My Tribute to Pop on Pearl Harbor Day

December 7 has been a reminder all my life of the horrific Sunday morning attack at Pearl Harbor in 1941. But today . . . it will take on new meaning. My father-in-law, Martin Henry Glynn will be laid to rest today in Portsmouth, OH. His funeral service is just beginning as I begin to write this morning.

Marty Glynn was 95 when he passed away on Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 2019; he was born in 1924. Both his daughters are present at his funeral, of course, as well as a host of family and friends. But not me. I am sick. Too sick to travel safely there and back in the cool Ohio winter. It had been the plan that I would be healthy enough to make the trip, but the wee hours of the morning of departure told another story. So, I am here.

When each of my parents died (several years apart) my wife was there beside me, supporting me, comforting me. And it is only right that I be there for her. It seems so unfair. And although I am sobbing at a distance as I see a picture of his flag draped coffin sent by text message, I am more than aware that I am 525 miles away. It is agonizing. It is nothing like what my wife and daughters are experiencing there, of course, but something more akin to watching your child stumble and fall, and supposing that if you were near enough you could prevent the hurt, or at least diminish it.

So what can I say about this man, today? I wrote a poem describing him decades ago: his entertaining story telling, his infectious laugh, his house filled with friends, and the party atmosphere that seemed to be part and parcel of his personality. I said he was “generous to a fault as the old saying goes,” and his home was open to strangers and friends alike.

When I came into his life 44 years ago I was just another young man who was interested in his beautiful daughter. And when my wife spoke with him about marrying me, he said, incredulously, “You want to marry a preacher?” (which was what I intended to be at the time). As the years went by he softened to the idea. And I softened as well. We met somewhere in the middle (as they say), and began to enjoy one another immensely. I was “the favorite son-in-law,” I would say. And he would chuckle and then say my brother-in-law’s name instead of mine.

“Pop” never had a name until we had children. I didn’t feel comfortable calling him “Marty,” and “Mr. Glynn” just seemed a bit too formal to me. So, once we had kids the name “Pop” worked just fine for me.

The most fun you could have with Pop was to get him talking about his experiences in WWII. He was a belly gunner on the B-17, and his real life stories depicted him as a young, and wet-behind-the-ears soldier, who found the mirth in situations others might find humorless. They sounded quite real because they didn’t always show him in a larger-than-life way. He adored John Wayne, but it was clear he didn’t seem himself as a John Wayne.

He never held a particularly impressive job, but worked through the years in a variety of occupations, most beloved of which was neighborhood milkman. He loved planting his tulips every spring, and displaying his American flag with pride. And he loved his wife . . . for just short of 71 years.

The last time we were together, just over two months ago, his hearing had gotten so bad the only way you could successfully converse was on his special hearing-enhanced telephone. So, after numerous failed attempts to answer questions, my voice tiring of repeating the same words, I called him on my cellphone. [NOTE: we were sitting within 3 feet of each other, mind you]. Pop turned in his wheelchair to pick up the receiver, and said, “Hello.” I told him it was his favorite son-in-law, and he turned back to see me holding my cellphone. He chuckled. And he loved it!

As we departed, on a rainy morning at the end of September, we visited one last time, not knowing if we would see him alive again. I called him on my cell phone as we sat there, the four of us (Marty, his wife, my wife, and me), and I prayed for him. As we said goodbye he kissed me and we hugged with tears. Then down the hall we went for the last time before we would receive the word of his passing in just two more months.

If I had the power . . . I would not do anything to change that visit; it was perfect.

The hour has passed as I write. And his service is likely done. The family will go to the burial site now, and the body of this sweet man will arrive at its resting place. I believe his spirit will be elsewhere, of course, and I know that it will live on in the lives of those who knew him, too.

Rest in peace, Pop. I love you.

Martin H. Glynn
1924-2019

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Fathers, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized, World War II | 6 Comments

Community?

There’s a small city called Monroe (pop. just under 14,000) near where I live. If you drive down the main drag you may notice a sign that gives it’s identifying slogan, i.e.

                               MONROE: INTEGRITY – COMMUNITY.

One would be hard pressed to come up with two words that present a higher societal goal. But the usage of words often changes with time, doesn’t it?

The Latin word, communitatem, originally had to do with the idea of “fellowship,” and eventually was used to refer to a “society,” or a group of people living in a given area. The people in a community might be different in many ways, but what united them was their locality. They solved common problems together, socialized with one another, and struggled with one another, too.

