THE VOICE….I Can’t Hear You!!!

For any soldier who put on government issue white boxer shorts or had his head shaved to the skin in the first few days of Basic Training, these words are forever etched in your mind…

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, TRAINEE!”

Whether inches from your face or in front of the assembled company, be it a Drill Sergeant or Officer, regardless if we were already at the high end of a decibel scale, our replies were never loud enough, hence…

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, TRAINEE!”

Why? Harassment? No, the military trains young men and women to be soldiers, and soldiers need to respond with certainty, confidence and INTENT.

Following months of training, we became soldiers, found our voices and took on our missions with INTENT

Fast forward decades later, and the drill sergeant has been replaced with a speech pathologist who sends the same message but with a softer tone…

“I can’t hear you, Steve.”

I have Parkinson’s Disease and one mark of many Parkinson’s patients is a softening of the voice associated with an expressionless face. Thankfully, there’s help, speech therapy.

I suspected there was an issue with my voice and it festered until I found the right people to help me. After a month of therapy sessions, I’m happy to report that I’m on the right track to returning my voice to appropriate audible levels. I understand the importance of ‘speaking with INTENT’ and, if I waiver, I have a ‘toolbox’ to correct myself.

Just as I exercised my body in Basic Training to build strength and endurance, now I’m exercising my voice box to strengthen my speech. Instead of daily runs, countless push-ups, jumping jacks and the rest of the army’s ‘daily dozen’, I’m exercising my voice with ‘speak out exercises’ and reaching decibel levels that heretofore were routine and automatic

It’s challenging

And, like the physical military exercise, if I don’t make my vocal exercises a regular routine, the voice will soften, again. The program is ‘SPEAK OUT, Speaking With Intent’ and the local effort is part of a nationwide practice to teach Parkinson patients how to fight back.

The challenge is to be aware of my speech and apply vocal exercises on a daily basis to improve and maintain voice quality.

Parkinson is a slowly progressive neurological disease that afflicts each patient differently. It can impact speech, motor skills and memory over time. Other than a pill, a recommended course of action is to ‘fight back’ with rigorous physical exercise for the body and voice.

Big movements! Big voices! Big rewards!

And there’s no need to yell, “YES, DRILL SERGEANT”, a simple “thank you, Jaime and Heather” will suffice.

Steve

080124

To my two speech pathologists, Heather and Jaime (URMC), who guided me without intimidation, just INTENT.

To Box Is To Dance

Slip right-Slip left… Jab-Cross

Slow-Slow… Quick-Quick (Foxtrot)

Can you sense it?

Duck right… Cross-Jab

Duck left… Jab-Cross

Slow, Quick-Quick

Slow, Quick-Quick (Waltz)

Do you feel it, the rhythm, the flow, the choreography?

Yes, it’s there, the melding of two precision athletic disciplines, boxing and dancing.

Jackie Chan, martial arts actor, cites iconic dancers, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, in an interview for Kung Fu Magazine, as two of the primary influences on his fight choreography. * Now, Chan was not a boxer but the correlation is the same. (* mentalfloss.com, Anna Green, 5/10/2017)

World heavyweight boxing champion Muhammad Ali once quipped that he “floats like a butterfly..,”. The same can be said for dance, good dancers glide on their feet, on their toes, flowing through moves, ‘like a butterfly’.

A boxing match might look like a wild affair with fast flying fists, but, like dancers, boxers use all their upper and lower body, arms and legs, in well disciplined moves, changing positions, moving their opponent (partner) while repositioning themself, back and forth, left and right, preparing for the next move, a punch combination, or for a dancer, a twinkle or turn.

Like a dancer’s steps that move to a count, the boxer’s punches have numbers, one thru six, and names to match. Watching a match with an understanding of the names, one can easily see the choreography of the punches, the combinations, the head fakes, the ‘dance’, regardless the speed.

Boxing has its ring, dancing, a floor, the arenas where boxers and dancers ply their craft with music to stimulate the action and accompany the performer.

I’ve danced socially for enough years to appreciate the athleticism of the art of dancing. an activity that is cognitively and physically challenging. The same for boxing. Both keep you thinking and moving continuously with varying changes in tempos.

