What’s out there

My mom told me I was born around 7 p.m. Sunday, March 22, 1953, and she ought to know, she was there. I remember a story about having to stop at a train crossing on the way to the hospital. That might suggest why the whistle of an old steam train strikes me in the heart, although by ’53 it could have been a diesel, too.

In any case, here I am, 71 years old today. How the bejeebers did this happen? I know, I know: It happened one day at a time.

I joked to a friend that my 71st year on this planet will not be on my list of my top 70 favorite years. A part of me is still reeling and still trying to adjust to the loss, and a part of me is thinking, “Oh, no worries, that’s just normal, some things you just never adjust to, deal with it.”

I did get a Christmas book out just in time for Christmas, and people said nice things about it. And I did pick up my guitar and start playing again after 15 years, and you know me, I have to start putting words and music together and I’m writing some songs again.

Oh, and then there was that Godzilla movie. The first Godzilla movie came out in November 1954, and I finally realized this year that I’m older than Godzilla. There have been 38 Godzilla movies in my lifetime, but only two absolutely brilliant films with Godzilla in them — the first one and Godzilla Minus One.

As for my 72nd year:

I woke up New Year’s morning and considered what an evil and stupid thing war is, and I started writing about resolving our differences peacefully. And I watch the new boss and the old boss gearing up for another fight, and I get on my knees and pray we won’t get fooled again. And I have laid something down in this space for one thousand, three hundred and thirty days in a row now, and I still have things to say — I’m not done.

Some time ago I said that this fourth act of my life would be about making books, and I still see that happening. I only published one book in 2023, although it was a dandy if I say so myself. I think the second quarter of this year might bear some fruit — watch this space for announcements.

I am happy to put my 71st year to rest, and I begin my 72nd journey around the sun with a bad cold that has canceled plans to celebrate my birthday with a couple of friends, wouldn’t you know it. Still and all, I thank God to be here and reasonably healthy, reasonably happy and reasonably reasonable. As Jean-Luc Picard said at the end of his first adventure commanding the Enterprise: “Let’s see what’s out there — engage!”

Twice in a lifetime possibilities

Three years ago tonight, I lay down on the kitchen floor next to Willow The Best Dog There Is™ and lay my hand across her paw. We stayed that way all night.

We had a date at the vet in the morning to make a decision, but it was inevitable. We had taken Willow to the animal emergency hospital that weekend after she unexpectedly collapsed in pain, and x-rays showed a big mass in her abdomen that was not supposed to be there.

That dog and I loved each other. If this was to be our last night, I was going to be with her.

I remember Red came out to see where I was in the dark of night. She sighed, whispered, “Oh, Warren,” and went back to bed.

Willow and I had a once-in-a-lifetime bond. That was the most heartbreaking night of my life until I lost Red herself.

I’m not really here to get all tear-jerky so much as to wonder if once-in-a-lifetime bonds can happen twice. I’m — well, let’s say I’m asking for a friend who has a 2-year-old golden retriever going on 3, and this dog is really starting to cling to, um, my friend.

This is a photo of this dog — we’ll call her Summer — resting her head on his shoe, with his foot still in the shoe. He really had to twist his hand to get the right angle with the phone camera.

When she’s not putting her head on his shoe, it’s on his knee, or she is sitting and leaning toward him for a good stroking, or she’s sprawled behind his feet while he’s watching TV in the easy chair. This hound does not want to be separated when they’re in the same house.

Either she’s making herself an obstacle in hopes he’ll trip and break his neck, or she really really really wants to be pals forever.

The thing that Willow The Best Dog There Was™ and I had, that was once in a lifetime. I’ll never have a relationship with a dog like the one I had with Will. My goodness, I loved that dog.

Maybe, just maybe, I can have a different relationship with a different dog that is still once in a lifetime. If that sort of thing could happen, I mean. What are the odds?

I will miss Willow forever. Summer is pretty darn cute, though.

On yearning to be free

I see two cranky old men who don’t realize how old and cranky they sound, and they both want to run the place.

The thing that makes me nervous is the men behind the curtain (and I mean “men” in the generic sense; we’re all perfectly aware that women can be behind the curtain, too, right, Hillary? right, Michelle?) — you know, the men turning the wheel and shouting into the microphone, screaming actually, “How dare you! Let’s you and him fight!”

The doddering old men gather believers around them and make all the believers cranky, too, whipping up imaginary hobgoblins until we can see them all in our sleep. I try to say, “But wasn’t the idea to love our neighbor?” but I’m drowned out by the fist fights and the insults and the shouting, oh the shouting, just stop shouting for chrissakes.

Yes, I know shouting works, look how much applause the old man got by shouting through his State of the Union Address, but couldn’t we all just sit down and talk to each other for awhile? By the way, which one is the dog and which one is the pony at all these dog-and-pony shows? They both were adorable when they weren’t snarling at each other.

I don’t know what it’s all about, but I know it’s not about being led by the nose by two old men who are past their prime. I know how ironic it is for me to say that — I am an old man past my prime telling you not to follow either of these angry old men who are past their prime, but listen to me, who better to judge the ability of old men than an old man? Come on, no matter how much you like Grandpa, you don’t give him nuclear codes. Where are the able kids to come take the wheel? Whatever happened to, “It’s time for a new generation”? This is embarrassing.

Which lie will win the race? Which angry old man will dodder across the finish line first? Will it really matter in the end? Are we so far down the yellow brick road that it doesn’t matter who’s behind the curtain turning the wheel and barking into the microphone? If we only had a brain, a heart, and the nerve, we might find our way home from this nightmare. Ain’t it the truth? Ain’t it the truth?

Does anybody anymore think about the “huddled masses yearning to be free”? I don’t hear about yearning to be free beyond occasional lip service these days — ironic, that, since freedom was the whole idea in the first place. These cranky old men who want to run the place, and the people behind the curtain who are actually running it, they’re more about “here’s what I’ll do when I’m elected” and not so much about “I know you yearn to be free, so I’ll leave you alone.” Trust freedom? What a concept.

My old friend Henry David T. Said it best — the government that governs best is the one that governs not at all.

I think I will spend election season huddled in my corner, yearning to be free, and see if anyone gives a flying flamingo about my yearnings.