A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
The story is based on this image.
Friday, November 28, 2024
To Laura, my Granddaughter:
Some Day!
Not someday, as in someday there will be peace in Israel/Palestine.
No. Some Day a woman will be elected President of the United States. I know this fact but not the date.
I realize this for two reasons.
First, the world is full of mysterious motion,beyond our immediate comprehension. When I was born, my mother could not have her own bank account. Unimaginable, isn’t it?
Second, Laura, the world will soon be yours. The road is long and hard. Begin to imagine what isn’t to make its absence unimaginable.
Old age is not a lot of laughs, particularly in public. (George Vecsey, Stan Musial: An American Life)
The Workout
Rebecca and I have been doing kettlebell workouts for about a decade. I’m 75, and she’s 73. The photo above shows the gym’s calm before the storm.
After greeting today’s coach behind the counter, connecting her phone’s music to the speaker, I hang my coat on the hook rack, take off my shoes, place the car keys and billfold inside one and look at the workout agenda.
Photo by the author
Gobbledygook for the uninitiated, which occasionally includes us if we’ve missed a few weeks and have forgotten the acronyms. For example, number two in column three, TRX JSL, translated means we will use the suspended ropes you see at the top of photo one to do jumping, squatting and lunging exercises.
By the way, our instructor used to teach first grade. Can you tell? When I’m at the TRX and have to look back across the room to see what we do at the next station, I’m reminded we don’t pay our elementary school teachers enough.
This workout included 36 seconds at each of the twelve stations, 12 seconds of rest four times through and a one-minute break in the middle, about 40 minutes of exertion.
Sessions always include a combination of cardio and strength stations.
Adaptation
Five years ago, during a Saturday workout, I experienced what my doctor labeled sinus tachycardia. My heart beat faster to supply my needy muscles with oxygen and blood, causing me to feel lightheaded, so I sat down for a few minutes before resuming the workout.
A couple of weeks after the worrying event occurred, my doctor told me there were likely two causes: too much caffeine and too much cardio early in the workout. After checking out other possible causes, he assured me it wasn’t a problem but that less caffeine is better for many reasons, including this one.
Despite his reassurance, I’ve tempered my cardio work. Take burpees — please, number three in column two. It’s a continuous movement that includes jumping. For me, the take-off is fine; the landing rattles, everything.
As the source link above describes, this exercise “puts your ticker to the test.” Instead, I do high knees, a fancy term for walking in place, interspersed with balancing for ten seconds on each foot.
Strength training comes from wielding the kettlebell. In column one, there’s a Press L and Press R. In a press move, I grasp the bell with my left hand, bend my knees, drive my feet into the floor and thrust upward.
My grasping, bending, driving, and thrusting are not what they used to be, even with a 15-pound instead of a 20-pound bell. Yesterday, I hauled four 40-pound bags of salt pellets down our basement steps for our soft water heater. A few younger guys in our group grasp, bend, drive, and thrust 40-pound bells.
Sigh!
The Psychology of Belonging
In his terrific biography of baseball great Stan Musial, Vecsey writes about how difficult it can be for an athlete known for physical prowess to grow old and diminished. Imagine a 75-year-old Caitlin Clark.
What about ordinary people like us, huffing and puffing with a younger crowd? Are we accepted? Are we comfortable? In other words,
Do we belong?
At this 8:30 AM session, there were 15 regulars aged 25 to 75, with most 40 to 50. Only Jackie, at 69, is close to our age. I’m now three years into adaptation, meaning I often modify the movements by slowing down, using a lesser weight or substituting.
Sometimes, I look into that mirror pictured in the first photo to observe what others are doing. To my surprise, there are always more differences than similarities. Some are age-related, others are weight-related and for newcomers, they are experienced-related.
Last Monday, Rebecca and I arrived late, five minutes into the workout — the music was blaring, and the leader was shouting instructions. We glanced at the board and looked around to find an open station. A young man pointed to the free TRX.
I’ve never felt a you don’t belong with us vibe. I know we make a big deal about how our differences drive us apart in America, and that’s true in our politics. But that’s a galaxy away from how most of us live.
