Two Weeks in the Grandchildren Zone

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

For someone neck-deep into the later years of life, there is usually a kind of mundane sameness to each day.  We have our routines, constructed around the things we have to do along with a little time for what we like to do.  Day after day, the calendar ticks along, the days passing all too quickly, like posts flashing past the windows of a speeding car.  There is a kind of grayness to that existence.  Then, one day grandchildren show up.

They burst into the house, bringing a most wonderful noise with them.  They smile big, and come at you with arms wide, ready for that first great big hug.  They're all full of news about where they've been, what they've been doing...little lives full of really big things.

The first thing you notice is that they grow.  Rapidly.  Too rapidly.  They're taller, their speech more sophisticated.  For the older ones, you begin to see the beginnings of that descent into madness we have come to know...and remember...as adolescence.  But it's all new stuff wrapped up into special lives that you know you can never live without.  One of the wonderful things that I've come to realize is to recognize that these are lives for whom the story has yet to be written.  I have to admit that there are days when I feel tired and used up.  But spending even a few minutes with my grandchildren, I realize that there is still so much life yet to be lived.  

You see, because of my long perspective, I see a world where people choose to divide themselves based on blind obeisance to party politics.  I see a world where violent crime and senseless acts become more common.  I see a world spiraling down into some kind of suicidal black hole.  But even a few minutes with grandchildren, and I realize that in these young lives hope survives.  In their presence, I believe that the world can survive; that things can be better if for no other reason than they can make it happen.

When Did I Get So Old???

"My face carries all my memories.

Why would I erase them?

--Diane Von Furstenberg

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

It's kind of funny that we can be so consumed by the requirements of each individual day that we can become blind to the larger passage of time.  When we finally recognize that particular albatross, it is a moment of shock, and at times, dismay.  Usually we confront that moment when we see people we once knew as children who are now full-grown adults.  Also for sports fans, when we attend an Old Timers Day and we see athletes we remember as young, strong, and graceful who now are gray, bent, and shuffling.  Of course, we never, ever think that such a deterioration is happening to us.

Last week, in anticipation of my grandson's birthday, I recorded a video in which I sang "Happy Birthday" (didn't pay the royalty) and wished him best wishes for the day.  I attached the video to a text message and prepared to send it to his parents.  (Ain't the 21st Century grand?)  Before sending, I reviewed the recording.  I was shocked.  The face that smiled back at me from my phone was....old!  The skin hung loosely off the cheeks and jowls. The eyes were almost lost in folds of wrinkles that I swear hadn't been there yesterday.  My smile turned my forehead into something which resembled a topographical map of the Appalachians.  Even my earlobes seemed to have gotten longer.  Atop it all was a roof of silver hair within which all traces of the original color had somehow vanished.  What had once been a youthful visage had now surrendered to Father Time.

Being Thankful

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Written content only

Thanksgiving is one of those unique American holidays, and while the traditional foods and activities are firmly established, the origins of some of those traditions is shrouded in historical ambiguity.  That being said, as everyone gathers around the table today, none of that will matter.

The traditional first Thanksgiving was celebrated by the Pilgrims at Plymouth Colony in what would eventually be Massachusetts.  The colony had undergone a terrible trial in trying to establish their community in this new, but raw land.  When that first harvest came in, for really the first time, the colonists were able to eat a full meal.  This was something worth celebrating.

For a lot of our history, American was agrarian in nature.  Before industry took hold, it was the basis for the economy.  Anyone who's been a farmer or known one also knows how chancy that industry is.  There has to be a last frost early enough to allow the soil to be turned in time for planting.  There has to be sufficient rainfall, but a minimum of crop-destroying severe storms (hail, in particular).  There absolutely cannot be invasions of pests or locusts or grasshoppers, as farmers in the Dakotas would find out in the 19th century.  As summer wanes, there is the desperate race to get the harvest in and stored before the first plant-killing frost.  For the farmer, summer was four or five months of very long days, short nights, and constant worry about the immediate future.  Back then, if your crops were destroyed, there was no grocery store to back you up.  A successful harvest meant one thing:  Survival.  

Midway, That Day, and This Day

IJN HIRYU.  Note the cavernous hole left in the forward 

flight deck by U.S. bombers from ENTERPRISE and YORKTOWN.

By Special Service Ensign Oniwa Kiyoshi - U.S. Navy photo NH 73065, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2009298

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Written content only

On June 4, 1942 naval and air forces of the United States and Imperial Japan met in what has been called one of the most crucial and history-altering battles in history.  The fight took place northeast of a small atoll of two islands called Midway.  Japan intended to invade and occupy Midway to provide a staging area for continual bombing attacks on military installations in Hawai'i and possibly an eventual invasion and occupation of O'ahu itself.  The U.S. Navy, still reeling from the losses suffered at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, made a desperate stand based on seemingly thin intelligence gleaned from intercepts and decryptions of Japanese communications.

In the six months since Pearl Harbor, the Japanese carrier force, known as Kido Butai (mobile force) had enjoyed an unchallenged mastery of the seas.  Admiral Chuichi Nagumo had taken his powerful fleet from Hawai'i to Sri Lanka in the Indian Ocean without losing a single ship.  The U.S. Navy, on the other hand, was vastly outnumbered in every ship and aircraft type.  After the loss of Lexington and the critical damage to Yorktown during the Coral Sea battle, there were only two battle-worthy carriers in the Pacific.  Fortunately, two of  Nagumo's carriers were sent back to Japan.  Shokaku was heavily damaged at Coral Sea, and Zuikaku's air group suffered severe losses and needed replenishment of planes and pilots.

