Spo-Reflections

I wrote this on Monday while sitting in the Spokane airport waiting for our flight back to PHX. Spo

Someone is sitting by my side, engrossed in his iPhone, orbiting the moons of Jupiter. It gives me the opportunity to stare out the window at the distance mountains and wonder what is it all about. Although it was Monday morning it felt just like a Sunday morning. It is what retirement must feel like: having no sense of what day it is. Time takes on a timelessness. We are early to the airport and I have plenty of Time to contemplate The Meaning of Life.

I once asked Quentin Crisp (of all people!) what is The Meaning of Life. Without a pause he said this was an easy one; there is no meaning of life. I sensed he was right albeit this was small comfort for a man in his 20s. I remember reading “The once and future king” in which young Arthur asks Merlin the same question. Merlin gets vexed and replies “Oh dear , why don’t you wait to grow up to find out the answer yourself?”. This was less satisfying than Mr. Crisp’s response. The only person from my youth who had a certain don’t-question-this answer was my aunt, a devout Protestant, who gave me the pat response we all learned in Sunday School. While it left no doubt it had no room for contemplation.

Now that I am the age Merlin said to wait to find the answer, I have the answer, or at least a good-enough answer, or at least the answer for my needs. Sometimes I am asked The Meaning of Life by my patients. I tell them:

“Instead of trying to figure out The Meaning of Life why don’t you focus on putting Meaning into your Life?”

Most of the time this is received well-enough but often it isn’t. They want a more specific response. I tell them the usual elements: food and good cheer with people you love; always learn and grow; don’t eat junk food; get rid of the rubbish and do things for others’. Usually these specifics go over like a lead balloon but they asked didn’t they.

Which gets back to today’s entry. I had a four-day weekend, ttime off from work. I saw people I loved and we did things together. New things were tried. I took naps and I bought a few luxuries against my Midwest mentality I shouldn’t be spending money on, such things as hand soap, when we have soap at home.*. These matters are not cosmic nor profound but they formed good memories.**

This year I plan on taking more time off from work, possibly to travel a bit, but more likely just to not work so much. I also plan to keep more in touch with my cousins. On the trip I did a lot of schmoozing with strangers, which did both parties some good.

This is The Meaning of Life – at least for me. Thems who say otherwise are itching for a fight.

*I bought the hand soap provided by the hotel. I was tempted to just take the half-consumed bottle from the room home with me, but decided instead to buy a full sealed bottle in the hotel store. It cost twenty dollars. I reminded myself last week I got an unexpected $4,000 bonus at work; I can afford this.

**This is the difference between pleasure and enjoyment. Pleasure is a short-lived sensation that often leaves one with disappointments and a desire for more. Enjoyment is pleasure + people + memories. It is the difference between having a snort of whisky at home by myself vs. having the same with the brothers while laughing and recalling good times.

Mr. Brownsey (the dear!) inspired me to write a new meme, based on the ‘37.5 things about myself’ page located at the top of the blog. No harm trying. I haven’t looked at it in ages, so this is a sort of pop-quiz job interview-style composition. I will pull up the things and see what I can do with them. Spo

#1. I am descended from English, German, Dutch, and Canadian stock; going back even further mostly from Nordic lands. Both of my family lines have been in North America for over twelve generations. I am a descendant of Midwest WASP mentalities, and suppressed Viking urges.

I come from a family of genealogists; there is one in every 2-3 generations. The last one passes on the family history to the youngest through time. When one is born in the Spo family (worse luck) you are handed the owners manual. In my youth I was amused and curious and at times appalled my friends didn’t know their ancestors past their grandparents. I know mine back to the Vikings. One of the reasons why The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections hired me (and why they never carry out their death threats) is they consider me a distant cousin, related on the father’s side.

Proto-Spos showed up in the 800s in northern France; they pillaged and did the usual Nordic shenanigans until the locals bought them off to settle down and slowly become good Norman types. Still itching for a fight they came over to England in the 900s and Anglicized the name and became proper land gentry until the 1600s when they decided to sail forth to New England for further pillaging. The arrived on the ‘Mary and John’ in 1630. We all know the line, which is recited in a sing-song way like the alphabet. William had Samuel who had Joseph then James then Nathanial. Michigan saw John and John A. and Edward and Kleber. Then came Edward and Thomas and …. Urs Truly! This makes me 12th generation.* This direct line ends with me, worse luck. but Spos tend to sire sons and there are no lack of branches to carry on the name. There are four in the 13th generation, so someone is likely to pass on the book as well as the genes.

