Category: Uncategorized

The Lion in Winter is a great old movie starring Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole playing Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Henry II of England. These great actors make the sparring between husband and wife over which son, Richard or John, should succeed Henry come alive in well-scripted barbs full of sarcasm and irony.

There is a third son, Geoffrey. At one point in the movie, during such a conversation about which son will succeed, he interjects, “I don’t care which of them you choose. I miss the mention.” It is one of our favorite lines from any movie.

Roger Angell’s latest book is called This Old Man. There is an essay with that title in the book which is a newer piece of writing but most of the volume is given over to pieces Angell wrote sometime in the past, sometimes in his role as a fiction editor for the New Yorker, other times as one of the best baseball essayists around. He is my mom’s age, born in 1920, so he’s had the chance to see a lot in his lifetime.

About one subject for an essay, Angell wrote a line that could well apply to himself: “he was a noticer.” Does that idea grab you as it does me? Am I, are you, a noticer?

Angell meant that the man did more than just see. He noticed, took note of, acknowledged perhaps, assigned some modicum of meaning, however brief and transitory.

People of a Certain Age, one of the many gifts you and I share as a result of our time on the planet is the time to notice.   There is, in noticing, an implication of reflection, and modern life for young people is not geared to reflection.

I think I began to notice in a different way because of birds. Judy’s mom was an avid birder, organizing trips in the U.S. and Latin America for fellow birders. Judy and I joined her on one trip, and have found our own companions for bird watching trips as well.

Birding would be a lot easier if birds stood still for a while. They don’t, so you have to look for slight movements of leaves, and listen for chirps and calls. One can walk through a forest filled with birds and miss them all unless one stops to look and listen. You learn to notice subtleties.

Unfortunately, I have learned not to notice as well. The most obvious example would be homeless people at a stoplight. In fact, homeless people are largely unnoticed by society in general until they take up residence in a nearby park or on a main street through town.

I am certain that I rationalize not noticing by explaining that I can’t give a dollar to everyone I see with his hand out, and I’m not in a position of offering a home. So, in self-defense, I pretend not to notice.

When in the work force, you and I were noticed. We had responsibilities upon which others depended. We had colleagues with whom we collaborated. We finished projects that made a material difference. Jobs make one somebody, unless of course one is far enough “down” the corporate ladder that the higher ups could/would ignore you. Even then, low rungs often find ways to be noticed.

I know people who have struggled in retirement because they miss that notice. They have not found ways to be “mentioned,” as Geoffrey sought to be. In fact, though, I know people who have not yet retired who feel unnoticed.

I wonder if that is the ultimate pain of loneliness, the feeling of not being noticed?

Once, on a trip to China, I had the experience of being transported through Inchon Airport in Seoul and the International Terminal in Beijing in a wheelchair (a long story), my first experience in one. I remembered once hearing from someone permanently in a wheelchair that he felt people went out of their way not to notice him in his chair.

I can’t say that I felt one way or the other, noticed or unnoticed. The wheelchair did put me at the front of the Customs line in Beijing. Officialdom noticed.

Someone once told me that the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. To notice is a first step to caring. I wonder if noticing is a function of character?

Not noticing is not necessarily intentional. When we were first married in 1967, we had a friend in her 80s whose children lived in the same city where she lived, and she never saw them. Her explanation was that they were busy with their own lives and raising a passel of kids. I never met her children but I am certain they were not intentionally leaving their mother in loneliness. They did not notice their absence in her life.

Noticers notice people, like custodians and gardeners, who serve us in essential ways expecting not to be noticed. Noticers notice people for whom a hearty hello might be the first notice they have received in a day. Noticers relish each day for the potential of things to be taken in, absorbed, enjoyed.

I’d welcome being called a noticer, one who gives the gift of notice.

Daniel E. White

January 25, 2016

In my dream, the leak in the sprinkler line remained undetected. Water pooled until it overlapped the walk and found the seam of the wall of the house. Steadily, the pressure built, and rivulets found cracks in the foundation. The foundation began to crumble, and the house caved in on itself, victim of a liquid wrecking ball.

I stirred to stop that story. Another replaced it. There were sleeper cell terrorist attacks for thirty days straight somewhere in the U.S. The stock market fell below 100 and financial institutions evaporated. There went our retirement savings in a different sort of cave-in. How frightening!

I got up to go to the bathroom. I went back to bed and fell into a decent, dreamless sleep, the fear exorcised.

We did have a real leak in the sprinkler line. There was a sleeper cell attack. On the basis of these events, my unconscious mind took over and fanned the flames of fear. It made me wonder; of what should I be afraid, if anything at all?

