checked the neighborhood directory to determine our neighbor’s name. Who was this man that was hermit-like and never returned a greeting wave? With his name, she then checked the obituaries. There he was.

He died at the age of 78. His obituary read like a Texas tale that included cowboying, running an oil company that his dad started, and a reference or two about personality traits that some people might find abrasive but others would see as elements of a character developed in a life fully lived. Count me in the latter group. I regret not having had at least a chance to speak with him.

I wonder if he felt that he was missing something by staying in his home.  The only times that I saw him were when he took garbage or recycling to the curb. I had more chat time with a man who cut the neighbor’s yard than with the man who lived there.

I’m a solitary guy by nature, so I think I understand some of what might have motivated the neighbor. I’ll never know since he and I never had a chance to chat and share, and the time for sharing is now gone.

And that’s the point. Share.  I wouldn’t recommend telling your complete life story to someone who says “hi” at the grocery store line, but there are myriad ways to say hello. Some comments will start conversations; some comments will start a monologue by the other person, in which case…listen. I have learned much about life and people (and myself) by listening instead of talking. There is a lot of wisdom and entertainment in the stories of others.  I don’t believe that everyone who is cloistered in some way or another intends to stay that way, nor are those who seem to be extraordinarily connected and social truly so. Converse with someone today. Every day.

According to lore, Ernest Hemingway was in a bar with fellow writers when they challenged him to write a six-word story. He picked up a napkin and wrote the now-famous, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.” History is unclear whether the legend is legitimate or urban, but so it remains. …and so it remains.

Maybe I need to bring a pen and a napkin with me to an appointment my wife and I have this week. We are shopping for land. About 80 square feet of it—two grave plots.  Our recent COVID experience, particularly her leaving the hospital after a four-day stay the same day that I was admitted for a week-long term, has placed the need for preparations front and center in our minds. All of which calls the question, “What do I want written on my gravestone?” Those will be the words that remain.

I was in my 20s when I sketched a simple version of a gravestone and what words I hoped I would earn for it. Four decades ago my stone had, “People knew he loved them” inscribed on it. I have come to realize that that is/was my aspiration but may not necessarily be my story. Perhaps the epitaph story should be written by those who remain, by those who will find comfort in the words after the grass has covered the bare dirt, and for those who might see the verbiage that remains years and decades later. Maybe their perspectives as observers of my life are more accurate reflections.

My mom and dad would never have chosen the words that now appear on their gravestones. My mom, sister and I chose the words for dad’s epitaph – “He has left for us a most noble pattern” – and my sister and I chose mom’s 13 years later, “A tender mother and a faithful friend.”  I don’t think mom and dad would have chosen those descriptions because they were too close to the story, and they were essentially humble people. I cannot help but think they are pleased with what is etched in their granite, even if it was ghost written.

Hopefully many years from now, someone is going to have to decide on what to put on the stone above my head. Those words will bring comfort, insights or memories to those who remain. But, I ponder whether the six-word story in stone is what I want to say or what others want to say about me?  I will, after all, not be around to read it.

I am going to need a lot of napkins. More than likely, none of the napkin drafts will be “published.”

Within a few months of turning Medicare age, I experienced a first. I was admitted to a hospital. A week later, at 1:00 in the morning, I returned home.

Every opportunity in life is a chance to listen, pay attention and grow. There was a lot of growing going on this past week, plus the time ahead of that before an ambulance took me in. 

