Backpacks Across the Ages.

 

In my youth I was impulsive, irresponsible, not very bright, some things haven’t changed much.

 

Working as a construction laborer allowed me to travel to different places. Never any place very interesting, at least not to somebody with my quirks and personality flaws. Everything had the unique color provided by the filter of my self-doubt. I couldn’t imagine a place where I could be happy. It just couldn’t exist. 

 

We were working in a town slightly less than a hundred miles from our home. I was almost broke, hungover, and out of pot. It was hot, and a thunderstorm with torrential rain late the night before had fueled an inhuman humidity and covered the job site with a thick layer of sticky mud. It would cling to your boots, work its way up your pants until you looked as though you were in a science fiction B movie from the 60s, “Attack of the Endless Mud.” By lunch I was miserable, so I quit.

 

I went back to the motel, showered, and packed my clothes in my shore bag, a heavy-duty canvas bag used in the army. It had a sturdy hasp for a lock and was almost indestructible. I bought if for a few dollars at an army surplus store. It had been with me a long time. I also had a small plastic trash bag with my muddy clothes from work that day. I didn’t want to put them in with all my other clothes, some clean, some dirty, but not dirty like that.

 On my way to the bus depot, I passed a small sporting goods store. They specialized in fishing gear, guns, clothing with a strong anti-Middle Eastern sentiment. It was during the Iranian hostage crisis and people were enraged by a sense of national impotence. I found a small orange backpack I could afford, stuck my trash bag of muddy clothes into it and left. 

 

It had been relatively cheap, but when I got to the bus stop, I found out it had taken enough money I couldn’t afford the fare. My plan was falling apart faster than it had hatched. 

 I had two choices, two reasonable choices, anyway, I could go back and ask for my job back, and face the humiliation that I deserved, or I could hitchhike. I grabbed a cold bottled drink and headed for the interstate.

 

It wasn’t long before a beat up, rusted red, pickup truck with dual tires in the back stopped and asked me where I was going. 

 

“North Platte.” 

 

“We’re going to Gothenburg. Want a lift?” 

 

Gothenburg was about 35 miles from where I wanted to go. It was a small town a couple of miles from the interstate. it seemed as if it might be hard to catch a ride there.

 

“Can you drop me in Lexington?” It was fifteen miles before Gothenburg, and the largest town between where I was and where I was going. Plus it was right on the freeway.

 

“Sure, you’ll have to ride in the back.” He nodded to the woman and child sitting next to him.

“That’s cool.” I rode in the back of a pickup with an overly friendly, panting, slobbering Labrador retriever named Oscar, we became good friends, and he sat on my legs for about twenty miles. Bits of straw floated through the air, and things seemed to be looking up. I was making progress.

 

He dropped me off, offered me a baggie of homemade cookies and left. I waved and thanked him.

I sat there for a couple of hours. Cars drove by kicking up little clouds of stinging dust and sand. The sun was a bright, merciless, an obscene ball of malignant energy, and the pavement of the ramp had little shimmering devils dancing in celebration. The sun pushed down, and the earth pushed back and my whole world was condensed into that little box, that space in time, and I was certain I was going to die setting on the shoulder of that endless road. 

I walked over to the truck stop and had a cup of coffee that tasted like it was leftover from breakfast and a donut that was probably from the Korean War. I bought a pack of cigarettes and went back to the highway. I still had almost twelve dollars and a small bag of cookies. I went and waited. In those days the worst part of hitchhiking was waiting, and I waited, melting in the sun, and filled with doubt and regret. 

 

A dented old Pontiac sedan pulled up. It was so faded it was hard to tell what color it was originally. It was now several shades of pale gray. I told him where I was going. 

"I'm only going to Brady, interested?" He said.

Everything seemed hopeless, and I was willing to do almost anything to get out of there. I thanked him and climbed him.

“Do you want a cigarette?” He asked, over the sounds coming from the Aerosmith eight track tape, the open windows, and the repetitive thunk-ka-chunk of the engine.

 

“No, thanks, I have some.”

 

“Can I have one?” He asked. It was odd, but it was cheap for 40 miles worth of gasoline and 40 minutes of Toys in the Attic.

