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Aging Not So Gracefully

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Some years ago on a trip to the Big Bend of Texas with My Lovely Bride (MLB), we went for dinner at a very nice restaurant in Alpine.  On the way out, I was helping MLB down the slate stairs leading to the parking lot when she lost her balance and began falling backward.  Not one to let her crash and burn without me, I proceeded to lose my balance as well, after which we both went down for the count. Looking back, the whole process seemed to have taken place in slow motion as we … in unison … dropped to a sitting position on the top stair and then … still in synch … collapsed all the way back until we were, side by side, lying on our backs in the restaurant entryway. 

I recall this event for two reasons … first, I am confident that we would have scored higher in the Olympic Team Tumbling competition if not for the fact that the Russian judge only gave us a score of 4.5.

The second reason I remember this event so vividly is that I know we dodged a bullet.  Though we both wound up laughing while struggling to get back on our feet, if that same scenario were to play out today, I am certain that someone would be dialing 911, and long-term rehab would be taking over our calendar.

All this is the long way around of saying … well … I’m starting to feel my age more and more of late.  That is not to say that I plan to spend my remaining time sitting on the porch yelling at kids to “get the hell off my lawn,” but I have to admit that the days of hanging on the rim in a pickup basketball game are behind me.  On the plus side, I meet regularly with my doctors, I try to stick to a healthy diet, and I engage in moderate exercise on a daily basis.  All of this, I am told, goes in the “plus” column.

At the same time, I have come to understand that while careful management of the physical dimensions of aging is essential, equal attention must be paid to emotional equilibrium and stress management.  In that vein, a recent Wall Street Journal article recommends the creation of a personal “F___ it Bucket” into which we can toss upsetting information that we can’t change.  An excellent suggestion … in fact, I have already put a few things in my bucket:

Family Drama  This one is not talking to that one.  The other one is still angry about something said twenty-five years ago.  Some blow off family events because … well, who knows?  This sort of thing used to make me anxious … now it just makes me tired.

Politics  Among the most volatile of areas, it seems few actually focus on listening or being respectful of differing opinions.  I will always vote, of course, but discussion of political views is off the table.

Media  Much like the political arena, limiting exposure to news media of every stripe is essential.  We subscribe to a range of news sources and it always entertaining to note how different media outlets report and editorialize on exactly the same event.

Sports  A life-long sports fan, I no longer pay attention to who wins any athletic contest, or the opinion of overpaid pro (and college) players.  This is especially so when their outrageous salaries are measured against the vast numbers of people in need of assistance.

Needless to say, there is ample room remaining in my “Bucket” for additional items and I am confident that, as time goes on, other nuisance issues will be added.

While expounding on the travails of aging in the midst of the holiday season, I can’t help but think of the classic Christmas poem “The Night Before Christmas.”  In particular, I can identify … up to a point … with the fellow who hears a clatter outside and “springs from his bed” to see what is going on.  The difference between that mythical fellow and me is that, first, I would slowly sit up on the side of the bed.  Then, I would take a moment to collect my thoughts.  Next, I would stand up carefully and after slowly limping to the window I would open the sash and yell:

Get the hell off my lawn!

Have a Hippie Holiday!

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So, I’m sitting here trying to come up with some Christmas gift ideas for my bride, when my eyes fall upon an ad for something called “Instant Pot.” Whoa! Can this really be what the name suggests? Has some genius finally designed a system for creating weed without having to go through the whole planting, cultivating, and harvesting thing?

Alas, upon reading further, the full details of the “Instant Pot” became clear … it is nothing more than a kitchen appliance that can be used to cook a wide range of foods in a variety of ways. Sigh … well, I guess that is a pretty good idea as well.

In my defense, my initial thoughts about this product were likely driven by fond reminisces of my time working as a police officer at the 1969 Woodstock Festival, and the fact that we only recently celebrated the 50th Anniversary of that singular event.  But come to think of it, perhaps there is more to it than just that … maybe there is, as some have suggested, some sort of a magical connection between Hippies, marijuana and Christmas.

For example, what should we make of the fact that the words C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S and W-O-O-D-S-T-O-C-K have the same number of letters? Or that the names of S-A-I-N-T-N-I-C-K and W-A-V-Y-G-R-A-V-Y are identical in length? What about M-I-S-T-L-E-T-O-E and M-A-X-Y-A-S-G-U-R? Are these all mere coincidences? You be the judge.

There is even some speculation that Santa, himself, may be an occasional toker. Those who take that position cite, as evidence, several of his well known behaviors that are common to regular users of marijuana. For example:

Munchies It is a well known fact that smoking marijuana creates an appetite for copious amounts of tasty and binge-worthy food. Santa loves cookies … think of how many he eats in just one night!