Pioneers, Voyagers, and the Evidence of Our Passage

NASA

Heavens-Above.com

Positions of Earth's distant emissaries.

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Written content only

I revisit this subject from time to time, mainly because of my interest in deep space.  I find it fascinating, not just that there are four probes either in or nearing interstellar space, but that long after we and our planet are gone, they will be drifting through the Milky Way Galaxy, the sole evidence that Earth and its creatures ever existed.

Voyagers 1 and 2, and Pioneers 10 and 11 were all launched in the 1970s, all part of the first real exploration of the planets of our solar system.  The knowledge gained expanded by several orders of magnitude our understanding of the Sun's family, and as science often does, inspired several thousand new questions.

Once that mission was completed, all four were on trajectories that would take them all beyond the reach of the Sun's influence and into the unknown of interstellar space.  The Pioneers are silent now, their power sources exhausted.  The Voyagers are also expected to go dead sometime within the next year or so.  But even though they will be inert, they will still be indisputable evidence to any intelligence which encounters them that there is, or was, other intelligent technological beings among the stars.  The Pioneers have only their own existence to make that statement.  But the Voyagers both carry gold plated disks, once called "records," along with instructions for their viewing that contain images and sounds of our planet and most important, images of us.  In the perfect vacuum of space, they will be preserved for as long as the spacecraft themselves exist.  For anyone who finds them, what we were, what we sounded like, how we lived, and where will become knowledge which will alter forever their view of the universe.

I thought if might be of interest to share the current locations of these spacecraft, where they are headed, and their ultimate fate.  

Grief: The Necessary Path

From Davidsrefuge.org

Copyright 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Written content only

For all of us there will come a time when we lose someone very close to us, someone who has been one of the pillars that always seemed to be there to prop us up when we needed it.  They were loved, deeply and unconditionally, and their passing leaves an open wound.  Unlike physical ailments, the wound of grief may eventually close, but the scar will always remain.

There are several undeniable truths about grief, the most important being that it is a journey, one that must be taken, unfortunately, by the grieving individual alone.  Friends and love ones will offer empathy and solace, but this is a path that can only be walked alone.  There are no shortcuts, no easy stretches.  The path of grief must be walked to its completion.

In 1969, the Swiss-American Psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote a book entitled, "On Death and Dying" in which she introduced the five stages of grief, a model which is widely used today by professionals and lay people as a way of navigating the grieving process.  There are some psychiatric professionals who say that the existence of these stages hasn't really been demonstrated fully.  But Dr. Kubler-Ross's model still survives to this day.

The five stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  

The Universe, Fate, and Our Choice

M31, AKA the Andromeda galaxy

Image by Amir Hossein Abolfath

Through Astronomy Picture of the Day (APOD)

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

I have always enjoyed television programs about science, particularly anything about space.  I spend a lot of time (perhaps too much) on the Science Channel, in particular a program entitled "How the Universe Works."  The episodes deal with knowledge, past and current, with some healthy speculation about the unknown.  The series "stars" consist of about 145 of the most preeminent scientists working in various aspects of the astronomy/cosmology field.  The information is presented well, managing to balance on the knife-edge of comprehension for the rest of us, while still managing to teach at the same time.  The graphics are cutting edge, and if you have one of the advanced technology televisions, eye-popping as well.  

Just this past week, I learned the latest theories on the birth and evolution of our solar system, and how big it actually is.  (Hint:  It's way bigger than you think.)  I also learned what is currently known about the most distant objects, quasi-stellar objects, or Quasars.  I already knew that at the center of our galaxy exists a super-massive black hole.  I also learned that the one at the center of the Andromeda galaxy is ten times larger.  I learned what the best idea is for why the crust of the moon is twice as thick on the far side as it is on the side that perpetually faces us.  I also learned that if it wasn't for this uncommonly oversized moon, not only does it keep the earth from tumbling its axis, it is, because of its effects on earth's tides,  probably most responsible for the beginnings of the complex microbial life that eventually led to us.  

A Wag, a Kiss, and a Forever Friend

Our boon companion

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

There are a lot of interesting things one can find via social media these days if you're willing to endure the steady diet of politically-based hate that propagates there on a regular basis.  Yesterday I ran across a video where people were crying, either for real or fabricated, and their pets strove to cheer them up.  In some cases, the dog would embrace their human with their front paws, much as one human shares a hug with another.  A lot of memories returned for me from the depths of memory.  I have always been a pet person, usually a dog.  I think I sought that companionship because I was a kind of solitary child and spent much of my time alone.  We had two dogs growing up, both dachshunds, one died after consuming what we think was a poisoned rat tossed over the back fence.  The second one lasted for nearly 17 years before finally surrendering to the terrible spinal problems endemic to that breed.  "Brownie," as we named him was in many ways, my best friend.  We went everywhere together and shared a bed at night.  Although there were a lot of adventures in that relationship, the best times were when we just sat on the couch and shared each other.  In human terms, we call that a ministry of presence.  You don't have to say anything, or do anything.  Just be there.

I didn't have another pet until after I got married and had kids.  My wife had promised me that when we acquired a house with a fenced back yard, we could have a dog.  We were in Columbia, Missouri when that finally happened and once we were settled in, I began to pay visits to the local animal shelter. I saw a lot of dogs I would have liked to own, but I am an emotional kind of guy, and if it were up to me, the house would be filled with animals.  One day, Cheryl and I went after she got off work and began to walk among the cages.  There were many who were jumping around, all seeming to say "Take me! take me!"  Suddenly, she stopped and kneeled down before one particular cage.  Inside was a beautiful white long-haired dog, a Samoyed as I would eventually find out.  This dog was sitting patiently, composed, as if waiting for something.  Cheryl stuck her fingers inside the fencing and the dog got up, came over, and licked them.  She then turned to me and in that tone of voice I have learned to obey, said, "This is the one."