 

We smoked without saying much. Then he reached over and opened the glove box and pulled out two joints. 

 

“Do you want to get high?”

 

“Sure,” we rolled up the windows and he turned on the air conditioning, more of a polite imagination tied to a button and sliding lever, than it actual refrigeration. It didn’t seem cold, but it seemed cool and after the day I had it was heaven, and blissfully quiet. 

 

He drove past Brady. 

 

“I think I’ll go to Maxwell, instead. Do you mind?”

 

I didn’t. It was only ten miles, and I could call somebody to come get me. If that didn’t work I could walk, I would be home before dark. 

 

He dropped me off, I had a cookie, picked up my bags and started walking into the small town. I was trying to decide who I should call. 

 

As I walked into the gas station parking lot, toward the pay phone, the Pontiac came back, honking and waving. 

 

“I can take you to North Platte. What I was going to do kind of fell through, and I’m in the clear.” 

 

“That would be nice.” We smoked a joint, ate the rest of my cookies and he dropped me off at the house of friend. I never saw him again, even though I will never forget the day, or that car, and even though I’m not an Aerosmith fan I smiled every time I heard that album.

 

My friend had just gotten some mushrooms and I spent two days in a hazy, gauzy, happy fog. There is no more efficient method of convincing yourself you did the right thing than a couple of days of low level hallucinations, cold beer and snack food, even when you know it was unfair to your employer, your coworkers and an act of short sighted stupidity. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my last.  

 

When it was over, I had to go get a job. I moved back in with my mother, one more thing I will apologize for if I am lucky enough to run into her in the hereafter. 

 

I kept that bag, the one that cost me a bus ticket. It became my travel bag, my bicycle bag, my walk to the grocery store and bring home some food bag. When I traveled I would buy a patch to commemorate. “Estes Park” “Memorial Stadium” “Worlds of Fun” and sew it in slow, painful, amateur stitches onto my backpack. I started buying patches of places I wanted to visit. I started adding concert patches, Frank Zappa, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, The Grateful Dead. It was getting to be quite a sight. 

 

I bought a patch while I was traveling through Garden City, and the counter person was impressed by the number of patches on my bag. 

 

“Sewed ‘em all on by hand.” I boasted.

 

“Oh, you don’t have to sew them on, they have an aggressive heat activated adhesive. You can just use a hot iron and they should last forever.” She explained, looking at me with skepticism over her glasses, I think she wondered 

 

There were a lot of memories fastened randomly to that bag. Then, one day, I went to look for it and I couldn’t find it. Nor could I find my shore bag. They are probably in a box, in the basement, behind or under something. C’est la vie, I guess. The end of an era.

 

My wife and I went to a county wide yard sale last summer. We didn’t find much, but there was an estate sale in an old, clean, well-maintained house. As we wandered through the rooms, we came across a shore bag, of the same type I had. It brought back many memories. It was a little frayed, and had a name stenciled in fading letters across the side. He was only asking five dollars. Pay the man. Surplus used to be cheap, but now it’s fashion. No well-dressed prepper, or paramilitary militiaman would be caught dead in civilian garb. 

 

 It sits atop my chest of drawers waiting for our next big trip. 

 

I was doom scrolling through my Facebook feed when I came across a website that would sell you a backpack complete with patches. You just pick the color and the patches and give them your credit card number, and they would send you a bag adorned with memories. Tempting, but not the same.

 

Over dinner I told my wife about the site, she asked where my bag was. 

 

“Who knows.” I was surprised when she told me how much she liked the looks of the bag, how she felt it was such an expression of who I was. It made me love her even more.

 

We went to see Dead and Company in Cincinnati. We walked through Shakedown Street, enjoying a cold beer, the sights and smells and sounds, I bought a couple of bandanas. We came across a stand with some boonie hats, beaded bracelets and stickers, pins, and an amazing assortment of patches. 

 

“You should buy some. Maybe you could start a new backpack. There is no surer way to find your old pack than to make a new one.” My wife told me, grabbing my elbow in that way she has of telling me she had made up her mind.