Forgetfulness One notable side of effect of marijuana use is the way it is said to affect memory. Santa needs to keep a list for everything and, as we know, he has to check it twice. The guy can’t even remember who’s naughty and who’s nice!

Paranoia Like many marijuana users, Santa goes to great lengths to conceal his location and even his very existence!

Always Happy Stoners readily admit that, when high, it is difficult to suppress their giggles. Santa is always smiling, laughing and generally jolly. What does that tell you?

As we all cross our fingers wondering what we will find under the tree on Christmas morning, stoners can breathe easy. In North Pole, Alaska, a member of the city council by the name of Santa Claus (yes, his real name) took exception to a recent ordinance that prohibits a marijuana business in his city. He even went public with his objection noting: “Cannabis users will not be getting coal in their stockings unless they have done some other thing that might be considered egregious.”

Hippie Holidays!

Looking for Mr. Ames

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Working as a police officer in the early 1970’s in upstate New York, I can recall being dispatched in the middle of the night to a remote dirt road to look for an elderly woman reported wandering aimlessly in her nightclothes.  Having been sent there previously, I knew that it would be Mrs. Ames, and that she was, once again, out searching for her husband and her son … both of whom who had passed away years before. 

Given our scant knowledge of dementia at that time, it was our understanding that Mrs. Ames was “senile.”  That being so, I did what we always did … I picked her up, took her back to her home, and sought a family member to take her into their care.

Over the many years since my paltry efforts to help a disoriented woman to safety, I have come to understand that Mrs. Ames suffered from dementia … an umbrella term encompassing a broad range of brain conditions that cause a progressive decline in a person’s ability to think and remember.  What’s more, the loss of these abilities makes it increasingly difficult for people to function or care for themselves.

Today, dementia in its many forms is far better understood and, in the law enforcement community, comprehensive training is readily available for police agencies nationwide.  The International Association of Chiefs of Police, for example, provides model policies   and training curricula to prepare officers for encounters with citizens suffering from dementia, as well as checklists to follow in mounting a search for someone who may have wandered away and gone missing.

My wife, Bonnie, and I, are fortunate to reside in a community where a number of resources are available to those suffering from dementia and to their caregivers.  Just a few of the very supportive entities upon which one can call in our area include Dementia Friendly Fort Worth (dffw.org), the James L. West Center for Dementia Care (jameslwest.org), and Musical Memory Singers (musicalmemorysingers.org).  

Given the fact that one in three seniors dies with Alzheimer’s or another form of dementia, having access to support and guidance of this nature is invaluable.

As I look back some fifty years to that rural road and my interaction with Mrs. Ames (not her real name), several thoughts come to mind.  First, I hope that I treated her with dignity and compassion as I picked her up, took her back to her home, and reached out to family to care for her.  Second, I am comforted in the knowledge that first responders, today, are far better prepared than I was, to identify and assist individuals suffering with dementia.

Finally, I have boundless gratitude for the efforts of those working to find a cure for Alzheimer’s, as well as for the many groups and volunteers who provide support and guidance to individuals struggling with that awful disease, and to their caregivers.

Gail Weatherill has been a practicing RN for more than 40 years, and is a board-certified Alzheimer’s Educator.   Her poignant words are an inspiration to anyone touched by this awful disease:

Dementia care … it’s not rocket science, it’s heart science.

Telling The Good Guys From The Bad

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As a youngster, I would sit in front of our 12” black and white Zenith television watching the Lone Ranger perform heroic acts of derring-do to save another small town or damsel in distress in the West.  At the end of each of episode, I can recall various townspeople asking one another: “Who was that masked man?”

Today, news coverage of illegal aliens being taken into custody and carted away around the United States has me asking a similar question: “Who are those people in the masks?”  I assume they are Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officers, but since they wear no discernible uniform and cover their faces it is hard to say for certain.  Police officers generally wear blue uniforms … Border Patrol wear green … even the FBI will often don raid jackets when taking enforcement action … but who are these guys?

I doubt I am alone in wondering how I might react if accosted by a masked individual attired in randomly-assembled civilian clothes … should I obey their orders?  My instincts tell me to resist … should I?  If I were to comply, would I be putting myself at risk?  And more to the point, how, in this country, have societal norms disintegrated to the point where law-abiding citizens, like me, should have to weigh those sorts of questions?