My dancing was undertaken for fun and exercise, the boxing I do now is to stay fit, strong, alert, have fun, a prescription for better health.

The medical community looks approvingly on boxing as one component in a toolbox of physical activities to fend off the travails of certain ailments.

“Boxing’s varied and high-intensity workouts offer a blend of strength and cardiovascular conditioning that improves agility, coordination and balance, and which may be especially beneficial for people with neurological disorders such as Parkinson’s disease.” (NY Times, 5/23/22, Rachel Fairbank)

My punching is improving as I learn new combinations, but my footwork is sloppy. I’m not at the butterfly stage…yet.

Steve (050124)

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Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes…

Knee’s & toes, knees & toes…

Remember this old rhyme recited with your young children, or with your parents when you were a youngster? As it was recited, you would touch the mentioned body parts, joyfully reaching, bending and touching with each mention of a part from top to bottom, or head to toes, as it were. What a fun teaching moment and exercise activity.

Try that now, but be careful. You’re not a kid, anymore.

Try gracefully moving those once supple muscles that flowed like melting butter and joints that moved like a well oiled hinge. Not as easy, now, is it.

With a good effort, I find that I can still do it, bend and reach, but at a slower pace, at least initially, and with a slight hesitation, trying my best to remember where those parts are (ala ‘The Macarena dance). Yes, the rhythm and pace is entirely different today.

However, I still try because moving is important. And, with a slight modification, I think I’ve created a new version, one meant strictly for us Seniors which I call the ‘pain game’. Touch the spots where it hurts…

“Head, neck, shoulders and elbows… shoulders and elbows…. Head, neck, shoulders and elbows…. Wrist and fingers, too!”

That’s just the upper torso. A second verse covers hips, knees and feet.

Get the picture? Remember, it’s for fun and exercise, even if it hurts a little…and it will.

While this is all in jest, it does point out a message for those of us of a certain ilk, ‘senior citizens’, it’s important to keep moving.

At my local health club, I see Seniors in the pool, on the equipment, in classes, moving. Not as fast nor as smoothly as the younger patrons, or our younger selves, but still moving.

Every seat in the chair exercise classe is filled with Seniors moving, stretching, bending, reaching, pushing themselves to get and stay fit. It’s admirable.

Today, I heard an interview with a world class athlete, Colin O’Brady. He’s climbed all the highest peaks in the world and in each U.S. state in record time and is the first person to traverse Antarctica by foot, alone, pulling a 300 pound supply sled. His excellent book,, ‘The Impossible First’, describes this venture.

Colin’s newest project is to get people moving, alone with only your thoughts, unencumbered by cell phones, at your pace, resting when necessary, for 12 hours. His new book, The ‘12 Hour Walk’ gives you the motivation to take the challenge. I’m thinking about doing it. Only thinking, now, but with each chapter I read, the more appealing it sounds. It’ll certainly keep me moving for awhile, at least 12 hours, just me and my thoughts.

Not sure that I have 12 hours of thoughts.

“PLAY BALL!”

Pitcher, outfielder,Dad/coach/umpire, first baseman

It wasn’t a call that reverberated over the fences and throughout the neighborhood. No, it was more of a professorial urging by the umpire, “play ball”, and we did.

Today was the official opening of the new ball field, a garden like area nestled among stately homes, comfortably laid out in the family’s new backyard, with floral baselines, an ornamental outfield tree and even a mini brick wall, Wrigleyesque. For lack of a formal name, I’ll refer to it as Claybourne Field, or “the field” for short.

Such a difference from the ‘old field’, a simple front yard lawn on a busy avenue, a family lab of sorts, where a father and his two young sons bonded forever thru America’s pastime, baseball. A place where the boys learned to hit, run and throw and their dad/coach/umpire honed his parenting skills. *

Every new ballpark has some semblance of a pregame ceremony. Today was no different and I was truly honored to throw out the first pitch, three exactly, one to each boy and their dad. My own solo practice sessions leading up to the big day rewarded me with three perfect pitches, fastballs right down the middle.

Following the pregame festivities, it was time to start the first game on ‘the field’’. I played the pitcher position for both teams, guaranteeing me to be both the winning and losing pitcher, probably a first in baseball annals.