The community was a melting pot. People who were more alike found it easier to be around one another (homogeneous groups and all that sort of thing) because of language, customs, temperament, etc. However, when there was a threat from outside the community they rallied together to defend their neighbors. This was especially true in agrarian societies where the threat of inclement weather, wildfire, or infestations of insects presented a regular threat.

Fast forward to the present day usage of “community” in this country. In Monroe . . . at least on a city sign, it still represents the group of people who live there: black, white, oriental, etc.; rich, poor, middle-class; religious, non-religious; Republicans, Democrats and independents. Inclusive.

But on the airwaves the word has taken on a definition that is anything BUT inclusive. And I fear it is unraveling the fabric of this nation. I fear it will be our undoing.

“Community” now is often an exclusive term, because it no longer implies a melting pot of different people united; rather, it accentuates the differences in people, and seeks to divide them. It promotes a subset of the population as if the whole has less value than the parts.

And so, by way of exaggerated illustration, I want to announce two new communities and add them to the fray.

(1) I am concerned about that lack of attention given to the particular needs of third generation Swedish immigrant males in their mid-60s (especially those with orphaned grandmothers).

(2) Don’t get me started on the total absence of press given to the 8 year old adopted southern white male population.

Now you can say that I am being insane . . . and I would not disagree (that might be my point). But when a nation such as ours tolerates the whines and antics of more and more fragmented special interest groups it endangers the future for everyone, just like a parent who elevates the demands of a two-year-old and fails to guide them into maturity.

We are a splintered nation, rallying around, blustering about, spouting forth our uninformed cries for justice and equality as we slowly erode the foundation upon which we stand. It is the quicksand of modern times; like anger, it eats the purveyor from within while it antagonizes those it attacks.

We are learning to hate our law enforcement officers, distrust our politicians, seek for damages and reparations whenever possible, because you never know when you might have been wronged but you are pretty sure you probably have been. We are reducing ourselves to the lowest moral component – selfishness; and we applaud it.

I think we need to rethink what it means to be a community. We need leaders in ALL our so-called “communities” (LGBTQ, Latino, Native-American, etc.) to promote unity instead of division, to work for equality not endless paybacks, to value the whole more than the individual parts.

In a recent NPR broadcast regarding marijuana attention was given to the fact that a disproportionate percentage of minorities are incarcerated for possession of small amounts of the substance. The proposed solution? Stop making it illegal, because it clearly punishes a particular “community.”

Really? That’s the solution?

Think of how many needless federal, state, and local laws we could abolish. And silly rules in our educational system.

Yet, that is the growing point of view in America. We promote bad behavior and fluctuating standards. If not enough minorities earn Academy Awards then there must be something wrong with how we award them. Right?

Is equality important? Yes! Is justice worth fighting for? Indeed! But achievement is cheapened when standards are lowered, and self-esteem is damaged by privilege, not enhanced.

That’s where the City of Monroe has it right. Integrity . . . and Community. But . . . that is for another blog post.

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The Running Joke

There’s been a running joke in my family ever since my wife and I married 43 years ago. You see, my father-in-law, Marty Glynn had begun to cook a good bit soon after we married, since his wife, Mary, suffered a brain aneurysm that year and was in recovery for some time after that.

The joke had to do with his inaccurate name for the fruit (considered a vegetable in culinary circles) I had grown up calling “green pepper,” or “bell pepper.” Pop (as we call him now) always referred to the aforementioned food item as a “mango,” and the family’s handwritten recipes preserved the same incorrect name.

It was laughable to me that he persisted in using that term, since everyone knows that a mango is a Malaysian fruit distinctly different from a bell pepper. I just added that mistake to a list I was making, since in Ohio (where they have always lived) they also went trick-or-treating one night before Halloween night (they called it “Beggars Night”), and I figured if you could be that wrong about when to trick-or-treat you could be wrong about almost anything!

Through the years we have joked about this, and each time I read ingredients on one of their recipes I chuckle. I’ve even gotten a bit snarky about it all (in my superior knowledge), and when a new recipe we are trying calls for bell pepper I will say mango instead, just to be cute.

Well, more accurately . . . I used to make that joke. But no more.

After about 40 years of making this joke I was reading about mangoes (for some reason) and I happened upon an interesting historical fact that caught my eye. Truth be told, it floored me.

It seems that when mangoes were first shipped to the United States in the 1600s they had to be pickled since there was no refrigeration. Other food products (bell peppers, for instance) were preserved by pickling as well and soon many pickled food items were referred to as mangoes.

If you search the internet now you will find many corroborating stories about the use of this term mango in the U.S.A.

