S'amusing

She Loved My Poetry, I Think…

(Note: this first appeared in April 7, 24 and was republished, here, following a correction revision)

Not my poetry, in the sense that I wrote them. No, they belonged to real poets: Clemente Clarke Moore, Ernest Thayer, Robert W. Service, Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, Grantland Rice and Abraham Lincoln. I just memorized and recited them to her.

But she didn’t know, or care, who wrote the words. I think she just enjoyed the rhythmic sound that accompanied our steady pace. She never sighed or balked when I began each line, or repeated sections until I had it right.

The Night Before Christmas may have been her favorite. I’d recite it over and over and over until I couldn’t change the inflection points and it got boring, probably for both of us.

Spring came along and with it the start of a new baseball season. What could be more appropriate to memorize than Casey At The Bat. I did, a little bit a time as we walked along, side by side.

It was the All-Star game before I had it down verbatim and recited it ad nauseum. By the ‘dog days of Summer’, it was wearing thin on both of us. I sensed her boredom.

Following a short break, I picked up memorizing again and locked down Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address before the November 19th anniversary of the President’s iconic speech.

Lincoln, himself, may have delivered the speech in a quiet manner but each dramatic line found me delivering it with gusto. Neighbors probably thought it odd to see me talking and gesturing theatrically, only stopping to pee or sniff.

Memorizing poetry gave this Senior’s brain some very good exercise, I’m uncertain what it gave her, but she didn’t complain. Dogs are like that, they give you all the attention you want and don’t ask for much in return, just your love.

Over time, I managed to conquer The Cremation of Sam McGee, Alumnus Football and The Face On The Barroom Floor. She approved them all.

I still walk daily but since Daisy passed away this February, I’ve stopped with the poetry. Music accompanies me, now, on the same paths where we walked and talked. She’s deeply missed.

The Last Battle is a poem about a pet’s message to its guardian in its final days. The message is clear. The following is the opening stanza and the author is unknown but I like to think that our pets wrote it…

If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can’t be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don’t let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.

Steve, 040724

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To pet lovers, everywhere.

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.

Why Do I Raise The Flag?

As a youngster, I was taught about the flag and what it meant. I learned about the flag by listening to my parents and watching them live as Americans in a free society, being responsible citizens, demonstrating the finest values of growing up and being good stewards of this special place, America.

Through teens and into adulthood, I learned about the issues and challenges we face as Americans. I witnessed our strengths and weaknesses, our successes and failures. As an old man, I see those same attributes today, as we struggle to grow and become better citizens.

I learned to love our country through education and service, a brief stint in the military for the latter and a wonderful patriotic school activity for the former.

Every Memorial Day, my elementary school would gather in the schoolyard to sing patriotic songs, military songs, our National anthem and to recite our Pledge of Allegiance. The chorus of young voices filled the neighborhood, locals gathered to listen and sing along. It was a happy time, a proud time, a patriotic time. It was the 50s.

The celebration ended with a recital of our Pledge of Allegiance and the playing of ‘taps’ from an unseen trumpeter in the distance. Our American flag flew from every corner of the old brick school building. The moment was exhilarating, even for a kid.

I remember that annual event as though it was yesterday. I can still sing the military ballads and belt out the Star Spangled Banner, and I do when the spirit moves me.

These many years later, on Memorial Day and Independence Day, my wife lines small American flags in front of our house. It’s attractive, but more importantly, it quietly expresses our feelings about our ‘home’, America, while paying silent tribute to all those who sacrificed so much to protect and preserve the American spirit and way of life.

Why do I raise the flag? Simply because I’m proud to be an American and I love my country.

Steve

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A repost from May 2020

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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The ‘Yellow Jackets’

The ‘Yellow Jackets’ are laser focused, waiting patiently and watching for their quarry, prepared to act. Their instincts are sharp, with keen eyes alerting them to singles or groups entering their territory.

The ‘jackets’ are confident in their mission and blessed with a friendly demeanor. Then, at the right moment, they engage….

“Good morning, kids!”

These are the men and women of the Brighton, NY ‘School Crossing Guard’ team, recognizeable by their bright yellow coats emblazoned with the words, ‘CROSSING GUARD’.

During the school year, they stand at their posts, like buoys in uncertain channels, and manage the crossing of the district’s school children across the busiest intersections and streets in Brighton, to their respective schools. They do it with enthusiasm and grit.

From the students’ early morning trudge to school, to the afternoon scamper home, these extra eyes wait at their spots to ferry kids along, safely.