Life, and the Guidance of Role Models

Dad

           

                                          Rick Jason as Lt. Hanley             Hugh Beaumont as Ward Cleaver

Copyright © 2019

By Ralph F. Couey

For most people, I think, the way in which life has worked out has had very little to do with how it was imagined when we were young.  The twists and turns endemic to this path we live has shown the tendency to turn plans on their collective ears, forcing us down unfamiliar paths.  

As a child, I imagined life would work out like it did for my role models.  My father, first and foremost in my personal pantheon of heroes, was a man of intelligence and great wisdom.  He was dignity personified and had embarked on a life of service and discipleship, most of which I became aware at his funeral when countless people told me of the impact he had on their lives.  It was like being introduced to someone new.  Like others of his generation, he knew the value of hard work and in the lingering shadows of the Great Depression, never took prosperity for granted.  I loved and respected him deeply, but despite his concern, support, and encouragement, I always felt that I never really measured up.

Being a child of the '60's, I spent a lot of time watching TV, from which I gained a certain make-believe perspective.  But there were role models there as well.  Ward Cleaver, father of the Beaver, so perfectly played by Hugh Beaumont was one of my favorites.  Through the lens of childhood, I saw a lot in him to be admired and respected.  It's no accident that my regard stemmed from the fact that he shared so many valuable attributes with my own father.  Calm and steady even in the fiercest storms, both of them possessed seemingly boundless courage and wisdom.  They always had the right answer to any question, the right solution to any problem.  True to the cultural norms of those halcyon days, they were in unquestioned command of their household realms.

Both Dad's, mine and the Beaver's, wore suits and worked in offices.  I knew what my Dad did, but the nature of Ward's profession will forever remain a mystery.  We would see him occasionally answering his office phone while sitting behind a desk mysteriously bereft of papers, folders, or in-and-out boxes.  The only observed accouterments being a phone and a pen-and-pencil set.  Whatever he was doing, he was nonetheless a man of authority.

Clearing the Clutter of My Random Thoughts

Waikiki on a Sunday night

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Normally my offerings here are of the single subject variety, but while I have a box full of random thoughts, none of them were really expandable into a single essay, So, I decided to offer a collection of some of those random thoughts.

Working nights is, for me anyway, a royal pain.  It impacts the rest of my life in so many negative ways that it's kind of sucked the fun out of what is a very interesting job.  I do have days off, but rotating to a day schedule in order to interact with the rest of the world is tough.  I get off Thursday morning and just stay up until sleep grabs me by the eyelids, usually by mid-evening.  Last week, I retired about 8:30 pm, and slept for an unbelievable thirteen hours, not even getting up once to attend to the urgings of my prostate.  But that much time spent horizontal left my back all stiffened up, and a week later, I'm still dealing with that pain. 

But one of the benefits is being exposed to life that exists during a time I would normally be in bed.  I wrote about this in the previous post, but I wanted to include the one thing positive I get out of being on this schedule.  

My commute used to take me along Interstate H-1 through downtown, almost to Kahala.  But the Hawai'i road crews have been working on some overpasses and that has created some annoying traffic.  So instead, I take Nimitz Highway along the harbor to where it joins Ala Moana Boulevard, and eventually becomes Kalakaua, the main street through Waikiki.  

The Realm of the Night

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

There are two worlds that exist.  One is well-known.  Daylight.  Everyone's up and at work.  Traffic is flowing and the stores are crowded.  The parking lots are full and the sidewalks and malls are full of people going about the business of their lives.  In season, kids are in school and twice a day the yellow buses roll delivering them to school and taking them home.  In the summer, the kids are in the streets, parks, playgrounds, or in front of a TV and gaming console, engaged in play in all it's myriad forms.  

Towards evening, the sun descends toward the horizon.  For a few brief moments, the sky is brilliantly colored by the hues of sunset.  The light fades and night descends.  Dinners are being eaten, by families at home or in restaurants between people doing business.  The lights come on in homes across the landscape.  It's homework time for the kids and TV time for the parents.  Later on, eyelids will grow heavy, eyes begin to get that dry, sandy feel that tells us it's time to go to bed.  Outside, there's still life going on.  In clubs, bars, and taverns across the city, the sounds of people having their version of fun spills out through the often-opened doors.  It's late now, time when yesterday becomes tomorrow.  The streets are emptied out and the denizens of the night now move in to take over the city.  The homeless take possession of closed and locked doorways and bus stop benches.  Police patrols are vigilant.  This is, after all, the time of day when most violent crime occurs.  Sailors all know that on the streets nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m.  Everyone still on the streets gets a hard look.  Alleyways are dark and full of the frightful unknowns of night.  For those who are temporary visitors to this alien world, they walk swiftly, taking more than an occasional look around and behind them.  Sometimes in some places, the night is disturbed by the sound of gunfire.  Those awakened lie still in bed, waiting for the inevitable rising wail of a police siren.

The moon rises, bathing the landscape with it's silvery glow.  The streets are quiet now, except in areas where the drug trade is plied.  There, the corners are occupied.  Business is being done, people using what they think of as the cloak of darkness to obtain their chemicals.  Just as commerce ran the streets in daylight, fear runs those same streets at night.

Faith and Going Beyond What We Know

To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary.

To one without faith, no explanation is possible.