For two innings, I kept the offenses guessing with my repertoire of ‘stuff’: fastball, curve, knuckler, change up and even a hit batsman to keep the hitters honest and away from the plate. Oh, they hit me, alright, and even scored a few runs but the game was low scoring until the third and final inning when the floodgates opened.

The hitters, kids and dad, finally figured me out and sprayed hits all over the field. The tall, lanky first baseman sent shots whizzing by my ear. The small, spunky outfielder swung for the fences on every pitch, pointing where the ball was going each time. Such swagger! Such chutzpah, even. **

Not to be outdone, the dad/coach/umpire peppered the outfield wall and trees, often sending the spheroid out of sight with his brute strength, building a big lead. Not even my high leg kick delivery slowed the onslaught.

The third and final inning saw a valiant comeback effort by the boys stopped in its tracks when the dad snagged a wicked line drive for the final out and a 16-10 winning score.

Thanks for inviting me to join your game and be a young man, again, boys. It was fun to be part of your story and write about it. The autographed ball has a special place on my shelf and in my heart.

This is the third story chronicling my former neighbor and two sons and their love of baseball. See the links below for the first two.

Steve (062623)

* https://srbottch.com/2023/03/18/they-closed-the-old-ballpark-today/

** https://srbottch.com/2021/10/02/the-kid-he-called-it/

Find my stories at ‘srbottch.com’)

They Closed The Old ‘Ballpark’, Today…

The ‘boys’ came to play…

…but this time would be different.

Today would be their last game at the old ‘ballpark’, the grand finale, the wrap up, the capper. It’s time to move on to a bigger ‘ballpark’.

A bit melancholic, maybe, but Life is like that. Today’s celebration becomes tomorrow’s remembrance.

It didn’t matter that snow covered the field for this final game, it had to be played. They were paying homage to the field, itself, a patch of lawn where two young boys learned the finer points of baseball from their coach, a devoted dad who used the sport to teach his sons lessons about growing up, getting along and having fun.

Over summers, I spectated from the third base side, separated from the action by the street that divided our neighborhood, west and east, witnessing the growth of the ‘team’ from young boys first learning how to swing a bat to baseball fanatics becoming ‘sluggers at the plate’, albeit still youngsters.

Some epic games were played here, high scoring events, very high, as the ‘ballpark’ was in constant use during summer months. The whack of the bat on ball, plastic on plastic, closely followed by cheerful shouting as young hitters outraced the nimble fielder, their dad, for an extra base, or two, often winning with a tumbling slide.

It’s a bit sad when the last out of the last game is made. Players collect the bat, ball and bases, the gates are shuttered and the curtain comes down on the old ‘ballpark’. It’s time to move on. It’s the same with families.

Our young neighbors and the ‘team’ are doing just that, moving on. We’ve enjoyed their friendship for 10 years and wish them well, knowing they’ll do fine. They have strong values of faith and love for one another.

As for the ‘team’, when it was all said and done, they moved on, hand in hand, likely learning more lessons from their ‘coach’.

The new field will be nice but the memories of the old field, their first ‘ballpark’, will stay with them forever. Life is like that…

Steve (031823)

For Jonathan, Eva, Noah & Jacob

Winter Scarves: A Love Story

Scarf

So warm, this knitted scarf: a treasure beyond worth, that hides within each woven stitch her heart.*

Winter winds blow cold in western New York, especially along the icy shores of the easternmost Great Lake, Ontario. And, while the calendar tells us the dates for ‘old man winter’, Mother Nature determines when it really begins and ends. In these parts, that can be anytime from November thru March, five long months, not three.

Even April has been known to harbor cold winds and wet snows.

Combating those elements and keeping the chill at bay becomes a daunting seasonal challenge. This winter I’m meeting that challenge head on, or should I say, ‘neck and shoulder’ on, with some degree of success. How?

SCARVES!

Not just any scarf, mind you, but homemade scarves, in a variety of colors, sizes and designs, patterns, as they’re called.

Scarves long enough to cross in front and drape down, keeping my torso warm, or scarves to wrap thickly around my neck as an even stronger barrier against the weather. Scarves that are a bit wide and can be converted to a shawl, a ‘man shawl’.

And it goes without saying that while these scarves are functional, keeping the elements out and the warmth in, they are a fashion statement, as well, not that I’m concerned about looks. But who doesn’t mind occasional flattery, some ‘oohs and aahs?

