It's a Wild World

A piece of my childhood changed, probably forever, very quietly last week as every schoolboy's most favorite serious magazine (not MAD, did you not see the word serious?) National Geographic laid off the last member of their staff.   

As a primary-grade student, in a Catholic school, National Geographic was as close to what I imagined "porn" was, not that I had a great imagination. The color photos of the half-clad indigenous women in faraway and exotic climes were more than enough to fructify prepubescent male fantasies had any of us had any idea what those were. 

When my father ran school trips to Washington D. C., the Nat Geo Headquarters Building was always a must-see stop and was, and still is I suspect, a magnificent museum.   

The magazine's appearance never really changed in all the years I was a devoted if somewhat surreptitious reader and the stories and adventures you could have just by turning the pages speaks to the timelessness of the photography, writing, and editing.

I got concerned some years back when whoever it was that owned Nat Geo sold it to Fox, yes, that Fox and I started bracing for the worst. And then of course, years later Fox sold it as part of the deal, to Disney, where "fairy-tales can come true it can happen to you, but we're keeping an eye on the bottom line and yours ain't cutting it." 

And so, another memory/institution has been hollowed out and more or less sold for parts, even though the operators now in charge insist all the changes will be for the better.  Of course, they will, but who defines 'better?'

The old National Geographic always told the truth, as horrible or ugly as it sometimes was. Nice to see the new guys aren't bothered by pesky traditions like that.
-bill kenny

By Comparison....

Having good days and bad days is not just part of life, it's a matter of perspective and comparison. You may have something happen to you or a loved one that is flat-out terrible/awful/horrible but then 'later that same life' something wonderful happens as a result of that terrible no-good moment. 

I have never actually had that happen to me but I am told it's possible and I've reached an age where parroting someone else's truisms as if they were truth is about the best I can do. And let's face it, I do it well. 

I mention all of that because of this clip, and the question I keep asking is, "Is it finally over?" I think each of us has to answer that for ourselves.

I will concede that from now on I will regard wool sweaters with a more wary ear, eye, nose, and throat because you never can tell.
-bill kenny

On This Spot

When you got up this morning I'll bet you didn't think you would be part of history, and look at you now! Well, don't look too closely because you're not actually a part of history but are so close you can touch it, at least metaphorically if not metaphysically.

What follows I wrote fifteen years ago (pause to allow that to sink in), for a child who, today in the here and now, is a man of forty-one and who together with the love of his life, Jena, is closing on the purchase of their new house. Talk about a short movie. 

Here it is/was:

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Memo to My Son

Today is the 26th birthday of my son, Patrick Michael. When I type 'my son' or 'my daughter' (when speaking of his sister, Michelle Alison) or 'my wife', Sigrid Katherina, I smile, not because of a pride of possession mentality but because I am truly the most fortunate person on the planet.

If we've not met, count your blessings-I am NOT likable. Take my word on this-and be assured I could send you a list of folks who could attest to this fact, and that this list would vaguely resemble the census in size and scope, which helps underscore my point. 

Being not likable makes it a difficult stretch to be lovable, and yet, my wife, an otherwise sane and logical person, could not possibly be married to me for over thirty years, but has. Our two children are the result of her ability to make someone into something they feared they never could be. She not only raised two children, but she also transformed a self-absorbed obliviot into an Approximate Dad. Considering what she had to work with, she done good.

I was afraid to have children--the actual, 'here's a small human to take care of and worry about for the rest of your life' portion of the program seemed more daunting to me than I could ever handle. I didn't have a lot of happy experiences being on the receiving end of Dad and Lad interactions. As a matter of fact, one of the better days of our lives together was when my father got up early to say farewell the day I traveled to the MEPS station to join the Air Force. We were able to pretend for that moment that we had a bond, surety or otherwise.

When Sigrid shared with me that she (and we, by extension) was pregnant, it was the early winter of what had been a rough year. Having successfully placed half a world between us, I discovered more guilt and anger when my dad died that Spring than the sorrow at his passing. 

Nothing that went on during the funeral (I still remember the undertaker referring to my father's widow as 'Mom' and almost snapping his head off), at the cemetery, or during the wake at their house in the middle of nowhere where well-meaning parents of former students kept taking me aside to tell me how wonderful my father had been with their child when their congenital mutton-headed idiot had needed help.

'Bastard!' I wanted to scream-'that's great, because he never found the time for us here at home!' but didn't, because shouting to wake the dead is only an expression and he and I had had nothing to say to one another for far too many years. Why should the afterlife be different? 

And thanks, again, to all of you who told my Mom or one of us, 'if there's anything we can ever do...' because there sure as hell was, and plenty and you sure as hell didn't do anything but make yourselves so scarce I thought you'd entered Witness Protection. Not that I was much better. Maybe that's why we're still so tight to this day, eh?