--Thomas Aquinas

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

In the 1989 period action film, "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," the shared quest between the eponymous Jones and his father comes to a point of crisis.  Dr. Jones, Sr. (Sean Connery) has been shot by the villain and lays dying in the cave.  Indiana now has to complete three challenges in order to retrieve the Holy Grail, the sacred Cup of Christ and bring it back filled with the sacred water that will save his father's life.  The third challenge has stuck with me since the first time seeing the film.  The clue from the Grail Diary states, "Only in the leap from the lion's head will he prove his worth."  At that moment, Indiana finds himself standing on the edge of an apparent abyss staring at the other side.  Re-reading the clue, Jones then wills himself to believe that there will be a bridge when he takes that fateful step.  He raises his foot, steps forward...upon a rock span that to this moment remained invisible.  Making a long story short, he crosses the abyss, gets the cup and water and with it saves his father's life.

It's a marvelous moment that to an extent reveals the meaning and power of faith.  

We are a pragmatic people, driven by curiosity but demanding unchallengeable proof for everything we experience.  Faith is therefore difficult for us because at its roots, faith is the complete trust and confidence in the unprovable.  This is usually attached to matters of the spiritual, but even science engages in a form of faith.

Dark Matter is the term scientists have arrived at to explain the missing mass of the universe.  When all the galaxies and their constituent stars, planets, comets, asteroids, etc., etc., etc. were measured, it was concluded that there wasn't enough mass there to explain the amount of gravity that was present.  Dark Matter is invisible, undetectable by any sensor, technological or organic.  Therefore, it cannot be seen, felt, smelled, or measured.  The only proof of its existence is the effect it has on the objects around it.  

9/11: The Fading of Remembrance

The 9/11 Memorial in New York City

from CitysightsNY.com

"If we learn nothing else from this tragedy, 

we learn that life is short

and there is no time for hate."

--Sandy Dahl, wife of Flight 93 pilot Jason Dahl

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

It's hard to believe, isn't it?  Eighteen years have passed since the day that changed the world and defined the generation who lived that day.  Children born that year are out of high school and either on to college or starting that long, hard road we call adulthood.  But when that amount of time passes, even an event so life-altering as 9/11, memories begin to fade. We don't forget, mind you, but the years have taken the edge off those recollections.  

Every year, I ask myself how many people will have to be reminded when the anniversary day arrives.  Certainly, there are those whose personal or political agenda is perfectly at home with forgetting altogether.  But all you have to see is what happens in New York City when an airliner or other large jet makes a low pass over Manhattan.  In a word, people freak. In the Big Apple at least, 9/11 is still an open wound.

So many things changed, not the least was the feeling that because we were Americans, that nothing bad would happen to us.  Sure, we saw television news accounts of terrible terror attacks in far-off places such as Israel, Northern Ireland, Pakistan, and the Middle East.  We took comfort in the idea that we weren't a primary target, and that the mighty shield of law enforcement, the intelligence community, and the military would protect us.  That proved to be a delusion.  Since then, there have been attacks on our soil, but almost all by unaffiliated lone wolves, the psychopathically homicidal.  The terror groups are still out there, and they're certainly making efforts to hit us, but  haven't succeeded. Instead, the fear of Jihadist terror attacks has been largely replaced by mass shootings.  I am darkly amused by the statement always issued by law enforcement in the wake of these tragedies:  "Not terrorism related."  As if that somehow makes it better.  

The Power of Remembering

Copyright © 2019

By Ralph F. Couey

As the years pile up, our bodies begin to break down.  This is the inevitability of aging, the one thing we all laugh about to each other, but perhaps cry over to ourselves. Gradually, we are forced into giving up activities in surrender to our fading capabilities.  But for me, I can live with the physical degradation, to a point.  I had to give up softball because I just got too slow.  I had to give up my motorcycle because my reflexes were no longer quick enough to keep me safe. I had to give up running because my joints could no longer take the pounding.

But I have taken up other activities.  I'm still writing.  I'd taken up hiking several years ago, and as soon as I am completely over my surgery and pneumonia, I'll happily return to the trails.  I play ground golf, a local Hawai'i hybrid of golf, croquet, and frisbee.  While it's not the same as tearing around the bases with my hair on fire, it's way better than flopping on the couch in front of the TV.  I've gone back to work in a really interesting job in state government serving the public once again.  And I'm caring for my memory-impaired mother-in-law, which keeps me from drowning in my own occasional pocket of self-misery.

One of the saddest things is what happens between the ears.  The brain gets old and memories, once sharp and complete begin to take on a kind of hazy indistinct miasma from which accuracy gets harder to glean.  Of all the bad parts of aging, for me, this is the worse.

Mars...and Beyond

© NASA/JPL

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

"We want to know;

We want to know who we are 

and what we are capable of.

I want to know."

--Jeno Marz

Fifty years ago this week, an ugly, spindly craft landed on the moon, after just a bit of a detour.  Although practiced literally hundreds of times into an area memorized from images, it was discovered that no plan survives contact with reality.  Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin cooly and calmly glided the fragile craft past a boulder field to a much more inviting place.  With 22 seconds of descent fuel remaining, the craft settled onto an alien surface for the first time in human history.  A short time later, Armstrong descended the ladder, and after a short pause on the foot pad, made humanity's first footprint on the moon.  

Six more missions would be launched towards earth's satellite, five actually making the landing.  At the time, it seemed logical that we would take the next step and head for Mars.  But we knew so little about space and we naively assumed that going to the red planet was little different than the moon, just a longer trip.  Decades later, we know differently.  

Once outside the protective canopy of Earth's magnetic field, the craft and its occupants would be at the mercy of the radiation from our nearby sun, and those a lot further away.  Those rays if not blocked somehow would kill the crew, especially if the sun began erupting flares.  Also, they would be at the mercy of debris in space, ranging from continent-sized rocks down to things the size of a grain of sand which despite the size, could punch a crew-killing hole in the side of the craft.  Just getting there would be a dangerous challenge.  