Fear seems to be a default position for humankind. Biologists write about “flight or fight,” which bases the flight instinct on fear. More than a few people fear flying. Motivational speakers try to move people away from a fear of trying. Lots of people have a fear of dying.

People of a Certain Age have found ways to tamp down fears. How else have we managed to live all of these years surrounded by so many invitations to fear? Fear of failing a class, fear of unrequited love, fear of loss.

President Franklin Roosevelt proclaimed “there is nothing to fear but fear itself,” wise words that recognized the ubiquity of “nameless” fears and reminded us that we could help ourselves if we just stopped being afraid. That we have not done so, individually and as a people, stands as affirmation of Roosevelt’s wisdom.

Listening again to the Christmas story, from the time Mary learns her role to the departure of the wise men, I was struck by this: whenever angels appeared in the story, their first words were “be not afraid.”

Really? Angels?

My pastor-friend suggested that an angel is disruptive of the norm, and that one’s first reaction might be to worry about whether or not our “seeing” things was a first step toward madness.

Are you as sad as I am that our 21^st century American life is so buffeted by winds of fear that seem to blow from all directions without ceasing? We People of a Certain Age played in parks and on dead-end streets a distance from our homes without adults to supervise, a joy unavailable to many children today because their parents fear molesters and other dangers. Statistically, of course, that fear is unfounded.

Citizens fear that somewhere in their area might reside a terrorist ready to unleash violence upon innocent people. Statistically, there is a greater chance of being killed by falling furniture.

Gun control supporters fear the pervasiveness of guns. Gun rights advocates fear the loss of what they see as a constitutional right.

There has been fear that Mexican immigrants were taking jobs away from workers born in the U.S. and that Mexican authorities were compliant in sending their criminals here. When a terrorist was found to have forged a passport, the object of nativist fear shifted from Mexicans to refugees from Syria and the war-torn nations of the Muslim world.

Following a tradition as old as our country, there have been aspirants for political office, and incumbents, too, who have given voice to such claims, stoking the ashes of anxiety into the flames of fear. A sure-fire way to be competitive in a political campaign for almost any office at any level is to create in the minds of voters fear about what the opponent might do or not do, be or not be.

I am afraid we are easy prey for fear. Even people of faith, those who believe in a better world in an afterlife, seem not to heed the angels of God who proclaim “fear not.”

Fortunately, there are artists, composers, poets, sculptors, authors, and the like who get beyond their individual fears, if they have any, to produce works that uplift our spirits.

Happily, there are young men and women who are still willing to bear children and raise families, actions of optimism that occur in spite of the fear.

Wondrously, there is the beauty of the earth and sky that, if we don’t pollute it or pave it over too much, will uplift our spirits to that oneness with nature where fear cannot penetrate.

Joyously, there are friends and families and friends-yet-to-be with whom we can all find community, bonds, and relationships that, at our deepest levels, we know to be the greatest gifts in our lives, and an antidote to fear.

The unconscious, the non-rational can be formidable challenges to life without fear. My caved-in house and retirement fund won’t be the last time I encounter “nameless” fear. When it happens, I hope I have sense enough to get up and go to the bathroom.

Daniel E. White

January 13, 2016

Obscured in the King James version of the Bible chapter often read at weddings and known for its descriptions of love is this line: “Now we see through a glass darkly, then face to face.” This sentence is the greatest promise I can imagine. One day, I will see clearly.

The promise follows another lesser-known verse about speaking, understanding and thinking like a child until one grows up and gives up childish ways. Much has been written alleging that, as one ages, one returns to childish ways. The allegation is specious.

In Dr. Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal, the author dissects the ways in which older Americans have been treated as they gradually develop the inevitable infirmities of old age. His Chapter Two, “Things Fall Apart,” is a decade-by-decade account of how major organs and systems of the body break down over time. There are steps people can take to slow that deterioration but basically, our bodies fall apart with time.

One’s first reaction might be “I should have drowned myself at age 40,” so disheartening is the news. Yet we all already understand the deal; we are not immortal, and our bodies are merely reflecting basic laws of physiology and physics. So, we press on, bravely accepting a few more aches and pains each year or a little less ability to hear.

Despite this physical falling apart, we are, remarkably, happier as a group than those who are younger, according to many studies. Gawande notes that, as we age, we shift toward “appreciating everyday pleasures and relationships rather than toward achieving, having, and getting.” What’s childish about this? If we find this more fulfilling, Gawande asks, why do we wait so long?

Gawande cites the research of Stanford psychologist Laura Carstensen to answer that question. In her work, Dr. Carstensen has established, through a series of experiments, that perspective matters. “When life’s fragility is primed, people’s goals and motives in their everyday lives shift completely. It is perspective, not age, that matters most.” Of course, People of a Certain Age, since we are among the older group in our society, our “fragility” is necessarily more “primed” than is someone’s who is thirty.