Sigrid went into labor in the middle of the morning and we drove across town to the Offenbach Stadtkrankenhaus. German physicians in the early Eighties were pretty much an unknown species to me (Sigrid's frauenarzt was cool enough-I still have the black and white Polaroids of Patrick in the womb, ornaments clearly visible) and I was to them as well. 

Their luck came to an end with my son's birth and they were pretty good sports about it. As Sigrid's labor continued and the contractions shortened and the delivery preparation's tempo quickened, I was asked where I would be during her stay in the geburtsaal, and I assured the doctors, 'right there with her', which surprised them. 

I attempted to explain in what was better than decent German (I thought) that I had placed the order and had every intention of taking delivery. Maybe my German wasn't that good-it was like playing to an oil painting, no smile, no nothing, gar nichts.

When Patrick was born, after what's considered a spontangeburt (for the male doctors who can NEVER experience pregnancy, in their opinion, the childbirth was accomplished without labor. Sure it was-from your lips to God's ear, Herr Arzt), Sigrid looked she had just run a marathon and was utterly exhausted. 

I watched while the midwife cleaned up my son and, as she swabbed off the blood, he peed on her. Crying, basically blind, totally helpless in an alien world, he was my son and I laughed out loud maybe in amazement but more likely in joy and thankfulness for what I had just witnessed. 

The midwife placed Patrick Michael on Sigrid's chest, for mother and child bonding, and my disappointment knew almost no words. At that moment, I was so jealous of the woman I loved. I asked as politely as I could if, after she had 'had enough of holding him', I could hold him, and was stunned when she picked him up and fixed me with a stare that bordered on a glare, handed Patrick to me, saying 'I've carried him for nine months, it's your turn now.'

Patrick Michael was, and is, my deal with God. I know, your children are beautiful, smart and talented, and handsome and sorry-they're not my children, and my son and my daughter are the absolute best not only in the world but in the history of the world (there's a barn behind a hotel in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania (I think), that might want to argue that point but no chance, sorry). 

I walked him around that delivery room for the next two hours or so, singing I've Been Working on the Railroad (the drum and piano would have cluttered the delivery room) and really working those Fie-Fi-Fiddly-I-Os, making up in volume what I lacked in pitch. I don't know why I sang it--I'm shaking my head in bemused bewilderment as I type this. It seemed like a good idea at the time actually, it was a perfect idea.

And point in fact, I've gone on for way too long--Patrick was born faster than I'm telling you about it. In many ways, his first twenty-six years seem to have sped by at that same clip. He and his sister, have overcome the handicap of being my children, mostly because they've had the good fortune to have the love and devotion of my wife as their Mom. And, yeah, he's made me crazy, angry, frightened, delighted, and every emotion in between--because that's what children do.

And as long as you remember to make sure they always know sometimes they will do things you will not like, but that you will always love them, they will be able to do anything, even leave you when they grow up to be adults of their own.

There'll be moments in the living room watching the ballgame when words aren't needed as you both reach for the pretzel rods. Other times, there will be phone conversations that start out about one subject and become all that and that infamous bag of chips. And your eyes will fill with tears as you watch them end the chapter of their childhood and begin to write their own novel as the life you always wanted for them finally begins. 

And it hurts, and maybe the keyboard blurs as I type this because it's really warm and my eyes are perspiring-yeah, that's what it is I'm sure. Sorry if the folks you work with razz you today for having a dotty dad but you knew that long ago.

Happy Birthday, Patrick! Love, Dad. 

Delayed Gratification

For a number of reasons, we did not have our Harbor Fireworks originally scheduled last Saturday as the capper, so to speak, of the Rose Arts Festival.  

Fingers crossed, Good Lord Willing and the creek don't rise, we could/should/might have them this evening to the delight of the tens of thousands of folks who travel from distances great and small to ooh and aah about them.

Drone footage of the 2019 Norwich Harbor Fireworks

As well they should, they are lovely. And I say that as a very nearly-professional fireworks admirer. No, I don't get paid to watch them, though that would be cool wouldn't it?, but I very much enjoy them and appreciate the craft, hard work, and skill that produces them.

Awesome drone shot by Brian Swope of the fireworks on July 5, 2021

All of that said, I'm hoping my town will join the trend sweeping the country and replace fireworks with drone displays. Many people with variants of PTSD and animals sensitive to loud noises would greatly benefit from a serious rethinking.
-bill kenny

 

Punctual People Are Lost in Their Plight

I retired five years, and a week, ago. The people in whose employ I was might argue I stopped working many years before that. They can take a flying leap at a rolling doughnut. 