Giving Our Best to America

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

It was a hot, muggy day in 1776. A group of 56 delegates had been meeting in Philadelphia for some time to debate whether 13 British colonies dared to tell their King that they were declaring themselves a separate nation.

This was no small decision.  Britain was a global power at the time, possessing the most powerful army and navy on the planet.  Those 56 committed patriots knew that once the text of this declaration crossed the Atlantic Ocean, retribution would be swift, sure, and merciless.  They also knew that as signatories to this revolutionary document that their lives would be held in forfeit by the King.  Despite this very real danger, they boldly closed the document with the strident words, "We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."  To the dream of Independence, they gave their best to America.

The war that followed was bloody, difficult, and expensive.  George Washington's army was at times shoe-less, starving, freezing, and defeated.  But somehow, despite those hardships, they persevered.  And with the help of the French, victory was achieved.  America had been declared a nation, and fulfilled itself on the battlefield.,  They gave their best to America.

The real work now began.  Through the process of vigorous and rancorous debate, the people's representatives undertook deciding what kind of country it would become.  Finally in 1789, the United States had it's constitution.  It has been endlessly pointed out that the men who did this were slave owners.  But the right to own slaves was not enshrined in those articles.  Nor would it be.  Ever.  They knew that this government, this experiment in representative federalism must be allowed to mature, to grow beyond itself to embrace new, even radical ideas.  This visionary wisdom, that American government would never be fully complete, has shaped us as a people.  In the face of bitter resistance, they gave their best to America.

The Bright Lights That Are Grandchildren

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Late on a Wednesday night, I pulled alongside the curb at Honolulu International Airport, just outside baggage claim 29.  The door opened, and like foam coming out of a shaken can of soda, three gleeful, lovely, and precious grandchildren flooded into the vehicle.  They all had stories to tell and the vehicle, just moments before completely silent, became filled with those happy voices. 

Oh, yeah...their mom came along as well.

A human's later years can be times of trial and regret.  But grandchildren rekindle the joy of life, and light the days with a gentle, warm light.  Being a grandparent is different.  We're not involved in the day-to-day challenges of rearing them, especially if they live far away, as all of ours do.  But being around them, we remember the very important role we do have.  We love them without limits, to be sure.  But we are also that ready ear to listen to them.  We remember how important a pair of arms are to the proper hug, and how important the words, "We're so proud of you" can light up their faces.  

It was bad timing for me, in a way.  Three weeks ago, I caught a cold which became the flu (first time in 17 years), and morphed into pneumonia.  For the first few days, I wore a surgical mask around them to they wouldn't catch the persistent and stubborn bug with which I was struggling.  They will be here for about a month and we had a long list of things we wanted to do with them.  I hated being sick, more than I ever have, not just because of the bug but also the accompanying waves of exhaustion that kept me horizontal for most of the time.  

But that illness is receding, I'm regaining my strength and energy, and am excited to make up for lost time.  

Parents, Kids, and That Priceless "Now"

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

A person's life can be said to be broken up into different segments, call them chapters, phases, or whatever your favorite partitional noun might be.  At its most basic, there is childhood and adulthood.  But it's really more complex.  There are many markers or signposts which mark significant moments of change for us.  While most are important, there really is nothing that alters one's life and the path through it like parenthood.

I can only speak to the male perspective on this, but I remember that first moment I held my infant son in my arms.  Inside, my heart and brain were ringing with the crashing realization that I was responsible for this tiny human being, and how he turned out was going to be either my triumph or my fault.  

It is simplistic to assume that while a baby requires a lot of work and close attention, and the need to hover over them lessens over time.  In truth, until they reach the age of mature, responsible adulthood, parents need to be fully involved.  It's not like changing diapers, per se, but it's no less taxing and difficult.  In particular, teens need to be closely looked after because the last thing in their brains that develops is that section that deals with consequence.  They all believe they're brilliant, and smarter than us, but you only have to look as far as the news to know how tragically flawed that line of thinking can be.

The Music of Ireland

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

It's tough to go anyplace in this world and not find at least one Irish pub.  And wherever there stands a pub, there will be a place where dedicated, talented musicians gather and joyously keep alive the traditional Irish music.

It may be a stretch, but it's hard to think of any other traditional form of national or cultural music that has found such wide embrasure.  Most people are familiar with the high-spirited quick-stepping music that boils out of the woodwork every year around St. Patrick's Day.  While many a glass of Jameson or Guinness has been hoisted to those tunes, very few of those celebrants are likely able to name any others beyond the well-known standards.

Traditional Irish music, however, is way more than just pub songs.  In many ways, it captures the spirit that has sustained the Emerald Isle.  Irish history is vastly complex, and defies simple analysis.  I won't attempt to recount it here, but suffice to say that it is very much a tangled web.  But the echoes of those events will be found in the music.  

There are different types of songs in the traditional book.  Jigs and reels, hornpipes, mazurkas, all of which with their own particular swing.  Most are instrumentals, but in a typical session there will be a few that will be sung.  The lyrics span the length and breadth of the Irish experience, not only in Ireland but also following those who emigrated elsewhere.  There are songs that were born in the rousing camaraderie of the pub, the at times glorious and stormy relationships between lad and lass.  But some of the most compelling came out of the Irish struggle for identity and independence.  There is s a common thread through those lyrics of a deep and abiding love for Ireland, not the political structures, but the land itself.  Even those songs about those emigrants reach back into the singer's memory of a beautiful green island that will always be home.