To offer the perspective of a person in his late 60s is what led to my writing these occasional pieces a year ago. Happily, my thoughts have prompted many readers to write about their own perspectives, telling their own stories. We are reflecting the perspective of age.

My perspective about mortality was affected by my reading Dr. Gawande’s book, given to me by a man whose vocation is running a first-rate retirement community in Honolulu. The first sentence of the book—“I learned a lot of things in medical school, but mortality wasn’t one of them”—grabbed me.

There were no lessons for Gawande about mortality but then who among us, we People of a Certain Age, has thought much mortality, unless we have faced a serious health issue or the loss of a loved one? Gawande’s criticism is that we have applied medical answers to issues arising from aging without thinking much about what might constitute a “good life,” even as we grow old.

He uses Ivan Ilich, from Russian literature, to illustrate how those around a dying person can mis-apprehend what is important to that person. He champions hospice for its focus on the person rather than the disease, a focus that often adds some higher quality days of living for the patient.

“Depends on your perspective;” I’ve said that often, sometimes to explain to my students why Presidents often think differently once in office, or coached my professional colleagues as they handled difficult situations with parents and students.

There is, of course, that glass of water that stands as a symbol of perspective. My favorite response to the image is that the glass is full; half water, half air.

For a class I co-taught at the University of Hawaii, I shared the following as an introduction to consideration of one’s “positionality” in doing practitioner action research.

“A triangular prism hangs from a thin filigree thread in my study window. I look through it into the yard outside whenever I notice the refracted colors moving slowly around the room as the day progresses. Peering through the prism, I watch just-budding forsythia blur into golden clumps of color, separated now from the distinct arching of branches and formed into a new version of spring. Later, as the sun sets, the forsythia reappear as golden, violet, blue, and orange dots across the table where I am writing. Both points of seeing present shifting versions of the environment surrounding me: these versions depend not only on the slight motion of the hanging crystal itself but also in the angles from which I look through and around the prism.” (J. Miller, in Teachers as Curriculum Creators)

Through a prism or a glass darkly, or the Revised Standard version’s “in a mirror dimly. One day we will be face to face. Until then, I will treasure the perspective unfolding in my life and wish you the same satisfaction. There is nothing childish about that.

Happy New Year!

Daniel E. White

December 29, 2015

Every time our Jewish mother, Mildred Joseph, took us to Avery Fisher or Carnegie Hall, she would say “I’m so glad that baby Jesus was born because there has been so much good music written because of him.”

I thought of Mildred on Sunday when the soloist sang, “How can I keep from singing?” How, indeed!

This is the time of year when the air is filled with music, holiday music, mostly Christmas oriented, that includes cheery secular songs, moving and beautiful carols, and instrumental compositions with upbeat tempos, like those of Mannheim Steamroller.

“Music expresses that which cannot be said and cannot remain silent,” wrote Victor Hugo, well before his words spawned the soaring lyrics and music of Broadway’s Les Miserables. I’m sure Mr. Hugo’s music did not have to include lyrics. Chords and melodies move people, too.

I am a fan of music without words, like the compositions that we heard with Mildred. I have been moved to tears by melodic representations of, say, the afternoon of a faun or being beneath the Southern Cross. “Greensleeves” does not require words to inspire me. Sometimes words even get in the way of magnificent compositions.

I am a fan of music with words, too. Lots of people must be. Radio stations depend on it. When do we most commonly sing? At important events: weddings, church services, holiday gatherings, funerals, ball games. And in private, like in the shower. I think we sometimes forget to sing when singing would be healthy.

Judy and I enjoy Broadway musicals. Wherever we have lived, we have been season subscribers, or at least regular attendees, for local theaters presenting the ones from the canon—Oklahoma, Show Boat, Les Miz, Carousel. We like Sondheim, too, and Andrew Lloyd Webber. When we are in a big city, like New York or London, a hunt for tickets is one of our first priorities. In New York, we froze walking from the hotel to Jersey Boys. For my birthday, Mamma Mia in London was a special treat. “Thank you for the Music” by ABBA captures my sentiments exactly. I want that song and one from A Chorus Line (What I did for Love) at my funeral.

We see movie musicals, too. In a recent interview, a Hollywood director who specializes in them separated the genre into those movies in which the song is the natural outgrowth of the dialogue leading up to it and those where the song sticks out like a sore thumb.

That might be art imitating life. There might be inappropriate times for singing. Maybe it depends on the song.