As a retired police officer, I know that the important work being performed by ICE is complicated, difficult and dangerous, and I am steadfast in acknowledging the importance of officer safety.  In carrying out those duties, though, there is no rational reason for ICE officers to wear masks and, in fact, it could be argued that doing so makes their jobs even more hazardous.  In my view, when law enforcement officers conceal their identify while carrying out their lawful duties citizens and police, alike, are on perilous terrain.

Mike German, a former FBI agent and a fellow at the Brennan Center’s Liberty and National Security Program, puts it this way:

Masking symbolizes the drift of law enforcement away from democratic controls.  When it’s hard to tell who a masked individual is working for, it’s hard to accept that it is a legitimate use of authority.  

Driving Miss Bonnie

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As a young kid with a brand new drivers license, the exhilaration of driving a beat-up ’51 Plymouth station wagon with “3-on-the- tree” was, to me, like being behind the wheel of a Lamborghini.  Oh, the places I would go … as long as I was home by dark, of course, because the old jalopy, among its many other ailments, did not have working headlights.

Now that I am in my 80’s, driving remains among my most enjoyable activities … especially when my lovely bride, Bonnie, is performing her navigator duties from the passenger seat.  And while that 16-year-old kid rattling around our little village in upstate New York could only imagine exploring places unknown, we are actually able to do that … and, oh my goodness, we do!

Though we reside in a city whose population just passed one million, we are located on its western fringe.  This gives us convenient access to the vast rural areas that bring us such enjoyment.  Avoiding Interstate highways we, instead, traverse state, county and “Ranch to Market” roads that introduce us to locales and scenery we would otherwise miss.

It doesn’t matter, by the way, that we may have driven a particular route previously, the change of seasons always presents us with a different version of what we saw the last time we passed.  The Bluebonnets … the Indian Paint Brush … the Cactus Flowers.  In one neighborhood, there is a herd of deer that seems almost domesticated as they stand by the roadside and watch us pass.

To the best of my recollection, that ’51 Plymouth mentioned above had a scratchy AM radio glued to WABC (Cousin Brucie!).  Our current ride is much more comfortable, and the Sirius radio allows us to alternate between soft rock, 60’s Gold and Country.  But regardless of the background music and even the scenery, after 60 years of marriage, it doesn’t get much better … talking … holding hands … and just looking at the world around us.

Joey, Donny and Me

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So here we are, just three old codgers doddering along while trying to make it through the day.  There is, of course, a distinct difference between me and the other two … those guys are seeking the highest office in the land, while I am trying to remember where I parked my car.

As the debate rages over whether “old guys” should be able to run for President, I find myself in a unique position: the three of us are in the same age bracket … Biden is 81, Trump is 77 and I am 79.  That being the case, my advice … one “senior citizen” to another … is simply this: give it up!

Both of those guys are well past retirement age, and they may not be aware of all they are missing out on: … the senior coffee at McDonald’s … the “Early Bird” dinner specials at Denny’s … the right to wear black socks with Bermuda shorts.  Yes, were they to withdraw some of us might miss their constant barrage of garbled messages and malapropisms defying interpretation but I, for one, could cope.

Difficult though it may be to discuss, cognitive decline is a normal part of aging, and is most common in people over the age of 70.  That said, as we go about deciding who we should choose to lead our nation in dangerous and tumultuous times, it is foolhardy to base that choice upon which 80-year-old we believe to be the most competent.

Personally, I think I still, for the most part “have it together” … but earlier this evening I found myself, once again, trying to figure out which of the three remotes will actually allow me to record one TV program while watching a different one.  I shudder at the possibility of a similar level of confusion and dissonance affecting the decision-making of the person charged with managing the nuclear launch codes.

Yes, I know this last is an “over the top” comparison, for the President would always have advisors and senior staff on hand to help manage decision-making in a critical incident.  But thinking back to January 6, 2021, I recall there being a goodly number of high-ranking government officials in attendance at the United States Capitol that day, and we know how that turned out.

It is hard to imagine a job imbued with more physical and mental pressure than that of President.  That said, one wonders at the lack of an upper age limit for those seeking that position.  In other high stress/responsibility professions, workers must retire before any decline in mental or physical capacity might endanger others.  Examples include airline pilots, air traffic controllers, police officers, fire fighters, and members of the military.  In addition, a number of states have retirement thresholds for judges. 

While the issue of possible mental decline in our octogenarian Presidential candidates seems to leave voters with a Hobson’s Choice, psychologists analyzing data collected over a number of years have some good news for us … they have found that a person’s character tends to remain stable over time.  This, for me, is very good and comforting news.

And it makes the choice on election day much easier.

Unbelievable … Just … Unbelievable

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You really can’t make this stuff up.