Rebecca and I just returned from Romania, where we reconnected with Alex, a former student of mine. Four years ago, we met Alex’s family: Gabby, his mother; Marius, his father; Cosmina, his sister; Mina, a stray dog they adopted; and Alex, around their kitchen table in Reșița, Romania.
Photo by Rebecca Wiese
After Rebecca told a story of how one daughter, Emily, converted to Judaism a decade after marrying Aviv, an Israeli Jew, Marius, looked at her and said,
That could never happen here. You Americans are thirty years ahead of we Romanians.
With all our deep divisions, more and more Americans are comfortable with differences, and the younger, the more at ease. 15% of new marriages are interracial (source), and 40% are interdenominational (source). Emily and Aviv are not alone.
Racial and religious differences don’t matter to many young people. Not like they did to their parents and grandparents. So, why would they care about a few geezers joining their exercise groups?
But what about Rebecca and me? Do we feel we belong with a younger cohort?
A few years ago, we visited a friend who lives in an Arizona retirement community. For the week we were there, everywhere we went to swim, golf, hike, learn and converse, we were with older people like us.
Honestly, that’s how we live in our two Iowa communities. We hang out with other boomers and a few of the Greatest Generation.
That’s why our kettlebell workout is so important. We like being around younger people. I could write it keeps us young, but that’s not what I mean. We’re old and getting older. Soon, even the 15-pound kettlebell will be too much.
No, I mean the sense that we are part of a world bigger than us. That’s one reason we travel: Romania two weeks ago, Mexico in January, and, we hope, Namibia in May.
This Drabble was written for Medium’s Fiction Short.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
The first sentence will be, “I am an invisible man,” from Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.
*
“I am an invisible man. That’s what my father taught me. It was the only way to survive in the 1950s.”
“What did that mean, Grandpa?”
“Never look a white person in the eye, especially a white woman. Keep your head down. Always defer. Never demand.”
“I’ve watched you all my life. You look everyone in the eye. You stand erect. You don’t seem intimidated by anyone.”
“I’m a man, John. So are you. That white fellow over there. So is he. It’s the organic truth of nature and God.”
This story was published in Medium’s Six Word Photo Story Challenge.
Help make America Be America again.
*
America was never America to Langston Hughes, an African American born in 1901. That’s why he wrote one of the most famous American poems, Let America Be America Again, in 1935.
O, let America be America again —
The Land that never has been yet —
And yet must be — the land where every man is free
The land that’s mine — the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME —
who made America
*
Yesterday, I walked along the Upper Iowa River that runs through our northeast Iowa community burdened by last week’s re-election of Donald Trump and his promise to round up and deport millions of undocumented immigrants.
Suddenly, I spotted a Bald Eagle, a symbol of my country, taking flight. After a few seconds, it disappeared.
Was the America of my 75 years fading away?
I’m a fifth-generation Irish-American born in 1949.
Even before John Kennedy reached the pinnacle, American public school kids joined their Catholic counterparts in eating fish sticks on Friday.
From paddy to breaded fish to President in a century.
Unlike Hughes and millions of others, America has always been America to me.
Full of promise and possibility.
*
Throughout my lifetime, my country has inched closer to Hughes’s “every man is free” ideal. This included welcoming millions of newcomers from south of the border, many doing jobs Americans won’t.
This is MY America — the imperfect place defined by its equality aspiration.
At this moment, America is in retreat from its most admired ideal.
This story was written for Medium’s Fiction Shorts.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
I just don’t understand it. The sun refuses to indulge my despair.
*
Since November 6th, he has gotten up at 4 am.
Three hours before the event.
This ritual calms him.
Eight ounces of water, one scoop of coffee, his white coffee mug, and Rebecca’s for later.
Three presses on the thermostat.
He pees and washes his hands and face.
With his right hand’s thumb and forefinger, he grasps and pulls down the nub that opens the east-facing window blind.
He opens his Macbook Pro and looks at the previous day’s Medium notifications.
Enough time to finish one story.
Intermittently, watching to see if it will happen again.