Years ago, I was part of a church committee charged with hiring a new choir director. One candidate asked me how many poems I could recite in full. Then he asked me how many songs I could sing, remembering all of the lyrics. The latter number swamped the former. He made his point.

I heard another interview about a fellow whose dad dragged him to Pete Seeger concerts when the fellow was a teenager. Being a teen, he preferred rock or hip hop or anything other than folk music. He took notice, though, of how the Seeger concerts created communities of people who loved the music and sang the lyrics and shared the values of social conscience and social justice. He said he felt there were real bonds between these people. I’m told rock concerts do the same thing.

People of a Certain Age, if you were in an elementary classroom like mine, you sang frequently. That’s how I learned “O Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” which I have never sung since fourth grade. But, we sang, often. When did we stop?

Music unites. What nation does not have an anthem? What college lacks a piece it calls its Alma Mater?

How can I keep from singing? My Dad could not. The songs he sang on a regular basis during his life are the in-the-moment visits by him for me whenever I hear them.

One in particular. At our house for Christmas dinner one year, we played Barbara Streisand’s Christmas album. “I Wonder as I Wander “played. Dad dissolved. I had never seen him so…what? Moved, certainly. Sad? Depressed? Filled with memory? With joy?

I can’t know the music’s power on Dad. But it had power.

How can I keep from singing?

Actually, I can think of one inappropriate time for singing. It is tied to a place. Dad sat on our deck in Sacramento at 4:00 a.m. and sang to the trees. He woke our neighbors. They were very nice, saying that he sang beautifully, but hoping that he might start a little later in the morning.

Next morning, he sang again, more softly. No one awoke. He could not keep from singing.

Neither can I, in my head. Not sure that I would want to. Mildred would approve.

Daniel E. White

December 17, 2015

I should not be surprised when I find out that an experience we’ve had that we thought was unique turns out not to be. But I often am.

NPR carried the story of a First Mate on a container ship making a China-California-Japan circuit on a regular basis. The officer is ethnic Indian, a Sikh from Punjab. The story focused on how he spends his day off in port at Oakland, California. He heads out early with a shopping list; Best Buy for electronics, Target or Walmart for consumer supplies like Gerber’s Baby Food and various lotions, and Victoria’s Secret for… well, you get the picture (a trip there is indicative of a husband on his way home). The reporter was tickled by the idea of this man of the sea spending his time on shore shopping for his extended family.

Turns out, a local church serving seafarer’s in Oakland provides volunteers for such commercial excursions. Turns out, he is not a unique Sikh!

In 1969, while we were in graduate school in Seattle, Judy and I enjoyed lunch on board a freighter docked at the Port of Tacoma, guests of an Indian First Mate and the Captain. Why we were lunching on an Indian freighter is another story in itself. The next day, when the ship had moved to the Port of Seattle, Judy agreed to drive the First Mate to do some shopping. Two of his shipmates asked to come along and the foursome went off to White Front, the Costco of its day.

They filled our VW Bug with loads of consumer goods ranging from Ivory Soap to disposable diapers bound for friends and relatives back home in India. Each man had a list from his wife. In a moment of improbability, they stopped by on the way back to the ship to pick me up from my softball game.

Question: How many rolls of toilet paper and packages of disposable diapers did it take to fill up a Bug laden with five adults? Answer: in such circumstances, there is no such thing as a filled up VW Bug.

Based on the NPR story and our experience, and the fact that the Oakland church has a plan to support such forays into the biosphere of America’s stores, I must conclude that there are lots of first mates and crewmen from scores of ships making port in the U.S. who spend their off-days on land with shopping lists from their wives.

My sample of two also indicates that the shoppers invariably are shopping for others, seldom themselves.

Judy (especially, since she drove and was the on-board domestic expert for the shipmates) and I have gotten lots of mileage from telling the story of our Seattle shopping spree with three new friends from India. We still can, of course. But it will feel like whenever you describe a pristine trail you think you have discovered to a couple that, as it turns out, have tramped that trail for years. “Oh, you mean that trail!”

People of a Certain Age, we have spent much of our lives establishing our uniqueness, our individuality. Have you, like me, concluded that, in so many ways, the more we have tried to be unique, the more we seem to have in common with at least some others?

A part of the business of growing up was focused on encouragements like “Stand up for yourself,” “Be who you are,” and “Like snowflakes, we are all unique.” That exceptionalism is often tempered by cultures and/or families that highlight community obligations and responsibilities, encouragement not to stand out in a crowd. Perhaps it is natural for people raised to be individuals to think that significant experiences in their lives are unique.

Logically, with seven billion people on Earth, there are bound to be some repeats. Whenever something different happens in our lives, we sometimes become aware of something similar happening to someone else.