1. Gratitude. And appreciation. For everything. I had the benefits of great care from the tireless efforts of folks with roles ranging from doctor to custodial crew, and everything in between. I tried to thank each visitor (and they came at all hours with IVs, blood tests, therapies, and so on) for their efforts. I asked that each take care of themselves. Several commented on how rarely they hear “thank you,” “take care,” etc. There is not a moment that we draw breath that is devoid of the opportunity to have gratitude for the moment and appreciation for every person you encounter.
2. Listen to stories and all that comes with them.  I heard about career/profession decisions, faith, love and loss, kids…life. The insights helped connect me to those who worked hard on my behalf. There was humor. I will carry with me forever the story of the woman who said she was going to empty my multiple urinals. “We don’t want you to get your wee wee in the pee pee.” Her humor was disarming. I chuckled. “Hey, I have $30,000 in student loans where I learned to talk like that,” she said with a smile. Humor – as in “sense of” and “attitude” – is a possession to hold onto.
3. Lung health. Inhale. Exhale. “Easy peazy, lemon squezzy,” as one young tech reminded me. How your lungs function is quite remarkable. Here are a few tips they shared with me about lung health and good habits that would be remiss if I didn’t share:
   • Sleep on your belly/chest. This helps empty the lungs of the “junk.” If you can’t sleep on your belly, sleep on your side. Don’t sleep on your back.
   • In through the nose, out through the mouth. Exhale for twice as long as you inhale. This habit helps to inflate the lungs. “Blow over the soup,” one respiratory tech reminded me as an example of how to breathe.
   • Pay attention to occasionally stretch out your arms while breathing to help open the lungs, clear the pathways and allow for what are truly, “cleansing breaths.”

They say don’t look back, but the sirens sing there; my mom and dad are there; more and more friends fall into the “in the rear view mirror” category; and the sweet sauce of nostalgia seasons my moments and memories.  Melancholia sometimes becomes part of the moments, but Van Morrison assured me years ago not to fear it.

Watching the movie Field of Dreams alone, remembering watching it with my oldest son when he was a teen, and recalling how often he has watched it into his adult years, brings on a mixed drink of nostalgia and melancholia that I must sip gently because any movie that includes the opportunity for a son to have another chance to interact with a now-deceased dad brings me to tears. I must be careful on these baselines.

All of which reminds me about listening to life. Had I not listened so carefully and absorbed so much, I would not have the keen affection for, and attention to, the past that I have now.  It illuminates and enriches my moments and my hope for the future. Treasuring the past is perhaps the only good investment I’ve ever made; the returns are available to me in all aspects of my life.  I hope to pass that investment advice to others along the way, for as long as I get to play on this field of dreams…life.

We all have secrets and wisdom to share with others, secrets learned in the trenches (and on the field) of life.  Little things and big things. It is incumbent on us to share. It is important for us to go to well of our wisdom and dip out what we can to share. For the nostalgia well, I go to movies, music and photographs. We all have sources available to use. Share with others what you get from your sources.

Almost 11 years ago, I received my author’s copy of my book, Daddin’:  The Verb of Being a Dad and gave the first copy to my oldest son a day later as we all waited in hospital waiting room for the birth of his first born. A torch was passed.  Actually, it wasn’t.  Just like a match moves from candle to candle on a birthday cake, the torch of daddin’ moves from son to son, continuing the light, not passing it off. And for those men who are not daddin’, they are father figures to others whether they know it or not.

Daddin’ is a verb covering the things that are done in the moments, not just the title of “father.” I came up with the verb in my journal in 1998 because dads needed a verb. Mothers mother.  Their verb connotes tenderness, nurturing and caring; however, “fathering” merely connotes procreation. I used the verb in a story in my book Listen to Life:  Wisdom in Life’s Stories in 2005. From those perspectives, I look at today with three sons, six grandchildren and all carry a bit of the light that my dad passed to me.

My dad didn’t get much, if any, good light from his father. It seemed to me that dad made his own match, lit it in his marriage to my mom, and together they created a family where the match could move from candle to candle. He wasn’t perfect. No one is. He fought demons borne in the challenging conditions of growing up very poor, and that was before the Great Depression exacerbated tough times. The death of their first-born daughter at the age of five to leukemia right after World War II added more pressure. His gravestone reads “He left us a most noble pattern.” Despite it all, a noble pattern.

Fathers of then, fathers of now and fathers in the future will face challenges, demons and forces that can blow out the match. They face times when it is “easier” to spend time doing other things than daddin’. I can’t think of anything more rewarding though.

For whatever light a man can pass along to his children, be thankful. Light chases away darkness. Doing in the moments the things of daddin’ is to carry the light. Happy Father’s Day to all dads, past, present and future. May the light guide the path to the future.