Carole Olsen asks Are you a kind person? On this National Kindness Day.
*
Her prompt reminded me to fill out the Alt Text field for the first photo. Isn’t that interesting? Carole nudged me toward a small act of kindness for those who could not see the picture. Occasionally, an editor will do the same, as if to say, “Come on, Paul, it’ll only take a minute of your precious time.”
Kindness is more than a feeling. At its core is action. Unsurprisingly, the late Mr. Rogers captures it’s essence:
I hope you’re proud of yourself for the times you’ve said ‘yes,’ when all it meant was extra work for you and was seemingly helpful only to somebody else.
Kindness requires that I extend myself to you.
Photo by the author
Most of the time, I don’t want to. Instead, I act in my self-interest. It seems that is how most humans are.
Unless you’re a member of my family when the arrows naturally point outward.
I’ll bet you’re the same. Imagine your worst fear. Mine is this.
I’ve been claustrophobic since I was a kid. When my friends and I snuck into a drive-in theater, I refused to take my turn hiding in the trunk.
Yet, if I needed to crawl into this tunnel to rescue my son, I would, unhesitatingly. The same would be true for my partner, Rebecca. So, it isn’t just about a blood tie. I’m unsure I could do it if my first cousin Jim, who I like, needed help: “Jim, hold on, the rescue team is on the way.”
My good friend Ed and my favorite Medium writer would also have to wait.
And you, even if you give me 50 claps and an “I love this story.”
*
Acting kindly toward others often depends upon who the other is and how difficult the action is.
My tunnel example is an outlier. Usually, an act of kindness does not require facing our scariest fear.
For example, a friend, Maggie, was a student in a Lifelong Learning course on the 2024 American Presidential election I taught in September. Our class decided to meet again on November 6, the day after Donald Trump beat Kamala Harris. I wrote a little story about this session here.
Most of the twenty-two who showed up last Wednesday were deeply disappointed. Several emailed me saying they couldn’t face talking about what they considered a tragedy for America. Honestly, I probably would have stayed home.
When the mike was passed to Maggie, she said, “I came today because Paul is a friend.”
That was an act of kindness because it required Fred Rogers’ “extra work.” Maggie sacrificed her desire to stay home for me.
*
It’s difficult for humans to extend themselves to others, especially those outside their immediate family.
I’ve noticed something inside me since Mr. Trump won re-election. I first felt it last Wednesday morning as I settled into the shock of the Trump win. Anger, sadness, fear, anxiety, frustration, hopelessness, embarrassment (for my country), and guilt, every negative feeling is banging around inside me.
But the primal scream is not all there is.
Photo by the author
There’s something else I can only describe as kindness — a need to look out for others.
Trump’s America is an unkind place, particularly to those who don’t look like me and Donald, white males.
It’s almost as if my 75-year-old body grabbed and directed those red arrows outward.
I find myself, more than ever before, scanning my little world to see what I can DO to make life easier for others.
Trump has taken so much from me, from us.
I won’t allow him to take this.
To save myself, I’ve got to do what I can to help others.
Photo of a man resting at Castle Beach Park, Tuen Mun, Hong Kong, from Wikimedia Commons
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
This story will end with “Stop.”
*
My mother taught me always to do the right thing.
And to never bask in someone else’s glory.
Today, I’m 82.
Mom is long gone.
Whenever I feel guilty, I sit by the sea.
The never-ending blue calms and clarifies my thinking.
After thirty minutes, my tightened muscles begin to relax.
I can use his title for my story about an old man sitting by the sea without breaking copyright laws.
But should I?
Maybe I can change a couple of words.
What do you think, Mom?
Also, Grammarly said I shouldn’t use old man; older is better.
Note: Yes, we can use book titles without breaking copyright rules. (source). Ernest Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea is fair game. So I can, but should I?
Carole Olsen asks Are you a kind person? On this National Kindness Day.
*
Her prompt reminded me to fill out the Alt Text field for the first photo. Isn’t that interesting? Carole nudged me toward a small act of kindness for those who could not see the picture. Occasionally, an editor will do the same, as if to say, “Come on, Paul, it’ll only take a minute of your precious time.”