At times, there is virtue in not being unique, like when you realize that others have lost loved ones and survived after the loss. Feeling connected to the on-going flow of humanity, at one (or nearly so) with others of like mind and experience, conveys the warmth of belongingness, a satisfaction born of being “a part of” rather than “the only.”

I think a part of the satisfaction of Thanksgiving and the allure of Christmas (the secular version) lies in the connectedness these holidays encourage us to celebrate in the company of others.

Of course, it does not matter, in the larger scheme of things, whether or not our day with the merchant marines was unique. The fun comes from hearing a story nearly fifty years later that reminds you of a good time in your own life.

I wonder if those guys on the freighter, who would be our age at least and likely not at sea any more for a living, remember a particular shopping trip in a VW Bug is Seattle?

Daniel E. White

December 2, 2015

7:15 am Tuesday, I went out on the lanai and watched the neighborhood stir. I don’t usually do that. We People of a Certain Age can enjoy such luxuries.

A taxi turned south off Makakilo Drive into the new houses, built five years ago. We don’t see taxis much up here. A few minutes later, it came back. Probably headed to the airport.

A woman in her fifties talked on her cell phone as her dog, tethered to an expanding leash, pulled her downhill. The dog did not miss a tree. The woman took little notice. Probably both were happy.

First came the yellow bus to pick up the elementary school kids. Two boys there, one whose mom had walked him to the pick-up spot. He looked relieved that only one other boy was there to see his mom when she wanted to give him a hug. Aw, Mom!

The second was escorted by his older sister. She went across the street to her bus when he was safely on board his. All the kids were laden with heavy-looking backpacks.

I’m not sorry we didn’t use backpacks in elementary school. Our books stayed in our desks, the ones with the ink wells that held no ink. You HAVE to be of a Certain Age to remember those. We started to carry Peechees around in junior high school, and a few books. No backpacks, though.

Carrying books home meant high school. Boys carried girls’ books sometimes if they were smitten. The well-off kids’ books had plastic school-sold book covers. My crowd made covers from paper bags. Status was easy to tell in those days.

The second bus sneezed the way buses do and stopped for the older kids. Several hustled the last few yards to be sure not to miss it.

I didn’t ride a bus to school until high school. We walked to grade school and rode bikes to junior high school. Now, it seems most kids ride buses or are dropped off by their parents. Kids miss something these days because of this.

When the elementary bus met the secondary school bus at the corner below, the buses stopped so that the drivers could chat until a car drove up.

Ordinary stuff.

I thought about the people I know whose various infirmities have confined them to bed or the hospital. Wouldn’t they welcome the chance to watch ordinary stuff? If you are not one of these this Thanksgiving, there’s one blessing for you.

The fellow who rides his Harley to work fired up the engine. He’s one of the polite ones who doesn’t blast the neighborhood with scores of decibels as he accelerates up the hill. He’s dressed in fatigues. I had not realized he was military.

Cement truck. On the hill opposite our place, more houses are going up, one by one, at the edge of the development where the houses had sprouted earlier fifty at a time. When the driver braked to make the turn, the truck seemed to want to head downhill with a mind of its own that needed to be tamed.

No problem. The driver does this every day. Relatively few cement trucks run out of control and crash.

Everyday. A crossword clue for quotidian. A fifty-cent word that sounds like it should mean something other than everyday. Have I ever actually heard anyone use quotidian in a sentence?

Three dogs follow a young man toward me. Two look like pit bulls from my perch. The third seems a poi dog, mixed and unknown parentage. The man seems quite in control, the alpha being clear to all concerned. They must all be his. They don’t stop as much at the trees.

A steady stream of SUVs thread their way out of the neighborhood. Ferrying kids to school most likely. The sportier cars mark the solo drivers, mostly men, headed to work in town. From here, I can see the H-1 freeway backed up to the North-South Road. So could the drivers as they left home. They’re used to it.

The cattle egrets fly the opposite direction, from their nightly roost at Pearl Harbor to the hills behind my house. To where the cattle are, and the bugs they’ll eat today.

I wonder if the drivers ever watch the egrets with envy?

For most of my life, I was one of the drivers at 7:15 am on Tuesday. I feel more like an egret these days.

A lot of good people I have known have died, just since I retired. Are they on some higher lanai, watching? I know that a few of them, as they accepted the nearness of death, came to value their 7:15 a.m. Tuesday moments.

Sometimes the little things mean a lot.

By 7:30 the street had quieted. There came the dog walkers again, headed home. A delivery truck rumbled down the hill.

Time for my coffee and the crossword.