Between a full schedule, a problematic lawnmower, recently applied fertilizer and a rainy season that would have encouraged nostalgic reminiscing among Noah’s family members, I had not gotten to the lawn for a few weeks and the grass was in desperate need of being mowed. I contemplated taking to it with a machete, but my backfiring lawnmower (obviously I did not get all the issues resolved) was my weapon of choice as I tackled the grass that happens to be on a 45-degree angle (more or less) lawn. As with all experiences in life, great lessons came of the time.

Go Slow…Smell the….St. Augustine

A neighbor drove by and struck up a conversation as I edged the sidewalk.

“Gonna cut the yard, huh?” he said. “It’s going to hard since its wet,” he added.

“Yep, and it’s going to rain again soon. But I have to cut it now that I have a chance.” After a couple of minutes of small talk, he drove off, obviously pleased with having shared his wisdom about wet grass being hard to mow, especially when it is jungle high on a 45-degree angle (more or less).

There is another truth about high, well-fertilized St. Augustine grass when cut in thick, humid conditions: the aroma is rich and it hangs in the air to be consumed, feeding memories of little league practice, mowing lawns for extra money, and teaching young sons the suburban tradition of weekend mowing.

Go slow in tasks, chores … in life … and let your senses feed you.

Don’t Give Up

I probably didn’t mention that I have a good ol’ push lawnmower. An until recently reliable Briggs engine powers the blade but not the wheels. It goes nowhere unless it is pushed. Now seems like a good time to bring up the point.

While cutting the grass in a pattern that follows the length of the yard instead of using an up-and-down pattern on the 45-degree angle (more or less) would be easier, it would not look as good. It’s worth it. Good outcomes are worth time, effort and exertion, no matter to what goals the effort is expended.

In the interest in transparency, I just turned Medicare age, so tackling the project in the conditions of the day required a few breaks but I believe that I had a better outcome than in the old days of youth when success was measured more by the speed in which I finished than by the final look.

Take breaks. Recharge. Don’t give up. Never, ever surrender, as I tell my sons frequently. Some goals are not reached in hours, days, weeks, months or years…sometimes the desired outcome takes decades (that will be a story for another day). Never…ever…surrender.

Drink Fluids

Hydration matters. If I counted correctly the number of 32-ounce tumblers my wife filled for me, as well as those in the evening, I figure I drank almost a gallon and one-half. Recharging my fluids was a good thing, but, as with all things, the main purpose is not where all the benefits reside. With each refill, I got a wink and a kiss; with each break, my body felt the cooling, calming of ice water; at each pause, I reviewed the progress of my efforts; with each swallow I got a sense of “I got this.” And I did.

As much as your body needs the hydration, your spirit can benefit from the refreshing pauses if you enjoy the time and not just the fluid.

This morning, I looked through the blinds at the grass that was cut 18 hours before. I think it had grown. So, too, is life; it is never over until it is over. And that is a blessing if we see it as such.

The other day, I listened to a digitized version of a recording from about 55 years ago. Back then, I had turned on my little reel-to-reel tape recorder to pick up the sounds of life in the McInnis household while some of my parents’ friends were over. In the voices, I heard Mrs. Perkins, a good friend of the family, my sister and a woman with a very Southern accent. Tears formed. It was mom. I had not recalled the sound of her voice as clearly and deeply as my memories of how she made me feel, that is, loved unconditionally.

It has been said by many, in various eloquent ways, that people won’t remember what you said as much as how you made them feel. Though moms dispense all sorts of important words of wisdom (do you remember my Listen to Life of several years titled “Mothers Say?”), it is how those words make us feel and how their actions make us feel that we celebrate on Mother’s Day.

I have cited often in this blog that my mom’s epitaph reads “A tender mother and a faithful friend.” Those sentiments were not borne in anything I recall her saying or in my memory of the sound of her voice; they were earned in how she made her kids feel.

To all mothers – past, present and future – thank you for those positive, encouraging, caring, loving feelings that you have created in the hearts, minds and memories of your children.

My sons and I often use group text messages for updates, jokes, check-ins, news and whatever else is on anyone’s mind that may be of interest to all four of us. In a recent shout out, my youngest asked how my running regimen was coming along.