Kindness is more than a feeling. At its core is action. Unsurprisingly, the late Mr. Rogers captures it’s essence:
I hope you’re proud of yourself for the times you’ve said ‘yes,’ when all it meant was extra work for you and was seemingly helpful only to somebody else.
Kindness requires that I extend myself to you.
Photo by the author
Most of the time, I don’t want to. Instead, I act in my self-interest. It seems that is how most humans are.
Unless you’re a member of my family when the arrows naturally point outward.
I’ll bet you’re the same. Imagine your worst fear. Mine is this.
I’ve been claustrophobic since I was a kid. When my friends and I snuck into a drive-in theater, I refused to take my turn hiding in the trunk.
Yet, if I needed to crawl into this tunnel to rescue my son, I would, unhesitatingly. The same would be true for my partner, Rebecca. So, it isn’t just about a blood tie. I’m unsure I could do it if my first cousin Jim, who I like, needed help: “Jim, hold on, the rescue team is on the way.”
My good friend Ed and my favorite Medium writer would also have to wait.
And you, even if you give me 50 claps and an “I love this story.”
*
Acting kindly toward others often depends upon who the other is and how difficult the action is.
My tunnel example is an outlier. Usually, an act of kindness does not require facing our scariest fear.
For example, a friend, Maggie, was a student in a Lifelong Learning course on the 2024 American Presidential election I taught in September. Our class decided to meet again on November 6, the day after Donald Trump beat Kamala Harris. I wrote a little story about this session here.
Most of the twenty-two who showed up last Wednesday were deeply disappointed. Several emailed me saying they couldn’t face talking about what they considered a tragedy for America. Honestly, I probably would have stayed home.
When the mike was passed to Maggie, she said, “I came today because Paul is a friend.”
That was an act of kindness because it required Fred Rogers’ “extra work.” Maggie sacrificed her desire to stay home for me.
*
It’s difficult for humans to extend themselves to others, especially those outside their immediate family.
I’ve noticed something inside me since Mr. Trump won re-election. I first felt it last Wednesday morning as I settled into the shock of the Trump win. Anger, sadness, fear, anxiety, frustration, hopelessness, embarrassment (for my country), and guilt, every negative feeling is banging around inside me.
But the primal scream is not all there is.
Photo by the author
There’s something else I can only describe as kindness — a need to look out for others.
Trump’s America is an unkind place, particularly to those who don’t look like me and Donald, white males.
It’s almost as if my 75-year-old body grabbed and directed those red arrows outward.
I find myself, more than ever before, scanning my little world to see what I can DO to make life easier for others.
Trump has taken so much from me, from us.
I won’t allow him to take this.
To save myself, I’ve got to do what I can to help others.
This Drabble was written for Medium’s Fiction Shorts.
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
*
4 AM
Dear God:
The Psalm says seventy years; eighty with strength.
I’m at 75. Does this durability come from You or my mother?
She believed; my father didn’t.
Like him, I think we are alone.
But I’m on my knees because I don’t know what else to do.
Drabble Challenge #312: The random word is marshal.
A photo by the author of Hammock (A Woman Suffering) from The Courtauld Gallery, London
A Drabble is a concise 100-word story that respects your busy schedule. Your presence here matters. Please stay on the page for thirty seconds so you will count as a reader. Thank you.
The last sentence will be, “It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.”
*
He wasn’t sure they would come.
But it was up to him to marshal the group.
So he bought 12 donuts. Sharon brought coffee, tea, and lemonade.
And cut the donuts in two.
Don said it was a loaves and fishes sort of day.
He passed the microphone.
I don’t know what to do with my anger.
What has happened to my country?
America turned its back on its women.
It’s all connected to Covid and inflation.
I will face my depression until it departs.
Some cried and hugged; the wound had opened.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.
Note: In September, I taught a Lifelong Learning class on the American 2024 Presidential Election. The students’ ages ranged from 50 to 91. Several asked if we could meet the day after the election. Twenty-two showed up ready to talk. The healing has begun.