 

“That’s a great idea.” I was surprised at how pleased I was by the idea. I wasn’t surprised she had thought of it. That’s who she is, how she operates, her mind is always working, calculating, wheels turning. Once she has an idea, it’s locked in. She will track it down across the empty landscape of time. She is relentless.

 

I found three I really liked, snapped them up, and felt pretty good about myself, mostly about my wife, though. After all these years she still surprises me, always a little ambush, walking through a flea market, or a thrift store, supermarkets, bodegas, or garage sales. Seemingly out of the blue, she will access a memory, a dream, and the kaleidoscope begins.

 

In an odd turn of events, several weeks later, we ended up at a head shop in a small city in Southeastern Ohio. We didn’t know it was a head shop, we just saw a store with some colorful t-shirts, Baja jackets, walking sticks, posters and bumper stickers. On the shelf behind the counter was a Dia de los Muertos backpack. The bag had a “made in Nepal” tag and a small note thanking me. It had a black front and back panel with two maroon pockets, the larger pocket on the bottom had a calavera skull embroidered on the large pouch on the bottom. Wrapped around the sides was an orange, red, white and grey Dhaka patterned cloth. It was a little soft, and baggy, with an endearing fragility. It was perfect.

 

Its softness was a bonus. If it became frayed or worn, I would just add another patch. It could be a masterpiece. An evolving piece of art, a growing pattern of places and things. It made me think of the Cat Stevens song, Oh Very Young:

 

“And though your dreams may toss and turn you now
They will vanish away like your dads best jeans
Denim blue, faded up to the sky
And though you want them to last forever
You know they never will 
You know they never will
And the patches make the goodbye harder still”

 

It has plenty of room for all my essentials, and even a few extras. I don’t have many essentials. It is perfect for patches and pins, and personalization. It is the perfect thing for this point in my life. 

I’m coming to the end. The end of this marathon story, the end of my career as a paid employee (we are so close to retiring, but that’s another story), and eventually the end of my time “in this place of wrath and tears,” though I’m in no hurry for that. 

 

My first bag ended up being the balm I needed, then. I was confused, alone and searching for something solid, sturdy, a blank canvas for a life that needed to be filled in, defined. This bag is already colorful and garish, rounded and soft, it will need to be reinforced and require extra attention. It has a small, simple personality, a unique sense of identity. Kind of like the one I always wanted.

 

 

 

 

Oh No, Not Another Blog Post

Recently I fell into a slump. I'm not sure what happened. I didn't exercise enough, writing became a chore, life was odd. I don't really know why. Sure, I hurt my knee, technically, my knee hurt itself, the doctor said it was tendinitis, I think he just didn't want to say "you're getting old and you weigh too much."

Also, I have spent way too much time reading about the current administration, and the "reality television" approach to diplomacy. Honestly, I worry that we are only a few foolish miscalculations from the war to end all wars, the war to end all humanity. And, if anybody is liable to make a foolish miscalculation and stumble into a nuclear exchange Trump seems as likely as any, ever. I watched the way he acted with our "allies" and our "enemies" and it made me recoil in horror. Here is a man with the theatrical sense of a professional wrestler in charge of the nuclear weapons.

I'm not really sure how much control the president has over targeting decisions, very little, I hope, it is not too difficult to imagine our president wanting to bring "fire and fury" down upon Canada for their aggressive trade imbalance. After all, between my wife and I we have had at least three cars, American cars, mind you, Chevy, Chrysler, those kind of things, that were assembled in Canada. That takes a lot of damned gall. Further, on Sunday, my wife and I stopped at Tim Horton's (a notoriously Canadian company) and had breakfast, I feel like such a traitor.

Plus, one of the guys I work with quit and moved down south to start a small, organic farm, one of those field to table kind of things, and the decision was made not to replace him. Which does lead to additional work for those of us who didn't quit, the survivors. I don't blame the quitter, not too much anyway.

Here I am toiling away.