These scarves, a dozen by count, are knitted by my wife as a hand therapy exercise. I’m the beneficiary and each time I wear one, which is daily, it may be cold, but I feel wrapped in a layer of love, something else to keep me a bit warmer.

Mother Nature may win the war, as she often does, but with the help of my scarves, I occasionally win a battle.

Do you have a favorite scarf? Tell me about it. And stay warm…

Steve (030923)

4549…Broccoli, It’s Just A Number

I could see he was fumbling for it, so I blurted out, “4549”!

“You know this stuff, eh”, he acknowledged with a grin.

“I should, I get broccoli every week. Yams, 4817, cauliflower 4079. Every week, they’re on her list. Grapes, 4023. Every week, same thing. And I don’t deviate. It’s one of the benefits of coming here, brain training”.

With a smile of approval and freshly printed price sticker, he steered his small cart to bananas, 4011, but not before professing his status as a neophyte in this grocery shopping game. Professing wasn’t necessary, not knowing the broccoli code was a dead giveaway.

It’s true, though, grocery shopping is a game, a numbers game and a theatre game: codes, weights and measurements, BOGOs, coupons, increases and decreases, mostly the former as inflation becomes an even bigger number. Know the numbers and you’ll save time.

A theatre game, too, almost a contact sport, with participants panning out around the partitioned layout like pawns on a puzzle board. Step back, yourself, and watch.

Some shoppers attack the store with, seemingly, no semblance of order, helter-skelter, snaring items off the shelf and into the cart, sometimes without even looking. Always in a hurry.

“Out of my way, where’s the Guiness”, I imagine them saying.

At $10.99/6 pack, 72 ounces, that’s a much higher number than gas at $4.07/g, 128 ounces. Oddly, no one complains. It’s beer!

Others shoppers, like me, take their time. I’m deliberate because I’m a gabber, I’ll talk to anyone who might slow down or be idling nearby. The speeders detest my type, we interfere with their plan, ‘get in, grab it and get out’. My MO is ‘stroll in, search for stuff and socialize’. That’s why I save frozen to the end.

Then, there’s the checkout. I have favorite cashiers, they know my act.

“Paper, please, and every space is a new bag”, as I empty my cart.

The smart cashiers like my system, it’s one less thing they have to think about, the bags weigh less, and I can transfer items into the fridge and cabinets faster at home because I organized it on the belt. I might pay a couple of extra nickels for bags, but that, too, is part of the numbers game, time management.

Shoppers behind me often change lines. Probably the speeders.

Last stop, the Service Desk to pick the winning numbers.

“Two lottery tickets, please. looks like a big number for tonight’s drawing”,

“Sure is, but you know the odds for winning don’t favor you”.

I didn’t have to be reminded, of course I know the odds, I’m a numbers guy. But you don’t win if you don’t play. And, if I do win, well…..

…that’ll be the biggest number.

Steve

April 2022

To fellow shoppers who enjoy the game and know your numbers. If you see me at Wegmans, stop and chat.

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The ‘Kid’, He Called It

He didn’t point, only the great Babe Ruth did that. No, he didn’t point, instead the ‘kid’ just called it, he called the shot.

I witnessed it, and have played it over and over in my mind’s eye. The ‘kid’ called his own shot.

“I’m gonna hit a home run, Steve“, he said with the naive clarity, confidence and high pitch of a young boy. Such Chutzpah.

I can still hear the classic October sound of bat on ball, plastic on plastic. ‘WHOMP’! The ‘kid’ called it and true to his word, the ball flew over the single tall arborvitae behind the pitcher and rolled into the street, a bonafide homer per the arbitrary ground rules set by the ‘pitcher/umpire/announcer’ dad.

The Shovel (and me)

I grew up in New England, in a working class neighborhood of 3-decker houses, large multi layered structures with a family occupying each floor. My family had the first floor, and why not, it was ours. Renters took floors two and three. From my earliest recollections, the house was heated with coal. A coal shovel, or two, was always laying on the dirt floor of our cellar, between the furnace and the coal bin

The ‘coal man’ would drive his delivery truck along side a ground level window above the coal bin, and deliver the coal via a long chute from the truck, through the open window and into the bin.