Daniel E. White

November 22, 2015

Andrew Carnegie funded many charitable causes. His philanthropy has enabled myriad educational enterprises, including libraries, universities and research programs.

The cause he funded which, according to the expert on “Antiques Roadshow,” was nearest and dearest to him, the one in which he invested personal interest most intently, recognized acts of heroism. To date, over 9000 such acts have been honored, the hero receiving a bronze medal and a cash prize.

The specific medal on the “Roadshow” honored a man who was lowered into a well to rescue an 18 month-old boy. The man had come across a crowd standing around the well, trying to figure out what to do. He was small in stature, so he persuaded the others to lower him into the well on a rope, despite the fact that the walls of the well were crumbling. The father of a son just a few years older than the boy in the well, the man was determined and, happily, successful. A great story.

Around the circumference of the medal’s back surface is the verse from John 15:13—“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Synchronistically, the “Roadshow “episode aired ten days before Veteran’s Day and the same day as my visit to a retirement community that displays photos of residents who have served in one of the U.S. armed forces.

I have been in several retirement communities, sharing my book with the residents, where there is a similar wall of honor. What a great way to recognize service to the nation and to make the point that such service should not be forgotten. I can only imagine how proud a man or woman might be to have such a picture on the wall.

Two thoughts emerged. First, I doubt that many, if any, of the folks whose pictures are displayed would consider themselves heroes. They would demur, if so described, saying that they were “just doing their duty.”

I never served in the military, but I take no offense at a veteran saying that he or she was just doing their duty. I can envision a life of duty that does not involve military service. I also know that my opportunity to fulfill the duty in my life has been enhanced throughout our country’s history by the fact that there have been men and women who did their duty through military service.

That is one reason I value Veteran’s Day. People dedicated time from their lives to serve in the armed forces. I salute them for that gift, to the country and to me.

A subset of all those who have put on a uniform have faced the possibility of death or disability in a live war with real bullets and bombs. Placing one’s life in imminent danger to save the life of another is a paraphrase of the words on the Carnegie Medal for Heroism.

I don’t mind calling them heroes. And far too many have carried in their brains burdens from that service that impede their living their lives to the fullest. These folks earn special gratitude.

The second thought derives from my experience with countless parents in schools I have headed who have held together families while a loved one, often a dad, was in a foreign land facing those real bullets and bombs. Those parents cannot have had an easy task.

Single parenting is tough enough. Being the one of a pair of parents left behind while the other is off to war must compound the challenge. How does one keep children away from the anxiety the home-front spouse inevitably feels? Would every television report about American casualties cause a knot in one’s stomach?

This is not a new phenomenon. Remember the world wars? Vietnam?

The home front parent would not consider herself or himself a hero, either. And, in fact, these folks do not place their lives in imminent physical danger to save the life of another.

Theirs is a different commitment. They strive to protect their children to the extent possible from the wrenching worry of war endured by the folks at home. Is there a special niche in the wall of heroes for such as these?

Veteran’s Day is a terrific tradition. Thank you, all of you who took time from your lives to serve. A special thanks to those who put their lives on the line in a shooting war.

And thanks to those who served on the home front, too. Maybe there could be a special day for them, too.

I wonder what Mr. Carnegie might think about that?

Daniel E. White

November 4, 2015

I’ve become more attentive to “Dia de Los Muertos.” I have long connected Halloween, with all of its celebratory spirits cavorting around, and the “Dia de Los Muertos” of Mexican tradition, the “Day of the Dead.” But I hadn’t gotten some of the richness enjoyed by true believers in the day until recently.

Then I heard a Mexican film maker interviewed about his new project in which the “Dia” is a central feature. He spoke about a time growing up when, after a good friend of his died in youth, his father told him that the friend would live on as long as the yet-to-be film maker continued to tell his friend’s jokes, see his friend with him in his mind’s eye as he enjoyed a special experience, and danced with him on the Day of the Dead.

Immortality rooted in memory. That is hardly a new concept. It reminds me of words I used at my father’s memorial service and on sympathy cards I have written since. “He is no longer where he once was but he is everywhere you are.” These words are not original, and I wish I could remember where I heard them first. Certainly, to me, they immortalize the author, even if it is Hallmark.

The older I get, the more people I know who have died. So the universe of people who compete for a place only in my memory expands. Without question, some of those departed have faded in my memory and are less “immortal” to me than, say, my father, or grandparents or my professional mentor. I hope that those who fade in my memory remain vivid in the memories of others, extending their opportunity for immortality.

