Two Half-Lives in Philadelphia: October 2013

Introduction

While I was born in 1951, sometimes I feel like I was born in 1914. My father told me so many stories about growing up in Philadelphia, and occasionally even about his family, that I feel some sense of at least one person's life in those years before I was born. While my mother, of course, wanted a child, I'm not sure that my father did. I think there was a part of it all that scared him, so they waited quite a while to have me. I hope I was "a relief" to my father, and I think I worked hard to be a good son. Looking back, especially at those few older pictures I have of my father, I think the very best part of his life was the first half - back when things were simple, he had good friends, and the burdens of adulthood were not yet upon him. Looking back, I feel like the best part of my life was the first half, largely due to my parents. It was a time when life was simple, controllable, and when I was actually organized! I'm sure my father found many good things in his entire life, as do I, but I believe we had this in common - that there is nothing better than growing up in Philadelphia. So, do not find the title of my new blog in any way depressing, my friends, its just a perspective that I've found interesting to investigate.

I'll start by writing about my family. I realize we are nothing special, but as we've learned from millions of pages of memoirs written and published, there can be much to be learned from those who came before us.

As I get past some family stories, this blog may be of interest to anyone who grew up in the Delaware Valley/Philadelphia/Delaware County in the 1950's and 60's, or to anyone married/partnered to one (if you are, there is much you need to understand before the two of you can communicate!).

Please check out my book, Saturday Night at Sarah Joy's. All proceeds go to the Hurricane Sandy NJ Relief Fund. Information is available at: saturdaynightatsarahjoys.blogspot.com.

Thank you!

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Flying on the edge of numb

I'm sitting in the back of my sailboat, relaxing, looking for a bird - a bird in a tree, on another boat, anywhere - just so I can plan my day on the bay. You see, birds always face into the wind so they're handy wind gauges (just a little something that sailors know).

For some reason, it hit me. It hits me occasionally, but not often. I look around. This is amazing! I have a sailboat! I sail! I'm on the water where I always want to be. I rarely appreciate where I am or what good fortune I have. Do I even know how to fully appreciate?

I suppose we have to be like this. We have to be on the edge of numb concerning the world that swirls around us. The rape, torture and mass murders, the genocide that pervades Africa alone takes thousands daily. People are killed every day right here. A shooting death may get 15 seconds of coverage on the news, but so many lives must be turned upside down in the aftermath. There are so many out there who could use help - my help, our help. If you really let yourself feel it, you'd be more than overwhelmed. Perhaps the appropriate response to the pain around us would be far too much for a person to feel.

So, to survive, we distance ourselves from our own world.

The distance filters our joys too. Perhaps that's not necessary. I'm allowed to be excited for every second I'm on my boat (and for many other things as well), but I have to work to feel what I have.

It was a small thing, but I realized that I was sitting with my back to the wind, so I moved to the other side of the cockpit. I sat with the wind blowing in my face. It was good to be right here, like this, to feel.

The storm clouds started to seriously think about getting to work; a light mist began to fall. It blew into my face. I let it. There was nothing between the rain and me.

The cool water dripping off my face left me wondering when humans lost the instinct to face into the wind.