So . . . my father-in-law was just using the term he had grown up with, just as I had.

But I was so sure . . . . I was certain, in fact. No question about it!

Yet, I was wrong.

We live in a culture right now that allows for almost everything. We are all about inclusion. [Correction: we don’t like including the excluders, but that’s another article]. The historical pendulum has swung to the open-minded, everything is subjective, nothing is absolute side, and we are enjoying the freedom wrought by that, and beginning to suffer the freedom lost by that swing, too.

But it is never wrong to ask WHY you believe a given thing, WHY you take a particular stance, WHY you are so sure about your worldview. This is not just true for the dogmatic religious fanatic, but for the easy-go-lucky, live-as-you-please skeptic as well. The truth about a thing is not swayed by how strongly you support it, or how passionately you reject it.

Now, I have a decision to make, of course. I can persist in bad-mouthing those who call bell peppers mangoes. Or I can function with a fuller understanding of the terms. I choose the latter.

And what about you? Where in life have you drawn the lines so boldly that you will not even dream of taking a second look? Sometimes (I have learned) . . . there is more to see than I ever dreamed possible.

As to trick-or-treating a day early . . . you can forget about it!

Uh oh! I may have to do some research.

photo by Ray Bouknight

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Officer Krupke: A Social Disease

When the juvenile delinquents in the musical West Side Story break into song, pleading with the local beat cop, Officer Krupke, to understand why they’ve turned out the way they have, the blame gets passed around and around until it lands squarely on society itself.

“In my opinion, this child does not need
To have his head shrunk at all.
Juvenile delinquency is purely a
Social Disease.”

And we laugh at their antics as they make fun of the police officer, and run circles around him. After all, it’s entertaining, right? [Anyone remember “Car 54, Where are You?“]

As the decades have passed the shows involving police have evolved into something quite different. We are enamored with forensic investigation programs, and the “us” and “them” dichotomy has intensified. No longer is there much of a humorous exchange between the good guys and the bad guys; instead, the two sides are clearly in a battle to the death.

Increasingly, our society, which takes its moral cues from television and movies, has taken up the same anthem of “us” against “them.” So now, sometimes for valid reasons of abuse of power and harassment, and sometimes simply because of the attitude we have been taught, we look at law enforcement officers with an distrustful eye.

The same is true in the school classroom where teachers are not only not allowed to touch students without reprisals, but are evaluated by students themselves as to whether or not they deserve respect and deference. I am reminded of a fellow high school teacher I worked with in the 1980s who had recently moved from Vietnam to the United States. He was shocked back then (almost 40 years ago) at the reduced level of respect afforded to teachers by students in the states.

I wonder what he would think now, in our present circumstances?

I know the pendulum swings back and forth from extreme to extreme in society, but we are desperately in need of a change in the direction of the current swing. When an 18 year old boy gunned down a Gwinnett County police officer days ago and an enormous manhunt ensued I was reminded of some things my brother (in law enforcement for over four decades) taught me years ago, e.g. THE BADGE (no matter who is wearing it) carries with it the FULL WEIGHT of the government it represents.

When you fight a county police officer you are not merely tussling with an individual; rather, with the whole county. He or she presents the civil body he or she has been entrusted to protect. It is not within your authority to evaluate whether or not you should obey the instructions of an officer of the law (certainly not in the moment he or she is instructing you). If you choose to disobey then the full weight of the governing body he or she represents will come crashing down upon you. This is the only way people in the society can have their freedoms protected.

In television, police often work alone or with just one partner. There are many skirmishes, and wrestling matches where the bad guys often get the upper hand and get away. This keeps you watching until the next program comes on a week later. In reality, even though the bad guy sometimes escapes capture, he or she does so only for a time, because the truth is it is not a competition. The law will be enforced. Your defiance of it will last only a short time (whether you agree with it or not). If this were not true it would rend the delicate fabric that holds society together.

We can blame society, just like The Jets in West Side Story, but that is a ruse, a ploy that simply does no one any good. If our homes are devoid of respect for authority, or if our entertainment celebrates defiance and rebellion, or if our school teachers are on trial by their students to gain respect and affect obedience, or if our political officials and law enforcement officials are not held to a high standard of morality we are in deep trouble.

The pendulum needs to swing soon . . . and swing hard!

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The Invention of Nature

You may have never thought about it before, but . . . why do you see the world as you do? From whence came your notions about the universe and how it works? Aren’t there things that you assume EVERYONE knows about the cosmos and the interrelationship between its many parts?