There are people who will live on forever, or seemingly so, because they wrote the Gettysburg Address or the Declaration of Independence or made a classic film or wrote a classic book. A piece of work that stays in the public eye over generations will always stimulate interest among the living regarding the person who accomplished the memorable deed. In some cases, like Lincoln and Jefferson, we have built stone memorials that guarantee their presence in the public eye until the stone crumbles.

Indeed, immortality is a benefit of significant public accomplishment. And it is not always predictable. Lincoln thought that the world would “little note nor long remember what we say here but can never forget what they did here.” The Address far outweighs the Battle in the public consciousness.

The magic of “Dia de Los Muertos” is that the living make a conscious effort, at least on this one day a year, to breathe life into the memories of the dead. To be so remembered requires no other accomplishment than to have been born, integrated into a family or a community, thereby touching the lives of others. “Dia de Los Muertos” is an egalitarian form of immortality; there are no limitations of class, wealth or accomplishment.

I, as a gringo, understand “Dia” to be celebratory, filled with dancing and revelry, if not actual, then in spirit. Any and all of the dead are invited. The film maker referred to a friend who arranged to be married on November 1 just so a deceased friend could attend.

I am aware of how many more families and groups of friends are organizing “celebrations of life” for the newly dead rather than funerals or memorial services, which seem to feel more somber. There are even folks nearing death who organize their own celebrations of life, choosing to be joyful about life until its physical end.

We often understand that, whatever it is called, the event following a person’s death is for the benefit of the living. Maybe its purpose is not so limited, if one accepts the premise of “Dia de Los Muertos” as a time when the spirit of the departed is alive to the living. Maybe it is an important ritual for the newly dead who, it would seem, are integrally involved in a transition, too.

There are lots of imponderables where death is concerned. One day, when I have “crossed over,” to use a poetic metaphor, I might understand more. For now, I plan to use “Dia de Los Muertos” to throw a party, invitation only, and you cannot be physically alive to attend. In spirit we may dance and celebrate. I hope somebody throws a similar party in fifty years or so and invites me.

(And speaking of spirits…as Judy was helping to edit this piece, she accidentally and unknowingly called for Siri’s help on her iPhone. Judy read aloud “In spirit we may dance and celebrate.” Seemingly from nowhere , Siri replied, “Hmm, I think I will sit this one out.)

Daniel E. White

October 26, 2015

The Hawaii Symphony’s new season has begun. I feel transported at the symphony when I see the conductor walk in, usually from the wings to the left, as applause starts. The orchestra rises as one. The conductor shakes hands with the concertmaster, and the orchestra sits down, prepared to play.

I am in Honolulu at the Blaisdell Concert Hall, but I could be in Disney Hall in Los Angeles, Avery Fisher Hall in New York, or across the ocean in countless halls. In the time that it takes for the conductor to reach the podium, three long-standing traditions of respect have occurred. Each lends a dignity as well as a timelessness to the beginning of a symphony concert.

Respect: a concept that has been cheapened in recent times by the way some people justify their bad behavior. They claim to have been “disrespected” and use the claim to act irresponsibly. Respect is something that, if you give, you expect to get. And, generally, you do.

Respect can accompany a position in life. Judy and I were invited some years ago to dine at a restaurant owned by parents of students attending our school from Thailand. At the desk, I identified us as Dr. and Mrs. White and mentioned the names of the students.

“Ah, teachers,” the woman behind the desk replied as she and the maitre’ d bowed. We were honored and taken aback at the same time. Some cultures, it seems, still revere teachers and lend them respect.

I was raised to hold the door open for my elders to pass through before I did. As young people, we would tease each other by holding the door for a contemporary and saying “respect your elders.” Though I can now be classified among the elders, I still hold the door open for people older than me. Often, the “thank you” I receive is accompanied by a quizzical look, as though such an expression of respect is rare.

I speak to retirement communities about U.S. Presidents. One gent who lamented the verbal and written abuse he thinks President Obama has attracted, asked me if any previous President had suffered as much. I assured him that every President since Washington has endured critics who have been brutal in their characterizations and accusations, like comparing Lincoln unfavorably to a baboon.

I went on to say that most people go out of their way to respect the office, if not the occupant. Most times, the President is still addressed as Mr. President. Few partisan politicians hurl personal epithets at the President, whichever his party. That is left to talk radio hosts. Former Presidents rarely criticize current Presidents.

I served as a school headmaster for 26 years. I know I made some people upset. I used to encourage people who disagreed to be open about their concerns with me; all I asked was for them to be respectful of the office. Being the head of anything invariably requires making somebody angry sometime.

It was never easy to hear criticism of my decisions or actions. Somehow I learned, though, that my duty was to hear it and respect the right of the speaker. It worked out okay.