Its that common love that drives the sessions, experiencing the music and the emotions both good and bad.  Its looking around a room full of musicians passionate about keeping alive the music that defines what it means to be Irish.

Wherever you live, you can find a session, sometimes several every week.  And even if you don't go every time, you should at least go once.  Who knows?  You just might fall in love.

A Hopeful Future in Space

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

One of my first reliable memories is sitting near my mother on a beautiful day in May while we both listened to the reporting of Alan Shepard's suborbital flight.  Yes, on the radio.  I think it was pretty much that moment when the endless unknowns and adventures of space travel.  

From then until the last Apollo mission to the moon, I remained riveted.  Even after our manned missions outside of earth orbit ended, there were other missions to follow and marvel at.  Most vividly, the missions of the Voyager spacecraft as they swept through the solar system returning amazing heart-stopping images of distant planets and moons.  Both probes are beyond the immediate boundaries of the solar system, but still have to navigate the Kuiper Belt and the Oort Cloud before actually leaving their home star for good.

Exploration continues, albeit with robotic probes and not with humans.  We now know what Pluto looks like. We have close-up images of two Kuiper Belt objects, one of which I still think should have been entitled "BB-8."  Three dune buggies have been crawling along the surface of Mars, two of which have long outlasted their expected lives.  While these missions have been informative, even scintillating they will never fully replace the human explorer.

So, what lies next?  NASA is committed to establishing a permanent habitat on the moon, and is taking the long view towards eventually putting human boot prints on Mars.  But there could be other things to do as well.  

Sixty-Four: A Birthday Perspective

                                         Old                                                          New 

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

I turned 64 today, and while time makes such events inevitable, I still felt a mild degree of surprise.  It hasn't been that long ago that I considered people of that age impossibly ancient.  I never thought about what it would be like for me to reach this point.  In fact, less than 15 years ago, I truly thought I'd be gone by now.  For me now to admit, accept, and acknowledge that I am that old is a bit of a tough pill to swallow.  And I already swallow too many.

Physically, I doing better than I thought possible.  After eight years of dieting sandwiched between two surgeries, I am about 235 pounds lighter than I was back then.  Even with five stents in my heart, my cardiologist says my heart  is amazingly strong.  All those elements involved in blood tests are under control and within norms.  I still walk, now building my distance back to my pre-surgery daily regimen of six miles.  Arthritis hasn't manifested itself yet, and my hearing and sight are about normal for someone of my...ahem...age.  I worry about my memory and what I can do to retain the capability I have left.  Our marriage is strong, and we've been blessed with great kids and beautiful grandkids. My biggest problem right now is a closet full of pants that won't stay up anymore.

So, I have really very little to complain about.  But I carry a kind of sadness within, the source of which is a bit of a mystery.  I know I've been incredibly fortunate, and I need to be more grateful.

Last week, I began to get the inevitable inquiries concerning what I wanted for my birthday.  What should have  been an easy answer has led to some introspection.

Love and Mother's Day

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Strength and dignity are her clothing,

and she laughs at the time to come.

She opens her mouth with wisdom,

and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.

She looks well to the ways of her household

and does not eat the bread of idleness.

Her children rise up and call her blessed;

her husband also, and he praises her:

"Many women have done excellently,

but you surpass them all."

--Proverbs 31:25-29

Have we ever wondered a mother's silent cries?

Her struggles, her fears, her worries?

Have we ever thought of the sacrifices

she has done to make our lives happier,

and her dreams cut short

to make our dreams come true?

--Ama H. Vanniarachchy

As Mother's Day was approaching, I had time to speak with the moms that came through my check lane at Target.  I was amazed to hear of the number of them who had given birth either on Mother's Day or a few days either side.  I counted 26 of them over the three days prior to the holiday.  As we talked, they told me how special that day had been, the ultimate Mom's Day present.  But they also talked about how those birthdays began to overwhelm the holiday, and I could sense that they felt a little left out.  But they were all quick to add "But, that's okay.  It's a treat to see my kid having fun."

The life of a mother is one of endless sacrifice.  It is a tribute to their selfless natures, but also a reminder to the rest of us to look...really look at what they do day in and day out.  A mother's love is one of those rare and beautiful things that will always be there as sure as the sun shines in the morning and the stars glow at night.

It starts at the very beginning.  Most women will tell you that pregnancies do terrible things to their body.  Some will suffer ailments related to various vitamin and mineral deficiencies because their body's resources are being diverted to the tiny life they carry within.  Bones are rearranged, skin stretches, and they are remade.  Once the baby is born, the real sprint begins.  Most of the rest of us expect moms to be up and around after a few days and back to taking care of the rest of us.  I suspect there is a kind of guilt in the mom herself, knowing that even as she recovers, the house still needs to be cleaned, dinners still need to be made, other kids (and husbands) to care for, and then there's are the other jobs -- the paying ones.

Are You Ready?

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Spring and summer are often times when strong, even violent storms occur.  Such events are not unique to tornado alley or hurricane-prone areas, and it is prudent to make some preparations in advance.  Earthquakes, of course, don't require any season.  They just happen.

Basically, there are two scenarios.  One, if situations force people to flee their homes, such as floods or approaching hurricanes.  The other is if situations develop where people are going to be trapped or otherwise isolated for long periods of time due to disruptions of civil services.  Again, the aftermath of hurricanes and tornadoes, earthquakes, or if flooding isolates an area, effectively cutting people off from the outside world.  Regardless of where one lives, either scenario could occur.

Here in Hawai'i, the concerns center on hurricanes, earthquakes and tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions.  And the odd nuclear missile threat.  People are continuously advised to prepare, but because people are people, almost nobody heeds those advisories.  After perusing some of the excellent publications available through Civil Defense and Emergency Management, I thought a discussion on how to prepare might be appropriate.