In frigid winter temperatures, or in the warm fall and wet spring days, the children have a friendly voice greeting them and sending them on their ways,.

And what is one of their rewards? A common refrain from students,

“Thank you, have a nice day.”

How rewarding and exciting is it to hear that from our young people? Very! Brighton should be proud.

When all goes well, these public servants go unnoticed and unheralded. The next time you’re driving by a ‘yellow jacket’, give a honk and a thumbs up, or a wave and a smile. A simple act sends a heart warming message of appreciation to this important link in the safety of our town’s children.

The ‘yellow jackets’ are a proud group. Like other public servants, they show up every day and serve this community well.

Steve Bottcher 041824

To the Brighton, NY school crossing guards and crossing guards, everywhere.

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There Was A Time

It’s autumn and in the western plains of New York State, along the shores of the Great Lake Ontario, Mother Nature is trying to decide to be warm or cold. The calendar will tell us what it’s supposed to do, but She will be the final arbiter.

September is done. October and November are beautiful months: family birthdays to be celebrated, holidays to enjoy, homage paid to soldier heroes and quiet remembrances of loved ones passed.

Leaves are falling. The front yard sugar maple, a full palette of colors one day, bares itself the next.

The Japanese maple sheds its leaves, leaving a stunning necklace of magentas and reds under its drip line.

If I’m lucky, the air will stay dry and the leaves will be light, easy to gather. If I’m very lucky, the wind will blow them away and shift the burden to a neighbor’s yard.

It’s a routine that repeats itself annually.

I remember a time when falling leaves meant afternoons of exhaustive running, jumping and disappearing into tall piles of those leaves that had been raked and gathered along sidewalk curbs of our ‘three decker’ houses in central Massachusetts. Childhood was the time for play.

I remember when residents burned the leaves in the streets to get rid of them. Smoke from the fires would fill the neighborhood, wrapping itself around houses, leaving a smelly calling card in its path. I would fall asleep in sheets saturated with the odor of burnt maples and oaks if those sheets happened to be hung outside to dry on leaf burning day.

Not anymore, mind you. The leaf pile jumping has been replaced by tablets and video games. And the leaf burning has gone the route of composting.

Life changes, we grow older, become serious. Nowadays, I see the piles of leaves and am reminded of those fun filled innocent days and for a brief moment I contemplate jumping. The thought passes, I come to my senses and leave it for the dog to enjoy.

Do you remember when ‘there was time’ and you enjoyed leaf jumping?

Steve (112423)

To Daisy (RIP)

Whistling: A Three Women ‘Melodrama’

Do you whistle?

The back room storage area of the downtown haberdashery was dimly lit and the old floor squeaked as I danced the long handle broom across the narrow hardwood boards, sweeping away the light dust to the rhythm of my high pitched whistling.

A ‘clean-up’ boy in a men’s clothier shop, owned and operated by a ‘quirky’ old couple who rode home in separate busses to assure the survival of at least one partner in the unlikely event of a fatal accident. You never forget your first job and the people who hired you.

It was a men’s speciality store. With neatly arranged merchandise under glass counters or on shelving behind those counters, to be presented by a salesperson, not self served, expertly dressed mannequins in window displays, and crank out awnings to protect those windows from harsh sunlight, this was an iconic men’s wear store in downtown Worcester, before the exodus of retailers to suburban shopping malls.

Not surprisingly, whistling while working was frowned upon, it detracted from the aura, the ambiance, the atmosphere of a high quality clothier.

I should have known better. I should have been more respectful. However, I was 16 and only working because my ‘old school’ father suggested that I was old enough to get a job, albeit a part time job.

More often than not, the best lessons learned are the harshest. Being dressed down by the owner wife, one half of the probable survivors, was a deserved embarrassment. It was the first time, but not the last, that I would be on the receiving end of a woman’s wrath.

I’ve enjoyed whistling since boyhood. I find it fun, relaxing and wildly entertaining. Wildly might be an exaggeration, but the elderly lady on the front porch swing of a house I passed on my daily route to high school found it so. “Young man, your whistling lifts my spirits”, she shouted from her post. I think she waited for my passing each day and I happily obliged her with a harmonious whistle.

My singing is terrible, so I’ve been told. And my whistling is shrill, as I’ve been reminded by the third woman in this story, the one I whistled at more than fifty years ago. She must have liked it then, because we’re still together. However, now I limit my singing and whistling to when I’m alone and can belt it out without contrarian commentary.

Yes, I find myself wildly entertaining during those times.

Let’s hear your best whistle.