My brother and sister-in-law were kind enough to share a book with me recently. The book’s preface is one of those that draws you in, engages, intrigues you, and makes you wonder why you’ve not learned its content before. It is called The Invention of Nature, by Andrea Wulf, and it chronicles the life of Alexander von Humboldt, born in 1769 in Prussia.

I must admit, I had never heard of him! But in 1869, the world celebrated the centennial of his birth. In Europe, Africa, Australia, and America, etc. parties were held and speeches given in his honor. Dinners and concerts commemorated his birth, and the streets of New York City were lined with flags; posters of Humboldt’s face draped buildings, and a crowd of 25,000 turned out to see a bronze bust of him unveiled in Central Park.

Humboldt was a friend to many of the world’s most famous folks including Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Simón Bolívar, and he was revered by the likes of Thomas Jefferson, Charles Darwin, and Henry David Thoreau. His influence has been felt in so many disciplines that his point of view has become the norm for the way we approach our world and how it works.

And to think I’d never even heard of him!

Humboldt brought the notion of integration between all the various parts of nature to the forefront. He was at odds with many of his predecessors, but his point of view finally grew in prominence. He did not just desegregate the sciences; he also sought to integrate economics, poetry, and the feelings of man; what I venture to call a gestalt approach to life and the world.

What is interesting to me, however, is that it seems we have regressed from this point of view. Not intellectually, of course. I think most would agree that the various aspects of our world are interrelated: geology, oceanography, astronomy, biology, etc. But specialization has caused us to begin to fragment again.

My good friend, Tony, just moved into a new house. And he had to go through the arduous process of getting TV, internet, phones, etc. connected. Many hours on the telephone, with frustrating results, partial connectivity, and technicians that did not seem competent to resolve his problems. Then . . . Daniel appeared.

Daniel was a representative from a well known phone company; he came to the front door and announced to Tony that he was to be his phone line concierge. And indeed, he was. With confidence and the competence to match it he made a call and things began to happen. He quickly demonstrated his ability to bring together various parts of the industry; when he spoke to the home office or the technician on the scene, it was clear that he was the “Go To” guy. Soon everything was up and running as it should. Daniel was priceless!

The ability to integrate the parts, unify the strands, bring together the various factions, comprehend the whole . . . is priceless. But with all our modern technology it seems the disciplines may be less connected than they should be. Our doctors specialize, and that is a good thing, a necessary thing. But without a General Practitioner competent enough to bring together the neurology, cardiology, gastroenterology, and hematology, etc. a patient can be in a very unpredictable and dangerous spot.

The forest. The trees. We need to see them both, don’t we?

Humans are multifaceted. Humboldt knew that. And his efforts in a variety of fields, measuring barometric pressure at mountain tops, examining exotic plants, looking into volcanoes, and paying attention to his own emotions and intuitions put him in a position to understand the parts and the whole much better.

May we benefit from such an integrated approach to our world, and an integrated approach to our dealings with one another. There is order and design to our universe, and to all its inhabitants.

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Genuine

It’s hard to believe I haven’t blogged for three months, but . . . there you go! Clearly the new part time job I started in December, and other responsibilities have kept my ruminating at a minimum. (No jokes about the previous statement, please! Ha!)

Sometimes writers just begin writing in order to exercise the writing muscle (so to speak); they don’t know where they’re headed, they’re just headed wherever the pen might lead (or the keyboard, to be more precise). And that is an approximation of what I am attempting to do right now. Except that earlier this week I was reminded of a favorite word of mine, and I would be remiss not to share it with you.

It is the word GENUINE.

For many years now I have been enamored with the word genuine. I have always loved the way it sounds, and the way it feels as I shape the word in my mouth. Your teeth must come together as you form the first syllable, then there is the vibration caused by the J sound of the G; the tongue touches the roof of the mouth to form the N, then the lips appear to kiss something as you pronounce the U; instead of the shyster-like final syllable with the long I sound, I prefer to make my final taste of the word be more like a furtive UN at the end.

I love to speak the word genuine.

And then . . . not to disappoint . . . there is its meaning.

Authentic.

It’s interesting and enlightening to do research on the history and etymology of words. Feel free to do that with genuine, but . . . for my purposes here, the notion of authentic will do just fine.

We live in a world where we often hear the phrase “what you see is what you get.” And it is almost always associated with a person who wants to promote the notion that he/she is authentic. No hidden agendas. No deception. Well . . . that is, unless deception and hidden agendas is what they are all about.