When the New York City policemen turned their backs on the Mayor at the funerals of two slain officers a while back, who was injured more, the Mayor or the reputation of the protesters? Being respectful doesn’t always taste good. It is always in good taste.

I like singing “Hawai’i Pono’i” and the national anthem at events in Hawaii. Yes, the first symphony performance of the season began with the audience standing to sing the national anthem and the state anthem. Those are other traditions that unite us with past and future. They express our pride and our respect for our state and our nation.

Goodness knows that the people running the state and the nation sometimes do things that make my teeth grate. I believe our leaders strive to serve the common good, so I must accept that, sometimes, my idea of the common good might not be theirs. Still, why would I not respect their offices?

Being disrespectful, besides being bad manners, reveals a lack of respect for one’s self. In the movie “Quartet,” (a film for People of a Certain Age that young folks ought to see, too), the former opera diva, Jean, wallowing in self-pity, laments “we used to be somebody.” Her companion, Sissy, the alto slipping into dementia, responds “I thought I still was somebody.”

People who respect themselves without being worshipful, accept who they are as unique, not special, no matter their stage and station in life. They find it easy to respect others and the traditions that bind us to our history and each other.

I like being around those kind of people. So I go to the symphony.

Daniel E. White

October 13, 2015

 

Recently, I read about a preacher who travels across the country reciting the Book of Mark word for word, with expressions and emotions added. Mark, as other books of the Bible, was probably an oral tradition at first anyway. Not that maybe people were readers back then, and many sentences begin with the word “and,” as though the speaker was insuring that he kept the floor until he had finished.

To refresh my memory about the uniqueness of Mark, I opened a Bible my Dad had used in his ministry. A Christmas card sent over 25 years ago by friends to my parents bookmarked the opening of the letter to the Ephesians.

In pencil, Dad had written Ephesians 2:4-10, and he had made a check mark by verses 4 and 10 as a guide for his reading. The passage speaks to one main point: “By grace you have been saved.” The text continues to note the “innumerable riches of grace,” and then, lest there be any doubt, that “this is not your own doing.”

People of a Certain Age, are there not in your lives words or ideas that have been persistent puzzlers to you for lo, these many years? Grace has been one for me.

As a word, grace has many meanings. Growing up, our family said grace before dinner each night. Royalty in BBC productions are often called “Your Grace.” Athletes and dancers, who excel at their movements, are often lauded as graceful. My aunt was named Grace. There are many more meanings in the dictionary.

Grace, as a word, never has meant anything bad. How many times have you read about a person commenting that another person had “grace enough not to {whatever}?”

Grace as a concept seems something I would want. Yet if the Apostle Paul was correct in his letter, you can’t just apply for grace. I’m not sure even how one might qualify for grace, which is Paul’s point.

I have probably trivialized grace using an expression you might have used as well: “there but for the grace of God go I.” Yet I am aware of much good fortune in my life that is clearly not my own doing. Is grace involved?

I believe I know grace when I see it. On one occasion, I was assigned the Inspirational Moment for our weekly Rotary meeting. In the days before, I had spent time with a friend and fellow Rotarian, just turned 80, who had just learned that he had cancer, on top of diabetes and other major medical issues.

I had not talked with my friend about either the diagnosis or the prognosis but I had studied his face, listened to his words and was, perhaps, more attentive to him, for some reason, than usual.

What I saw in him was grace. I said so as my Inspirational Moment. I said we could all hope that when we confronted the facts about how our own lives were likely to end, we could be like my friend. The other Rotarians seemed to agree.

There is a story told about Associate Justice Potter Stewart of the U.S. Supreme Court who, in the case of Jacobellis v. Ohio (1964) wrote a short opinion to concur that the particular movie the case was about did not merit censorship. “Hard core pornography,” he wrote, “is hard to define but I know it when I see it.” For how many things in our lives is that true: precise definitions might elude us, “but we know it when we see it?”

That’s how I feel about grace. I, like many others, recognized grace when President Jimmy Carter faced the press to talk about his cancer. Courage was once described as grace under pressure. But I cannot precisely define grace.

Though my examples of grace above are both people who have lived many years, I have seen grace in younger people, too, whose equanimity and peace emanate, I am sure, from grace. One such youngster is Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani girl shot by the Taliban for the crime of wanting an education.

If a person claims to have grace, he doesn’t. Grace is a state, not a trait. If Paul is right, though, there are “innumerable riches of grace.” Who would not want that?

I don’t know what Dad said in his sermon that Sunday. Likely, he told stories, like Mark did, that gave the congregation glimpses of grace.

I like to see grace even though I have not yet fully understood what grace is. I’m thinking you might, too.

I know it is amazing.

Daniel E. White

October 1, 2015