Let's first think about a situation where you might have to flee your home on short notice, for a number of very excellent reasons.  There won't be enough time to put your "Go Bag" together, and you could find yourself leaving behind items vital to survival.  While the term Go Bag might connotate a backpack, you might also think about a medium-sized wheeled suitcase.  As to what goes inside, here is a list courtesy of any number of government agencies.

My Lap Band Life: Postop #3

Three Weeks and looking good.

Copyright ©2019

by Ralph F. Couey

That photo represents a kind of triumph.  I am wearing pants with a size 38 waist, something I haven't worn since I was 25.  Suffice to say, I am happy with my new profile, even happier that since the swelling hasn't gone down completely, I'll get even smaller.  So, adding it all together, since I started this journey in 2011, I've lost 214 pounds.

Every day I've seen marked improvement in the pain levels.  But as the numbing agents which were injected during surgery begin to finally wear off, I'm feeling some discomfort that is just enough to impair my concentration.  I have pain meds for that, but I'm only taking them when I absolutely need to.  I was a counter-drug analyst for seven years, so I am well-versed in the trap of addiction that opiates represent.  My activity levels have increased accordingly.  I'm now walking two miles per day, and will up that a bit in the coming week.  My new job involves a lot of sitting, and that makes the ab muscles stiffen up.  So, when I stand up, there is a moment of two of pain while things stabilize.  The more I move, the looser those muscles become, and hence the lower the pain levels.  

I had my third postop visit with the plastic surgeon and was told that everything is healing as it should.  The belly drain stayed in for an interminable 16 days, but was finally removed so I've been freed from the necessity of carrying the darn thing around my neck.

Sleep is still difficult, but not necessarily from the surgery.  I'm having to get up every hour or hour and a half to visit the restroom, which is odd because during the day I can go four to six hours between visits.  I have a call into my urologist to solve this particular mystery.

One of the interesting things is how low my appetite has been.  I eat very little, and that has helped my continued weight loss, which is now down to 204.  I am still drinking protein drinks to ensure I get my fill of that vital nutrient.  

Earning Wisdom

"If I had my life to live over again,

I would ask that not a thing be changed,

but that my eyes be opened wider."

--Jules Renard

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

I would wager that there's not a single one of us who hasn't indulged in asking the question, "What if could start life over again; what would I change?"

It's a self-directed inquiry rooted in that somewhat rueful life review where we remember the mistakes we made, the errors in judgement, and other slip ups that decorate our past.  We think that if we could go back in time and correct those missteps, then everything would be different, and better.  While there's some truth to that, we overlook the real value of those experiences.

There are two invaluable things we gain through life, education and experience.  Education is levied through formal education, but also through the far less formal classroom colloquially referred to as "The Street."  While it is important that we reach a certain point knowing how to do most math, identify proper sentence structure, and an appreciation for human history, it is where that structured information mixes with sometimes harsh reality where true understanding is reached.  

The context of human experience is vital in the appreciation of what we know.  One can read and study about poverty, but until you plant your footsteps in the soil of Africa, you will never appreciate what true poverty really is.  One can also read about hate, but until you are face-to-face with someone who is consumed to the point of violence by that hate, you will never understand the power of that emotion.  It is, as they say, the difference between knowledge and street smarts.

My Lap Band Life -- Final Step, Part 2

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Well, its done.  The surgery went well, especially the induction of anesthesia.  But what was supposed to take 3-4 hours actually took over seven.  The first thing I remember on waking up were the words, "It's 2 o'clock, and we took about 25 pounds off of you!"  

Afterwards, he showed us two medical buckets filled with the most disgusting parts of myself.  I can truthfully say I won't miss them in the least.  My chest has been altered, and I have a new belly button.  But that excess skin and residual weight which was so hard to get rid of is now gone.  When I look down, I not only see toes, but my ankles as well.

We left soon after, delaying only long enough to ensure my plumbing was functional.  He told me that the first three days would be difficult, and he wasn't kidding.  Thursday night, despite the hydrocodone, was a night of real pain. Once I made it into bed, I had to use the receptacle for urinating, mainly with Cheryl's game assistance.  I didn't sleep well, and was tired the next day.  But I made it to the post-op follow-up without too much difficulty, although I did request a wheelchair ride back down.  During the case, he put about 5 liters of fluid inside me which left my gut uncomfortably distended, but with the compression garments, it has been steadily leaking back out for which I am wearing two drains.  

My Lap Band LIfe: The Final step

Copyright 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

In January of 2011, I took a major step towards my chronic and dangerous weight problem.  I had a lap band put in, which basically wraps around the upper part of the stomach and greatly reduces the amount of food that can be taken in.  The results have been very satisfactory.  In the eight years since, I've dropped just under 200 (yes, that's right) pounds, my health has taken a complete one-eighty, and I can now look forward to a much longer and healthier life.  

Now I am ready to take the next and final step.  

That precipitous weight loss has left me with a lot of excess skin which now has become problematic with rashes and other skin problems, made more acute by life in the tropics.  So tomorrow at six a.m., that excess baggage will be removed.  It will be an extensive surgery, but routine for the Doctor I chose after exhaustive research.  Blue Cross Blue Shield, because this particular surgeon is not on their list, will not support this financially, so the total cost will be born by us.  The total cost for what I am having done is going to be around $17,000, which spread over a great 12 months no interest, gives us manageable payments of around $1,400 per month.  In addition to being the best available, this Doc was also the least expensive by ten to fifteen thousand dollars, which should have been good news to the bean counters at BCBS.