Truth be told, I have quit a lot of jobs, (I was an awful job hopper) and I would have probably quit this job a long time ago if my wife hadn't threaten to kill me in my sleep if she missed another vacation. Now, I am so old and feeble (see paragraph 1) that I am probably lucky to have a job at all. So, we are stuck with each other, me and the company for whom I work, until that golden age when my wife can retire with her civil servant pension and I become a kept man. What a lucky girl.

So, life has been hectic, and I am pretty sure the current administration is going to drive us over the edge in a foolish, suicidal act of ignorant nationalism (see WWII for example), but until then you are not going to get rid of me that easily. Yes, that's right, declining health, extra work, toil, labor and paranoia will not deter me, it will take the destruction of mankind to stop me from having my say.

Learning, living, loving and aging.

Occasionally I like to watch the IBM Watson commercial with Bob Dylan.It is easy to find on YouTube.

It reminds me of the power of language. Dylan is a master with words. His lyrics are so profound, have meant so much to so many. But, when it comes down to it, time passes and love fades. What else is there?

No matter what you write those themes are probably in there somewhere.  And really, those are all you need if you consider how much your life has changed since you first started paying attention, everything noteworthy can be summed up in those simple statements.

Time passes, and it goes fast, or it goes slow, sometimes it goes so slowly it doesn't seem to be passing at all. But, it does, and those times are a story all their own. Those times are often the best stories, the stories I look for.

"Some of these memories you can learn to live
with and some of them you can't"

And, love fades. There is nothing that burns so bright, so hot, as love. It has to fade or it would
consume you. Passion is replaced by fondness. Lusty, untrammeled obsession gives way to a comfortable need, that owes more to gentle caresses than anything carnal. And those are the stories I look for. The time tested attraction of people growing old together.

I look for hope and life, love and meaning in everything. Dylan taught me to do that. So, if you have a story tell it, and I will add it here. I think it will help people who need to know things change, but that is ok.

Dylan is a genius. His words have given hope, inspiration, pain to generations. I'm not sure he understands his importance in the world. And his overwhelming message, to me anyway is "the only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keeping on."

I stand with them.

Yesterday I made my annual trip to the Arnold Schwarzenegger Fitness Expo. A few steps with a destination. Most times I just walk, try to get some steps, if the walk sign is lit at the intersection, I walk, if not I change direction. Exercise using the laws of fluid motion, harder to hit a moving target. My latest Fit Bit will remind me. "Only 175 steps to go this hour." if it thinks you are not trying hard enough. So, I change direction and keep moving.

"Where did you go?" Someone will ask when I return from my lunch time walk.

"I went south for a while, then turned west, then headed north along Front street then kind of headed back, a little east, a little north and a bit of south mixed in." I try to remember all the directions but it never works very well. I'm not good with directions, I haven't even mastered the basics of left and right. I'm probably lucky to make it back to work.

But, sometimes I have a goal, and I can shuffle along with a purpose. And shuffle back, too.

The Arnold Fitness Expo brings in people from all over. Some to compete, some to exhibit, others to dream. It is always the dreamers that I enjoy.

The Family of Man

They come, thinking it is time to start getting fit. But, nobody, none of us, are ever sure how to get started. A whole convention center filled with displays, booths, competitions all built around the central goal of getting fit seems like a good place to start.

So they come, a pilgrimage from Tennessee, Virginia, Michigan, seeking guidance. And they carry out bags of stuff. Big, bulging bags of powders, and neoprene compression sleeves, and videos, and hope. Mostly hope.

Most of the people with the biggest bags look as though they need the most help. Aging, heavier, and probably under orders from a doctor to get in better shape. Hypertension, heart disease, diabetes, they hammer away at us with these terrors, and tell us we need to get in better shape, and then they schedule our next appointment. And we walk away, feeling fat, lazy, suicidal and lost.

I fight back by going to the gym three times a week, and chasing my steps limping through the streets and parks of Columbus with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Others seek the aid of the professionals. People bulging with muscles, who've made a life out of chiseling their body into a rippling monument to exertion.

I see people working toward that end at my gym. They have all of the protein and pills and wonder devices, but they also are screaming with exertion, and pushing themselves and each other without mercy. They work hard, harder than I would ever be willing to work. I salute them.