As anyone who follows the news in the DFW area knows, for the past several months, Bishop Michael Olson of the Diocese of Fort Worth, has been involved in a very public conflict with Reverend Teresa Gerlach, Mother Superior of a group of cloistered Carmelite nuns in Arlington, Texas.  And for a production with a fully Catholic cast, the details (as we know them) are, well, pretty salacious.  For example:

… Bishop Olson says Gerlach violated her vow of chastity with a priest from a different Diocese, asserting that she admitted the behavior.

… Mother Superior Gerlach denies the accusations, saying that when interviewed, she was under the effects of anesthesia from surgery.

… Olson ordered that daily Mass and Confessions for the cloistered nuns be suspended.

… Gerlach, who is disabled, accused the Bishop of seizing all her electronic devices which she uses to communicate.

… The Diocese released photos of what is described as a collection of various drugs, including marijuana,  at the Carmelite monastery.

… The Mother Superior maintains that those photographs were staged by Diocesan staff. 

Whew!  If Grace Metalious were still with us and contemplating a sequel to “Peyton Place,” this debacle would seem worthy of a chapter!

But, wait a minute!  Though the name of Mother Superior Gerlach has been widely circulated in the media (and on the Diocese’s web page), the name of the priest allegedly involved in this event remains unknown.  How can that be?

Admittedly, we do not know the intimate details of the allegation but it would seem that, if true, that priest would have violated his promise of celibacy.  And yet he remains anonymous, refusing to confirm or deny that any inappropriate behavior occurred.  

Sadly, the Catholic Church has a long and sordid history of concealing the identities of predator priests and then transferring them, but this current outrage takes things to a different place.  Frankly stated, if the accused in this matter was a priest instead of a nun, it would come as no surprise to learn that the entire sorry event – like so many past cases of sexual misconduct – had been quietly swept under the carpet. 

One thing we know for certain is that when it comes to matters of the flesh, the Catholic Church will get it wrong every time.

And So It Continues

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Basic theological differences aside, turns out that the Catholic Church and the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) have a lot in common.

When the long-awaited investigative report on clergy sexual abuse within the SBC was released in May, 2022, it included a previously secret list of more than 700 immoral, unprincipled and compromised pastors and other church-affiliated personnel. Prepared by the independent investigative group Guidepost Solutions, this document revealed that for more than ten years, SBC leaders had maintained a private list of abusive ministers, while failing to ensure that those same accused ministers were no longer in positions of power at SBC churches.

A close reading of this explosive-yet-very-sad report makes clear that the SBC has joined the Catholic Church as an indelibly stained enterprise, each with lengthy and well-documented histories of countenancing and protecting sexual predators masquerading as clergy in their midst. In short, both of these groups failed, miserably, with regard to what should have been one of their core responsibilities … the protection of our young and most vulnerable.

The Catholic Church, in particular, has a long and sordid record of working to keep the lid on their clergy abuse scandal by transferring problem priests from parish to parish. In other words, church leaders were more concerned with keeping things quiet than with bringing this outrage to an end, and so it continued for decades.

One particularly outrageous example of failure in the Archdiocese of New York is that of former priest Gennaro “Father Jerry” Gentile. Before being outed in the New York media in 2002, with the headline “Twisted Journey of a Problem Priest,” Gentile had, for years, raised suspicions among fellow clergy about his interactions with young men and boys … but nothing was ever done. He was laicized in 2005. And though he may have been the worst, Gentile was but one of many clerics who, when accused of scandalous behavior, were moved to other unsuspecting communities. And while the Archdiocese ultimately paid $60 million in damages to those victimized, it could never recover the trust of the multitude of families and individuals affected, forever, by the actions of these evil men.

Writing in the blog Patheos, John Beckett observes:

Never forget that values are more important than the institution. This is the most disappointing thing about both the Roman Catholic and Southern Baptist scandals: people in positions of responsibility put protecting the reputation of their church ahead of caring for victims and stopping predators.

And in the end, they did even more damage to the reputation of their church. Now both denominations are known not just as a place where bad things happened, but where supposedly spiritual leaders covered them up.

To that I can only add:

Amen

RIP, Michael Lang

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In the satirical Netflix production titled “Death to 2021,” we meet a young and wildly enthusiastic participant in the January 6, assault on the US Capitol.  Some months later (and after her arrest), this now much-subdued woman is interviewed in her home where she must remain while awaiting trial.  Pointing, with some embarrassment, to her ankle monitor, she observes whimsically: “This was my Woodstock.”  She then admits quietly: “Of course, I don’t really know what a ‘Woodstock’ is.”

No argument here… she is clueless about Woodstock.