Twelve generations is more than sufficient time to marry thems not English. They mostly married Germans. Indeed more than 75% of my genetic is Swiss-German. I often explain my desire to be orderly and on time arises from these genetics. Later one there were some Dutch types, Timmermans from Friesland (or someplace like it). There is also a branch of French Canadians who came down from Montreal to Detroit (pronounce De-twa) in the 1700s to join the conga line. Brother #3 married a good Polish girl – which is the first time we’ve managed to entice someone east of the Rhein.

It is hard to look at present day Norwegians and see any Viking in them at least what we imagine them to have been. My Nordic blood has been diluted through seven generations living in the Midwest, known for its Protestant no-nonsense don’t-make-a-scene values. However it doesn’t take much to stir up ancient runes. One just has to scratch the surface to reveal The Archaic. As a boy I imagined Mother putting down her tuna fish casserole and Father not saying thank you dear that looks good but throwing up his arms and overturning the table and grabbing his hand axe and his sons rise in turn and create ructions in the hallowed hall of Spo. but this never happened. At the meetings held by The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections I rumble like a volcano about to become active and given the right slight I explode like a piece of machinery that has been given one ounce of pressure too much and come out swinging my hidden knife but I don’t. After all it would be nine against one and they have more experience and better weaponry.

Someone (if anyone is interested) is of Irish descent, his ancestors having been kicked out of their country by the Spo who stayed in England. Someone’s immediate predecessors lived mostly in The South, a place no Spos have ever entered or married into until now. Over all he isn’t interested in his Irish roots, but he has Southern qualities like smiling when he’s being particularly gracious to someone he can’t stand, or saying ‘bless their heart’ to a forthcoming pithy remark. Such strange customs.

*There is a scene in ‘Angels of America’ where the protagonist is visited by the ghost of one of his ancestors, who tells they are separated by 15 generations. “Not according to mother” he retorts. The ghost replies ‘Oh, well then she’s counting the bastards. I say leave the bastards out”

Greetings from Spokane, Land of Giants!

I came to town to meet with the cousins to attend The Bloomsday Run.** My late Uncle Ed may he rest in peace helped found the event fifty years ago. We decided to attend the 50th run in his memory. It was great to see the cousins, who are well over four feet and true Spos, meaning they all talk excitedly all at the same time.

Here are various brothers and cousins and in-laws picking up their registration packages.

Folks are grouped by color, correlated to their abilities. About a third of us planned on running it. Someone bought a new bum bag, which I call the Bryce bag named after the handsome chappie who sold it to him

I was pleased as Punch to be so warmly welcomed.

The run is more like an emerging new nation that there were maybe 30,000 attendants I was in the Lilac Group, which consists of the walkers and slowpokes. We were in the back. By the time it was our turn to start, thems in the front (the serious runners) had already finished the route.

Here are some more of us prior to the run/walk. The one on the ground is Princess-Goddess. She is on the ground because she can.

I was glad Someone came along. He was dubious to go and be among too many Spos, but he braved the heat. Speaking of heat we forgot to bring caps, worse luck. Happily my day cream has SGF 15 in it and served to prevent nose and neck burn

I was worried about doing a 7.5 mile-long walk. The most I have ever done was a 10K. Thank goodness for my regular walks, for I did it without feeling ready to pass out. In my defense I did well on the mountainous route, which were often uphill at quite a clip. What kept me going were the folks who were not in good shape and the folks carrying tots or the oldsters walking with canes. If they can do this, then so could I. The miles passed quickly thanks to looking at landscape and periodically chatting with whomever I was walking with. I met a fellow wearing a 50th time banner; he recalled my uncle. There were many young men running sans shirt (that means without). They were heartwarming spectacles. They run without their shirts because they know they can.

This runs was peppered with side stands of folks selling Otter Pops, things to eat, bottles of soda. People actually stopped to stand in line and even rest a bit to have the snacks, apparently uninterested in their time. I foolishly didn’t stop for any water at the various stations lest it slow down my rate. Miles 5-6 were in what looks like the old-hippie part of town. These aged hippies played The Grateful Dead and sprayed us with their garden hoses as we passed,

They kept moving the end post; it was rawther frustrating.