And therein lies an important difference between genuine and other words which merely convey the idea of REAL, and VISIBLE, and UNVARNISHED.

Genuine connotes not only authenticity, but inherent goodness.

In an age where goodness has multifarious definitions, the connotation implied by the word genuine loses some of its beauty and clarity. But I want to fight for that clarity and beauty. There is precious little of that left in our world anymore. [No need for me to mention politics and social issues, etc., right?] We have grown cynical, wayward, and have wrongly used our freedom so that we have lost our way.

That is one reason nostalgia is so popular; we want to reminisce about a time when persons where more genuine, more authentic, more respectable, more sincere. [NOTE: sincere is another word worth researching].

Here’s a challenge for you and me, today: spend the next 24 hours striving to be genuine. See how it feels, and how it makes others around you feel.

And here’s how you might start. Say the word slowly, then repeat. Form the syllables with intention and attention. Use one long breath as you gradually link them together in elongated speech. Let the final consonant ring and rattle in your jaw. Give special notice to the silence that follows your last utterance. Because in that silence your mind will process the word, and you will see your reflection in the mirror of your conscience.

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Cold Happy New Year To You!!!!

It’s 12°F. in Georgia this morning, and the Lazy Boy chair that has been my bed for the last few nights since a recent surgery puts me close to the back door, the unused fireplace, and the cold air that seeps in through both of them. I’m having trouble keeping warm.

Cold is an extremely uncomfortable and vulnerable feeling. I’ve heard people remark through the years that they’d prefer being too cold to being too hot, but having experienced both extremes I’m not certain I’d agree. They say you can fall asleep in the bitter cold; unlike being too warm . . . there is an escape. But that has never reassured me. I have experienced Arizona heat in the 100-teens, and I have experienced bitter cold well below zero in both the Montana mountains and the Arizona mountains (not to mention the wet cold of Ohio).

I spent the night at the foot of Mt. Haggin (near Anaconda, MT) around 1972, sleeping in a cloth sleeping bag that was soaked overnight, thereby introducing me to the early stages of hypothermia. And I sunk a pants leg thigh deep in the snow while climbing Mt. Baboquivari (southwest of Tucson, AZ) on New Year’s Day 1969. Your stories of the cold you’ve endured may, indeed, be worse but . . . these are some of mine.

When the ball dropped at Time’s Square ushering in 2018 it was 10° F. in New York City. In spite of the cold, streets were packed, singers sang, and musicians played. We can weather almost any weather for a time, can’t we?

Ivan Doig gives an unforgettable portrayal of the brutal Montana winter of 1919 in his book, Dancing At The Rascal Fair. And similar stories from around the globe describe the exploits of various human beings who have endured unimaginable levels of suffering from the cold. [We humans do love our stories of extremes, don’t we?]

As a boy I used to imagine what my worst fears might be. One that always stood out was imagining being naked, left out in the bitter cold, shivering, unable to get warm. I am not frigophobic or cheimatophobic, just “cautious” (as Barney Fife would say); I don’t wear lots more clothing than I need.

Bitter cold weather around New Year’s reminds me that change is “in the wind” (so to speak). Cold is like a flood, or an earthquake: there is no clear escape. It is like a blanket that covers everything in its path. You may endure it, but you do not outrun it. It holds you in its grasp until it decides to let you go.

Our insulated society misses much of this. Our HVAC systems make us feel protected, separated from the bitter cold and its effects. That is, until a water pipe bursts, a heating element burns out, electricity fails, or a car won’t start. Then visions of frontier life loom large before our eyes.

Cold gets our attention; we are its puppets. A frozen shiver can cause your shoulders to hunch up suddenly and touch the sides of your neck. You can be in conversation with someone else and suddenly blurt out an unintelligible syllable prompted by your body’s lurching attempt to warm itself. Or you can just shake. I’m telling you, at that moment you are a marionette in the hands of an icy puppeteer. [And you can’t even see the strings!]

You may make your list of resolutions in the New Year, and I suppose we all should (if we truly mean them). But the cold that has ushered in the year 2018 is a reminder to me that I am not really in control of all that much. I am at the mercy of the elements. My job is not so much to chart out how my life will go this year; rather, it is to man the rudder in a ship that sails on a sea so vast I cannot even see it all at once.

Wave by wave I will set, then reset, my course. I will glide along on the glassy waters at times, then hold tight when the torrents assail. Knowing this: the warmth of pleasant days is for my enjoyment, and the cold of bitter days is to test my resolve. Together . . . they make a life.

I am ready for the cold.

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