This snippet of televised dialogue came to mind when I learned that Michael Lang passed away on January 8, 2022.  The most visible face of the team responsible for mounting the Woodstock Music and Arts Fair held August 15-17, 1969, in Bethel, New York, Lang expressed his vision for this remarkable cultural event in an interview with Chronogram, on August 1, 2019:

“I just thought about how nice it was for someone to be sitting out under the stars in the summer, smoking a joint, and listening to music. I thought, ‘I wonder if something like this but bigger could work here.’”  

And the rest, as they say, is history.

This is not to suggest that Woodstock was devoid of controversy.  As a matter of fact, with protests against the Viet Nam war rocking the country, many of the musicians who performed espoused distinctly anti-government points of view … Jimmy Hendrix … Jefferson Airplane … Joan Baez … Richie Havens.  And, of course, Country Joe McDonald’s performance of his classic “I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die” rag left no doubt about his position on the war.

But despite the uproar elsewhere, there was something almost magical about Woodstock that distinguished it from similar gatherings during that era and since.  As an aside, could it possibly have had something to do with the whole “smoking a joint” thing mentioned by Michael?  Thinking back to the thick marijuana haze enveloping Yasgur’s Farm over those three days in August, 1969, there may be something to that theory.

Reading Michael’s obituary reminded me of something else: he and I were the same age … we were both 24 years old during the Woodstock event.  And though (as far as I know) we never crossed paths, we both had “boots on the ground” at the same time during that affair.

Clearly, our roles were different: he was one of the impresarios running the whole enterprise, while I was a mere Dutchess County Deputy Sheriff sent to assist with managing the crowd and all that went along with that.  And while I cannot speak to Michael’s views after everything was over, I know that the time I spent at Woodstock – and the lessons I learned there – served me well over the course of what became a forty year career in law enforcement.

The fact that I was assigned to work at Woodstock as a police officer was pure serendipity, but it was an experience that I cherish. And, yes, nostalgia has a way of smoothing off the rough edges, so I am not surprised that those incredibly long hours, sodden fields, gridlocked roads and throngs of people seem less overwhelming today than they did in 1969.  Instead, my mind is drawn to more pleasant memories and, most especially, of the youngsters in attendance … smiling faces …  acts of kindness … expressions of appreciation … and the sense that we were involved in something bigger than all of us. 

You left us with vivid and important memories, Michael, for as Irving Berlin wrote: 

 The song is ended but the melody lingers on.

Hypocrisy Personified

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When you have a moment,  look up the definition of the word hypocrite.  When you find it, do not be surprised to see, next to it, a picture of James Jackson.  For those unfamiliar with the goings-on in the Diocese of Providence, Rhode Island, Jackson is the now-suspended pastor of St. Mary’s Church who was arrested recently for a range of criminal offenses related to the possession and distribution of child pornography.

While despicable beyond words, what makes Jackson’s case even more breathtaking is his penchant for writing columns decrying sex abuse scandals perpetrated by “psychosexually dysfunctional” priests, and then publishing those works in the weekly bulletin at his church.  He even wrote about former Cardinal Timothy McCarrick, describing him as a “creep” who, while engaging in public good works, simultaneously led a sinful private life.

As it turns out, Jackson knows more than a little about that sort of thing.

Needless to say, every person facing criminal charges deserves the presumption of innocence.  Jackson’s defense attorney, though, has his work cut out for him.  First, a police task force Identified the IP address of a computer at St. Mary’s rectory as being actively engaged in viewing and sharing videos consistent with the sexual abuse of children.  Second, a search warrant at that rectory found a two-terabyte external storage device containing multiple videos of young children engaged in various sexual acts.  That device belonged to Jackson.

To assist with his legal bills, a group of parishioners set up a web site to collect funds and share their views about Jackson’s situation.  Many posts on that site are disheartening, as they suggest some sort of plot to discredit Jackson,  going on to describe him as a someone they trust unreservedly.  One hopes these assessments are accurate, for that is what countless other Catholic families said about their own parish priests only to learn, far too late, that they were sexual predators.  In case after case, those awful men ingratiated themselves into families while, at the same time, sexually abusing the children of those who trusted them.  Who, after all, would ever think that a Catholic Priest would commit such evil acts.

For our purposes, hypocrisy is defined as the practice of engaging in the same behavior or activity for which one criticizes another, or the practice of claiming to have moral standards or beliefs to which one’s own behavior does not conform.  By extension, then, a hypocrite is someone who practices hypocrisy.

In addition to being a disgraced Catholic Priest criminally charged with moral turpitude, James Jackson is, by definition, a hypocrite.