It is the dreamers and worried souls that draw me to the festival. A chance to see others who are a little worried, and trying to improve, who want to live better, feel better. Those are the competitors I want to watch, I want to win.

A new expert in town.

Every morning, on the morning news program we watch, they interview an "expert." Sometimes a doctor, nutritionist, or other clearly defined, documentable authority.  Once in a while the expert is a little more vague, and a little less clinical, maybe a "transportation specialist," from a local school district, or a "home improvement generalist" from a hardware store. People whose credentials might not prove to be so expensive, and time consuming to attain.

It has driven me, consumed me, I need to become an expert. But, at what? That is the question that has haunted me, woke me at night, consumed me. At what task can I be considered an expert?

Parenting is something that has taken a toll on me for the last twenty years. But, my wife does most of the heavy lifting when it comes to raising our children (thank God). I have really been more of a babysitter, a really fun babysitter to be sure, but not really an expert Father. Not even an expert babysitter. More of a sub-novice, who can warm pizza rolls and macaroni and cheese all while holding an Xbox controller, and getting beaten very soundly by both sons at whatever game we were playing, which eliminates expert gamer.

Then, in a flash of brilliance, in a blinding, white hot, fireball of advanced reasoning it hit me. I am going to become an expert on aging.

Everyday, I get a little older, or less young, if you prefer. And, I do it pretty well if you ask me. I can even do it while sleeping, or watching tv. In fact, I am an authority on getting older. And when interviewed on the Morning News I will help everybody get older, too.

"So, Tim, what advice do you have for people who might be thinking about getting older?"  They will ask.

"Bob, (you don't mind if I call you Bob, do you?) what I would tell them they should go ahead and get older, it is a great decision.  In fact, four out five dentists recommend that their patients get older, regularly."

"Well, Tim, my name is Mike, so I would prefer if you call me Mike. What steps should people follow if they want to get older?"

"Oh, sorry about that, Jeff, my mistake, If people are serious about aging, as I am, they should remember to breath, all the time. Well, maybe not when they are underwater, but most of the rest of the time. Of course, if you are really keen on getting older, Bill, you will try not to be underwater anymore than absolutely essential, possibly never."

"Well, Marcia, thanks for the wonderful insight, our viewers will be dying to live longer now that you have explained how."

"You are very welcome, Jill."

There is a lot more advice, so stay tuned to my new blog, Life Explained, explains aging.

Oh no, not another new blog.

I have another new blog (Thank you Jeremy Crow), Life Explained explains aging.  I am kind of good at this, I am even aging right now.  If you want to know how, go check it out.  And check out this video from one of my favorite new apps, Cam Animate.  It proves you are only as old as you feel, and I feel confused.

Newest news, from your trusted source for new news, maybe.

Most people who have been reading my blog for any length of time, if there are any people who fall in that category, (and if there are, thank you, you were always my favorites) understand that I have been trying to change my life.  I have been trying for several years with some success, and some failure.  Overall, though, it is starting to work.  Here is proof, sort of.  It is on the internet, so it has to be true, right?

Here is an article of mine that was published on Healthy Aging,  It is true, and probably contains no "enhancements" to make me sound better.  Though it was tempting to put something in there about super powers, which would make getting is shape even better.  But, I feel better now than I have in years.  If this would have been obvious I would have started years ago.

Read, enjoy, and say nice things about the author (me) to the editor (somebody else), you won't regret it, or I won't anyway.

It is time to accept reality, but only small bits.

It seems that some one has switched on the accelerator, and it has caused me to age at an abnormal rate.  Looking in the mirror this morning I couldn't help noticing the kindly old man watching me brush my teeth.  Poor, old gentleman, obviously lost, and now stuck in the mirror in the bathroom at our home.  I even asked my wife, "who is that old fool in our bathroom mirror?"  She sighed, and complimented me on such an accurate description.

It is very similar to "The Picture of Dorian Gray," except we are both aging, and quickly, too.  It has been said "the camera adds ten pounds," what is not so widely reported, though, is the fact that the mirror adds at least five, and possibly seven years.  One very important lesson here, don't take a picture of yourself in the mirror.  You won't like what you see.