I finished at 2 hours and 18 minutes; at 7.5 miles this was 18 minutes per mile. This made me glad given the record length of the route and a lot of it up steep hills. Right after crossing the finish line I became suddenly lightheaded with a slight list to the port side as if I was having a small stroke. Medics swooped in and wanted to know if I was OK. I did some movements to assert no loss of strength. Diagnosis: dehydration from strenuous walking in full sunshine for hours. Next time wear a hat and drink the water why dontcha.

Unlike other runs I’ve done, the T-shirt is not given out beforehand but afterwards. This way this year’s design is a surprise. One of the cousins spoiled it by running in the front group, getting his shirt, and ran back to join us Lilacs before we started. He then proceeded to walk the route a second time in his shirt, which created some confusion at the finish line but also recognition for his twice-time achievement. Ah youth.

What a delight it was to see the cousins and have a reunion with the brothers! And I was quite proud of myself for doing so well. After this , I will think nothing of my 3-4 mile walks at home.

*The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections usually cares not if I embellish the facts but they took umbrage on this whopper. I did not run, I walked, and it was just over seven miles, not a marathon. Please don’t write in.

**It is named after the lilacs that bloom this time of year, not after the James Joyce novel. That takes place in June.

I am contemplating a break from blogging. It is one thing to put up with a boring period in ones work or relationship, but a boring hobby makes no sense. The Muses (or someone like them) have been away for some time and there is nothing in my life or in the recesses of my pumpkin that seems worthwhile to blog, worse luck. I joke I lead a dull life but the truth, is I do; there is nothing interesting going on in my life upon which to blog these days. In its twenty years existence I have never gone on hiatus; at most I’ve skipped a week while away on holiday without access to the internet.

As we say in the shrink business: what are the fears? I can think of two.

One: if I stopped blogging even for a week, I would return to find no one has been waiting for me.

Two: I go on hiatus and never pick it up again; I disappear without fanfare as so many bloggers do.

The second fear is not likely. Although I have writer’s block I still have the itch to write. I would never be so ungallant as to ghost thems who read my works. If I were to end I would tell you. The first fear is unlikely as well. I’ve seen other blogger go on breaks, some times for a month, and when they come back and they haven’t lost readers.

Perhaps a break from blogging would be a good for me. I could gather ideas for my return. Herr Beethoven walked around with a little notebook to jot down notes when he thought of something and later he turned them into sonatas and such.

Then again I should just push on and persevere. I wish I had a shilling for all the times I enter The Doldrums and stare at the white empty screen and wonder what on earth am I going to do – and something comes up. Another matter: I don’t recall if The Contractual Obligation allows for breaks. The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections does not take kindly to loafers and layabouts. If I can’t think of something to do they will provide all sorts of tasks. Heorot Johnons II has all sorts of there’s-work-to-be-done chores desperate in need of doing. Nothing inspires to act than being called upon to scrub the oubliettes.

Tomorrow Someone and I fly to Spokane to meet up with brothers and cousins for a long family reunion weekend complete with fun run. Something interesting to blog upon ought to arise. Then again maybe there will be something but I’m too busy to write.

Not to be worrying! If I go on break, you will be the first to know. If I don’t blog for a few days it is more about being with the cousins. Interesting fact: it was their father who coined ‘I lead a dull life”. Life is dull at times but always full of ironies.

#73. What was your everyday beauty routine (i.e., hair, skincare, makeup, hygiene)?

Why a youngster would want to know what an oldster does in the morning is mystery. Youngsters look at the oldsters with some unconscious horror they don’t want to look like that when they age, so what beauty routines gramps and gran are doing must not be working and of no value. Granddad doesn’t have hair anyway and both of them smell like old people.