But it does bring up an awkward for others never for me, interesting question that I get asked all the time now, 'So what do you do?' I usually offer a variant of the classic Prince Raspberry Beret response (I mean, we're practically twins), except I'm (slightly) taller and not dead (yet) so I've been searching for a more satisfying answer.

I may have found it and it's breath-taking.

“Understanding how the global human system functions is crucial if we are to sustainably navigate planetary boundaries, adapt to rapid technological change such as artificial intelligence, and achieve global development goals,” the researchers wrote.

“Time, it has been said, is the coin of life — and in a globally connected society, it is essential to have a thorough global understanding of how that coin is spent.”
-bill kenny

 

I've Worn Out All the Reasons

Maybe it’s a function of the age I’ve reached or, I fear more likely, of the age in which we live but I’m experiencing an acute patience shortage when looking at the challenges great and small confronting us as a city, a nation, and if the science is to be believed, as a species. 

Too many of us too often, present company included, have our minds already made up so don’t even try to confuse us with facts. As for sources of information, we tend to shop for outlets that confirm our perspective, no matter the issue or its complexity rather than challenge us to think outside our own experiences. 

We take comfort in finding our feelings echoed and amplified. As for the feelings of others especially those with whom we disagree? There’s a phrase going around about them, but I won’t use it here even though we’ve all heard it. 

We’re all always a bit testy at budget time and we’re always unhappy at the City Council’s decision, no matter what it is. We could decide to repair or replace how we make decisions about spending our money but all we do is talk about making changes without really making any. And then, once again we’re dismayed and angry that we keep reliving the same argument every year. 

Despite the anger and unhappiness that service on our City Council seems to generate among so many of our residents, we are fortunate to have interested and talented people who are willing to serve. We need more of them because it's a universal condition across the United States:  No one has enough time, and everyone needs help.

If you've ever had children in school, you already know about the PTO parents who were also the band parents who were also the class trip escort parents, and who were the prom chaperones, and that list goes on forever. It's true in municipal government as well. You see the same (too few) people at City Council meetings, who also attend Board of Education meetings, and they are the ones who offer to serve on a citizen committee of some sort or other. We’re lucky to have so many people in the same device.

The rest of us could all pitch in, but some of us get along better with others (I am more of an acquired taste). I get concerned when so much energy is devoted to tearing people down with whom we disagree. I don't have the strength that (anymore) and it's hard for me to pretend that many of the unkind things I hear and read were NEVER said much less to forgive and forget them. 

And that’s the heart of the matter: carrying around the grudges and bruised feelings over slights (real and imagined) that keep us from starting again. Sometimes I'm concerned that the long, proud history of New England sometimes gets in our own way of trying new things and walking away from our past. How much of yesterday do we really need to overcome today to have a shot at a tomorrow that is large enough for us and our children? 

Look at us right now. Everything we have was created because of choices those before us made, good and bad, whether buildings, businesses, neighborhoods, or families. It’s true we cannot go back but we cannot stand still. We can only go forward, together. 
-bill kenny

I've Often Felt Forsaken

By many accounts the heat was oppressive and tempers were hot in Philadelphia two hundred and forty-seven years ago as that aggregation of malcontents and troublemakers (in the eyes of His Majesty, George III, King of England) gathered to refine, define, and catalog their grievances and complaints as they took exception with the most powerful empire the world had ever seen.

Enumerating what it called our ‘unalienable rights’ to include ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ the founders of our republic, who did not agree on very much except that the present state of affairs could not be allowed to continue, concluded the only way forward as a people on a largely unexplored, new continent whose size and wealth was not yet known, was to break with the past and declare independence from King and Crown.
   
Out of all of that has come all of this.

And along the way, the original magic and meaning have sometimes been lost in backyard pool parties, car sales, and chicken fried steaks on the barbecue. Our politics is spirited even if our interest isn't and our understanding of the issues is muddled and muted. 

And, again, it’s not that we all agree with who we are and what we are doing. It’s been suggested we as a nation haven’t been this divided morally, politically, and socially since the Civil War. And that observation and analysis should mean far more than it does.

Some say never have so many had so much of life’s material rewards but, others say never have so many struggled to hold on to what they have. On the outcome of every election, or so it seems, lies the future of our nation-just as has always been the case because every election is important, and if you choose not to decide, that, too, is a decision.

What may be missing is our national sense of self and our confidence and belief in our own abilities to forever adapt and triumph. We demonstrated those traits at the Founding and I would hope, today, each in our own way, we might again find them, both for those whose inheritance we are and for those whose promise is yet to be. Happy 4th of July.
-bill kenny