Many aboriginal tribes feel that cameras will steal their soul, and having a photo taken is disrespectful the spiritual world.  Maybe the translation was imperfect, maybe what they were saying was something along the lines of "goodness, that photo makes me look awful, and is gradually eroding my will to live.  Thank the gods our culture has yet to discover the mirror."  You can see how that could easily be mistranslated, can't you?

But, except for a few aches and pains, and one terribly swollen, sore finger, that my doctor is going to fix right up today, and with luck it will be done lecture free,  I feel pretty good, and will be able to go on writing this blog indefinitely, (in the words of the great Bob Dylan "I got a head full of ideas that are driving me insane) as long as there no reflective surfaces around.

Another small victory for aging mice.

There is startling news from the world of science this week.  Hey, Brother can You Spare A Couple of Units of A Positive?  Three separate studies confirm that infusing elderly mice with the blood of younger, more vibrant, healthier mice have noticeable effects.  Among the many benefits were increased memory, strengthened and rejuvenated muscles, and an improved sense of smell, which may be a mixed blessing depending on the personal hygiene of the other mice in the area.  But, the implications are profound and exciting.

Scientists may be able to counteract some of the debilitating results of aging, including age dependent muscle deterioration, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, cancer, dementia, and other neurodegenerative disorders.  Of course, research is still in the early stages, but there is a lot of excitement.

Several well known doctors are taking notice of the potential benefits, and are expressing great interest in the process including Rudolph Tanzi, professor of neurology at Harvard, and Director of the Genetics and Aging Research at Massachusetts General Hospital, who is "kind of blown away, really."  Also, Countess Elizabeth Barthory "The Blood Countess" and Vlad of Walachia, "Vlad the Impaler," both of whom were quoted as saying "Wow, I was ahead of the curve on this one."

Buffy, and Van Helsing remain unconvinced, vowing to offer empirical evidence showing the best way to prevent aging is by dying, though they are not really talking about themselves, as they pat the pile of wooden stakes on the industrial, grey metal table.

One thing remains certain; in the battle against growing old scientists have made remarkable progress, but when I look in the mirror it is obvious they have a long way to go.

Reporting live from the heart of middle age, this is Tim for Life Explained.

Age, discovery, and what time is the next bingo tournament.

Recently, I have decided to join most of modern society in the present.  These things are more difficult for a man aging so gracelessly, and trying to act as though he were not clinging desperately to the last shreds of dignity.  You know, that is the worst part of getting older, the gradual failure of things, the slow, inexorable descent into decrepit, atrophied worthlessness.  I can live with the aches, and the grey, and the wrinkles, even facing my own mortality doesn't bother me that much, hey I had a good time.  I have a wife I adore, sons who are strong, fine young men, making me proud every day, and have lived longer than anyone would have expected given the excesses of my youth.  If people my age had one prayer for the rest of their life it would probably be something along the lines of "please God, don't make me rely on the kindness of strangers in my golden years."  That is not what we are here to talk about, though, (we will cover that more in depth in the coming blog post, "I have to do what?  I am going to get a new doctor!") we are here to discuss discovery.

I have discovered that the Columbus Metropolitan Library has an EBook program, and you can download a free reader for your iPad, and borrow "books" from the comfort of your home, or your office, or your warehouse, or where ever you have a decent WiFi connection.  And reading on a tablet is much more satisfying than I had imagined.

Further, I have discovered that iTunes Radio will find you some pretty cool stuff.  I based a station on Omar and the Howlers an electric Texas blues band with one of the coolest names I have ever heard, and while listening to that station I discovered "Mercury Blues" performed by David Lindley.  "Mercury Blues" was written in 1949, and is such a cool song that almost anybody who sings it sounds pretty darned good, and, a lot of people sang that song over the years.  But, I like the David Lindley version the best.

This song, by this guy is so cool 

I liked it so much I bought it.

My friend, John, who knows about these things, told me that David Lindley made his name playing inexpensive guitars, and absolutely shredding on them, 

It has been a week of learning, and discovery.  I am exhausted, and can't wait for the weekend.