Steve (102023)

‘Meeting Bella’

Watching young people grow, mature and assimilate into society is the reward for the time and energy spent guiding them along the way. I’ve experienced it both as a parent and a Brighton school crossing guard.

Recently, I met Bella, one of my former high school ‘crossers’. She recognized me first while we both were waiting in line at a local coffee oasis. It took a brief moment to place her. That happens more nowadays, especially before the first dose of morning dark roast.

‘Meeting Bella’ could be a metaphor for the ‘crossers’ I occasionally meet in town or while walking the neighborhood. The encounters are generally brief, either because we’re not quite sure of each other, or time doesn’t allow us a moment for small talk.

If we do chat, it’s a quick ‘catch up’ on what they’re doing with their life. Depending on their age, some are in post graduate work, some are matriculating at local universities. Others are finishing high school while a few are holding down their first job.

One ‘crosser’ with whom I exchanged early morning pleasantries works at a local grocery store. He impresses me with his diligence, going about his tasks of arranging product throughout the store, stocking shelves, cleaning floors, becoming a dependable asset for the employer. I remind him of that while shopping in the store. A positive word can do wonders.

Another young man attends a US military academy where he’ll earn his stripes, learn to fly jets and hone new leadership skills. A young lady, whom I remember for her early morning perpetual smile, is beginning a course of study in forensics as a college freshman.

Youngsters who rode their bikes to school are now waving at me from behind the steering wheel of a car, sometime their own.

As for Bella, she’s not a kid, anymore. She’s a sophisticated young woman who exudes such confidence and self esteem, attributes that will serve her well in the classroom when she finishes her training to become a school teacher.

As for our own children, both are well into their careers and keeping their eyes on us as we did on them. Our roles are beginning to turn, naturally.

I like to think that our daily meetings at the sidewalk crossing spot, the ‘Curbside Classroom’, where we exchanged pleasantries, answered trivia, gazed up at the winter stars and squinted from the rising sun, was a positive experience for the youngsters. In the very least, if they were smiling by the time they reached the other side, then I considered it was ‘mission accomplished’, and I smiled, too.

I’m confident these young people will change the world for the better.

“Each generation goes further than the generation preceding it because it stands on the shoulders of that generation” (Ronald Reagan)

Steve (101023)

srbottch@gmail.com

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.

“Your Fly Is Open…”: Misplaced Priorities

I have reached an age where my train of thought often leaves the station without me. (Clear Thoughts)

She alerted me with an edgy, disgusting sort of admonition, “you can’t leave the house like that, your fly is open“. I looked down and, yes, she was right, again.

“Just be thankful I remembered to put on pants”, I wanted to say. Instead, I just grumbled something incomprehensible and corrected the little faux-pas.

What happens to a person after a certain point in life? Does forgetting to do routine stuff become the new norm? It seems to be.

“You did it again, you left the toilet seat up”, she called from one of our ‘too many’ bathrooms. .

I grew up in a large family, five boys and two girls, with one bathroom, just 1. If we closed the toilet seat cover every time it got used, my father would have spent several paychecks a year replacing it because the hinges would have become unhinged ( I feel that way, myself, at times).

But this isn’t a commentary on habits, good or bad. It’s about forgetfulness creeping in as I age. I don’t even want to call it ‘forgetfulness’, the things I forget just aren’t a high priority. A down zipper? Open toilet? No big deal.

My high priority stuff is more like eating, finding my keys, whether to hit or hold 14 in a blackjack hand and scheduling a beer night with other seniors.

At my local health club, I find myself looking in the mirror to make sure I’m properly attired before going to the pool. It’s one article of clothing and I have to check to make sure I’m wearing it? Maybe that should be a higher priority.

I’m the guy in the grocery store parking lot looking for his car with a cart full of dairy products souring and ice cream melting under a summer sun. I’ve often come close to calling security to report a stolen car but how many times can a guy do that before getting labeled a public nuisance?

I’m thinking about realigning my priorities closer to what she’d like (yes, her, the better half). After 54 years of marriage, it’s the least I can do, don’t you agree? If this works, I’ll be reprimanded fewer times for forgetfulness and feel better about myself.

Whoops, I spoke too soon…

“You didn’t set the house alarm last night!”, she reminded me at breakfast

“Wow, we’re lucky we made it to morning alive”, I muttered into my coffee cup, having just gotten over the shock of noticing that I put my socks on the wrong feet (yes, the fancy logo faces out).

I’ve a grand memory for forgetting (Robert Louis Stevenson)*

Steve Bottcher (070923)

*Brainy Quotes