It was my dad’s job to shovel the lumps of coal into the furnace, regularly, to keep a steady flow of heat into the house. The heavy steel shovel with upturned sides was the tool he used for the job. It was laborious.

I was still a youngster when dad converted our furnace from coal to oil, but the shovel still had a purpose. It became my tool of choice, my only choice actually, for shoveling snow. Never mind the weight of a big snow, the shovel, itself, was a man’s size tool, heavy, and using it to move snow was laborious.

Along came the light weight aluminum snow shovel, specifically designed for that job. What a blessing. Of course, aluminum isn’t as strong as steel and it strained under the weight of a blade full of snow, rivets loosened, the cutting edges bent* and the shovel became less stable. Snow removal, became frustrating, as well as laborious.

Ahhh, plastic. So many products once made of steel are now made with plastic because today’s resins used in plastic are super strong, resilient. The plastic shovel has proven to be very light weight and durable. I have two that I’ve used for years. They moved with me from house to house and do quite well at removing snow. Nevertheless, the very task of removing snow, itself, is still ever laborious.

As time passed and I could afford something more elaborate, my choice of snow removal tools and methods changed. I bought a snow blower, or thrower. It’s big, powerful and noisy. However, while it shortens the labor time, I’m still challenged with the physicality of operating this machine. It’s remains laborious.

This year, I splurged and hired a plow service. While he plows the driveway with his truck, often before the first light of day, I watch from my kitchen window, between the slats, coffee in hand, slippers on my feet, and dressed for indoors in flannel pajamas. I find it to be less laborious.

Oh, yes, I still use a shovel to even the edges. Easy!

Steve (srbottch.com). February 2021. *thank you, Liz!

For more fascinating shovel info, check out ‘wonkee donkee tools, an English website and it’s not laborious https://www.wonkeedonkeetools.co.uk/shovels/what-are-the-parts-of-a-shovel

She Made Me What I Am Today, An ‘Ironman’: The Promise

She made me what I am today, an ‘Ironman’!

Excuse me, did I say ‘Ironman’? My bad, I meant, ‘Ironing Man’. I’m an ‘ironing man’: shirts, pants, cloth napkins, aprons (not mine…yet), pillowcases, etc.

Dusting, yes, a critical skill. It’s tedious but you won’t find creepy bugs housekeeping along our crown molding and baseboard. As for the hardwoods, the Swiffer tool is my choice. Gripping it a certain way let’s you ‘slap shot’ those pesky ‘dust bunnies’ into a corner for easy gathering.

Both chores combine housecleaning and athleticism: the multiple reps of a weightlifter sliding a water filled iron back and forth, back and forth, back and forth and the steady, rhythmic gliding of a ballroom dancer sweeping across polished hardwood. My wristband monitor goes off the charts on cleaning day.

The best benefit, of course, is the ‘come hither’ look of appreciation in my wife’s approving eyes. But, alas, by the time I’ve ‘pressed’ my last pleat, ‘pushed up’ from bunny hunting under the bed or ‘power dragged’ the Hoover over the dog haired rug, I’m too tired to go anywhere, hither or not.

Meantime, the golf clubs have lost their shine, the gym membership is going unused and the resistance bands have dry rot. Nevertheless, I’m staying in shape with squats (toilet bowl cleaning), bends & reaches (dishwasher loading/unloading), heavy lifting (turning a queen mattress) and sprints (“hurry, the dog needs to go out”).

The genesis of these new found domestic skills can be traced back to something I did forty-eight years ago, I made a promise. Promises, vows, oaths, call them what you will, are important to our own notion of self-worth, when kept. They measure us for trustworthiness. They address our character and integrity.

Promises call for sacrifice and commitment. In my case, I didn’t commit to housecleaning but I did promise my everlasting support. LIFE changes, doesn’t it? Priorities get rearranged.

Yet, somehow, It’s worked out satisfactorily. I have well pressed handkerchiefs and there’s no stress of calling ahead for a tee time. Too tired to carry clubs, anyway.

I just need someone to show me how to fold a fitted sheet…

Steve
srbottch.com (July 2017)

To legions of men everywhere who help with the housework, whether you admit it or not, because you want or need to do it.