The Soldier, The Death, and What We All Lost

"Here in this beautiful place, lying in peaceful repose, 

are those who heard and answered the call of the nation

at a time when danger stalked us all.

Proudly, bravely, they went forward into battle

determined to protect those left behind.

For this, they paid the ultimate price.

Today, we stand before their graves

and if we listen closely, we can hear on the wind

the whisper of their last request:

"America, be worthy of our sacrifice.""

--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

It is a place that was created out of the unimaginable violence of a volcanic eruption a thousand centuries ago.  Now it is a place of memorial and remembrance, where some 30,000 of America's dead from four wars rest in peace.  In a city filled with tourist diversions, this place is almost hidden away behind the rugged walls of the ancient caldera.  

I came here on a beautiful sun-splashed day, the fresh breeze giving ripples of life to the flags.  Standing on the edge of the grass, I let the peace and solemnity of the place wash over me.  I began to walk, looking at the marker stones.  There I found America, in all her racial and cultural diversity.  The names reflected their heritage, German, English, French, Polish, Irish, Chinese, Samoan, Japanese, all were represented here.  The dates of their passing and the service and unit they belonged to were like a dictionary and atlas to the student of the wars we have fought in since 1941.  World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Kuwait, Desert Storm, Enduring Freedom, Iraqi Freedom, and the Global War on Terror.  I saw the names of men who died on that first day of war, December 7th, and those who died in Europe in early May, within days of that war's end.  It seemed such a tragic waste, but, I reminded myself, in war someone has to be the last one to die.

For a few hours, I strolled that green grass, reading names and dates.  I thought about the sacrifice these men had made, and what had come from that loss.  I knew that the freedoms we enjoy today are still present because of what these men and women had done to preserve them.  There were other places where husbands were interred alongside wives and children.  Entire families, together in life, now together for eternity.  And on white marble walls around the edge of the cemetery are etched the names of those who are still missing.  One name jumped out at me, 

Home...And Feeling Lost

Oshawa Real Estate

"Home is not a place.

It is a feeling."

--Cecilia Ahern

Home.

It is a place of refuge, where we feel safe.  We can close the door and the world, for all its cold cruelties and confusion, will remain on the other side.  It is a place of comfort and familiarity.  The furniture is something we chose and purchased, even the cushions over time have formed to our shapes.  Everywhere we look we see reminders of life's journey; pictures of family and places, all attached to a specific memory that flows warm and comforting like a wave across the warm sands of our mind.  The air itself has a specific smell, a combination of things like perfume and aftershave; pets and the accumulated odors of any number of cooked foods.  No place smells like this.  It is a place where we are free.  We can relax and be our true selves and not have to hoist the sometimes exhausting patina we hold up before others.  Here we can voice opinions we dare not share anyplace else.  Here, our thoughts range into the deep and profound liberated beyond any confining walls.  Here we can express boundless affection, and yes, deep anger.  It is a place where love lives and is shared, where memories are made and bonds strengthened.

And when we've been away, it is the place to which we return.

Vietnam: The Lie That Was Lived

Photo: AP/John Nance

One of my earliest reliable memories occurred during that very tense time that accompanied the Cuban Missile Crisis.  At the tender age of seven, I didn't fully understand all of what was going on, but I could hear the tense, almost funeral voices that issued from our television during the evening news.  I also remember that for three straight nights, we went to bed with both the radio and television left on.  In the days before the text push, this was the only way for the government to issue alerts to the citizenry.

We lived in a suburb of Kansas City, Missouri, a metro area ringed by Titan II and Minuteman ICBM missile silos which made the area one of the many prime targets for a potential Soviet first strike.  I knew about the dangers of the time because the government made sure I knew.  At least twice per week we had "duck n' cover" drills at school.  Our vice-principal would occasionally walk around with one of those old-fashioned flash guns.  He would stick it just inside the door, trigger the flash, and then time how long it took us to get under our desks.  The winning class got either an extra dessert at lunch or 15 extra minutes of recess.  Yay.  On top of that, a couple of times per month we would watch film strips or movies about what we were supposed to do if we heard the sirens or saw a big flash in the sky.  At home, the networks would regularly run public service programming telling us pretty much the same thing, along with how to establish an emergency kit.

Playing the Instrument of Peace

Salt and Light Catholic Media Foundation

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Lord make me an instrument of thy peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

--St. Francis of Assisi

It is not news that the world we live in has become consumed in conflict, both verbal and physical.  And as usual, there are innocent victims.  In this country, political passions are at a fever pitch.  Words of anger and condemnation, and threats of violence are being hurled from both sides.  The possibility of armed conflict has moved from the laughable to the possible.

The United States is no longer united, rent by a chasm that deepens and widens with each passing day, a wound that may never fully heal.

There was a time when a church was a place of refuge from the acidity outside, a true sanctuary of peace.  But now the passions of politics have invaded our churches. Words of anger and division are beginning to be heard from the pulpit.  Rather than rising above conflict, we are now mired deeply within it.

A Night, Cold and Cruel

Copyright 2019 Kansas City Star

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Text only

And then, it was over.  The season which had been so spectacular, so full of hope and promise ended as the Patriots running back tumbled into the end zone.  The atmosphere inside Arrowhead Stadium which had been painfully loud was suddenly vented into silence with the finality of a burst balloon.

We stood there, some 70,000 red-clad fans, shocked into disbelief.  In the sudden quiet we could clearly hear the Patriots players celebrating on the field, and their retinue of traveling fans whooping it up in the stands.  The realization sunk home.  Our team had lost yet another winnable playoff game.  The persistent cold, which our passion and excitement had held at bay for those many hours at last made itself felt.  Once again, the hearts of Chiefs fans lay in shattered pieces.