On March 1, I started a “running” routine so I could, someday, truly run again. I put the word in quotation marks because the old track guy in me won’t allow me to describe anything as running that involves more time or distance actually walking. I have loved running all my life but participating regularly in my favorite sport tapered off to nothing about 35 years ago.

I thought I had it all figured out about how to get back into the swing of things – I was, after all, certified as a track coach by The Athletics Congress (overseer of amateur track and field at the time) almost 40 years ago and I coached youth for about five years, and I coached myself when I got kicked off the track team in high school. Surely, my experiences would appropriately facilitate my return to the sport with intelligent, well thought-out workouts that would bring me back to running condition. My mind raced with possible responses to my son’s query. The first thought that came to my mind before I typed a response was telling.

“I’ve never been this old before,” I thought.  Behind that thought were many lessons learned from a lot of research between March 1 and March 31. The new workouts revealed new realities. On April 1, various home projects and a new work schedule officially knocked me out of the workout routine that was leading me to improvement, as well as teaching me new lessons, humbling my ego, lowering my goals and the timing thereof, and much more.  Clearly, a lot has changed over the past 35 years, not the least of which is my body, i.e., its size, flexibility and mechanics. While being able to use some of what I knew about the sport and about myself, I was learning a lot because I was in new territory…”I’ve never been this old before.”

Trying something at 30 that you did at 20 is challenge enough but trying at pert-near-65 what you did at 30 is altogether different. And that’s okay.

I want to run because I WANT to RUN, not to compete, not to achieve some conditioning goals, but because…I love running, particularly shorter runs at faster pace, not that I object to the ideas of competing again and getting into better shape. My motivation is that I WANT to RUN. I figure that objective might need some adjustments, too, as I re-start this weekend the running quest, armed with new information, insights and humility.

The March experience achieved some goals, but more so enlightened me that once-flexible muscles are not nearly as much now and that the body doesn’t recover from workouts as quickly as in the younger years.  And that’s okay, too.

Fact is, on any given day none of us have ever been as old before. We age, learn, grow. Conditions change, as do our mindsets and some realities. It doesn’t take a three-decade gap to remind us that today is different than before; we might need to learn something new to fully appreciate and enjoy this day. We may need to be more humble and wiser; we may need to be more patient and more understanding; we may need to be clever and creative. And that is definitely okay.  It’s better than okay; it is what makes each new day a chance to live in newness.

With a new day comes a new chance, empowered by new insights and knowledge. And so it was that when I typed my response to my sons, I concluded with “But learn, adapt and move on.”  Such is life, such is getting older and that is more than okay…that is living.

I had no idea how powerful the experience would be. I think I will continue to do it, one year at a time.

A “Hits of 1971” web search brought up some interesting options, and one offered 100 tunes from the year that carried me from freshman to sophomore year in high school. The time travel proved to be more poignant than I imagined, providing several elements to my lens of memory creating sharp recollections of the experiences. They also helped me to more accurately pin down memories from a range of years to a specific year, which then connects them to particular other memories involving people, places and things.

The tunes, all but three of which I remembered, formed a hall pass to roam the old halls of school without disruption, a passport to journey to locations of events long since passed, and a telescope to look far back in time to the wonderful life of a not-yet-able-to-drive-boy-looking-toward-manhood from the perspective of a man who next week will register for Medicare. The songs made for a stress-free time trek.

As much as I love nostalgia and nostalgic feelings, the goal of listening to more than three hours of music was not to stir such feelings. I needed a waypoint, more accurately, to review the waypoint (A point between major points on a route, as along a track.) of the year that brought me into the sophomore stage, not forgetting that sophos (Gr: wise) and moros (Gr: foolish) aptly describes that phase of life.

Life is about moments. Remember the moments. Time travel with whatever method is available to you to recall how you made it from one phase to another, and how you grew each step of the way. Someday you will look back at the time that is now and smile as music plays, wondering how you made it through this time and proud of the wisdom you’ve gained along the way. I think anew of what my mom and dad may have thought as they listened to Big Band era songs. I wished I could ask them.

Next up, the music of 1974 (high school graduation) and a tour of websites that sell candy from my elementary school years. Between those points will be memories of a blessed life. What waypoints will you review?