I don’t have so much a beauty routine, but a trying-to-stop-the-decline-of-things ritual. Harry of Harry’s razors (the dear!) sold me some of his ‘Summer Rain’ products. There is a facial scrub which feels like it has sand in it. It is supposed to cleanse pores and make my face radiant while it contributes to the microplastic problem. After the scrubbed nosed shower I stand in front of the vanity mirror and start at the top. One the crown goes is a spray of whatever cologne is at hand. I don’t know how it happened but we have several bottles of all sorts of scents I am working through on the grounds of Midwestern thrift. Mr. Harry also sold me some white goo I rub at the corners of my eyes and around the orbits and underneath onto the bags. This is supposed to stave off wrinkles. Fat chance of that. All the lotions of Arabia cannot wash away my wrinkles. Anyone know a good surgeon? *

Working downward I next do some PT which isn’t Physical Therapy but Proboscis Therapy. A few squirts of saline go up each nostril to wash away the crud, followed by the Flonase, the goal to lower inflammation and diminish allergies. I am told the effects take time and I never know if it is beginning to work or I’ve just waited long enough for allergy season to dissipate.

Someone has me using the electric toothbrush and my technique is improving with practice. We go through a lot of mouthwash and we buy it by the boxes at Costco. We use whitening toothpaste but our teeth still look like yellowed ivory keys on an old piano, the consequence of a lifetime of tea drinking. I floss in the evening, not the morning.

Next comes the whiskers. Every day I do a deep contemplation: can I get by without shaving today? In my youth a little scruff looked sexy; this is not so at sixty. Au unshaven set of neck and cheeks, along with an untrimmed beard, makes me look like a crazed street person, minus his charms. Mr. Harry again to the rescue! He keeps up in razor blades. I use Clubman aftershave. Remember this? It is what all barbershops used in the 60s and 70s regardless if you wanted something else. It is old man fogy stuff but dammit it has a good scent and it reminds me of my youth when men got proper haircuts.

I have a confession: I don’t use deodorant on a daily basis; some days I skip. There are studies suggesting leaving alone the indigenous wee beasties and not killing them daily with Old Spice (my roll of choice) paradoxically diminishes sweat and odor, the result of bacteria of other strains pooping their sulfurous excrement. I can get by with this approach in the winter months and when I won’t be seeing any patients or people that day. This doesn’t work so good in the summer when all the Clubman there is isn’t enough to mask things. Oh the embarrassment.

Arizona with its dry heat is a land where even the men use lotion. We have a lot of lizards and my skin looks like I am of that genus. I have bottles at work , home, and on the vanity to address awful-looking elbows and knee caps. Like cologne I don’t recall purchasing any, but we somehow we have heaps. What do I use? Answer: the ones in the linen closet.

At day’s end I am known to take an additional shower, just a quite rinse really, to symbolically cleanse me of the day. I am told by thems who are allergists our hair and skin pick up a lot of dust and pollen so it is good to wash it away rather than bringing it all to bed. Sounds sensible.

That is what Urs Truly does to be beautiful or at least make himself less dingy. If anyone has recommendations to better myself, I am open to suggestions. As the joke goes, anyone got something for a fat ass?

Everything cleansed, sprayed, rubbed, trimmed, and shaved – temporarily.

*I recently heard a podcast given by some great dermatologist for the edification of other dermatologists what to recommend to their clients. Apparently I am doing things all wrong. Soap and water: might as well be rubbing shards of glass into my face. I am supposed to be using some sort of cleanse followed by retinol followed by a sealing solution, maybe not in that order. The goal? prevent an aging looking face, which was conveyed as ominous as having liver cancer. I grew up in the Midwest where the men never once worried about wrinkles and such. That is what men look like as they age, and damned proud of their looks. And don’t get me started on cosmetics for men.

Note: this one could become violent. People get awfully queer about their colors. Spo

A few years ago The Other Michael (the dear!) made Someone and I some shot glasses. Someone’s’ glass was purple, but what was the color of mine? I said it was cyan and it was but TOM said no, it was cerulean. This started an ongoing argument rivaling The War of Spanish Succession and no prettier. Friends have tried to intervene but to no avail; as the African proverb goes: when two elephants fight it is the grass that gets trampled. When we gather for a game of Mexican dominoes and cocktails I get out my shot glass and play the role of the goddess Discord and ask for a pour of something into my cyan shot glass. The Other Michael flashes his eyes and says something bitchy like I’m sorry I don’t see any cyan shot glasse, do you mean that cerulean one? Fellow domino players who aren’t aware of what they are entering into, agree or disagree, saying no to either but it’s aquamarine or some other blatantly-wrong answer. No it is cyan; I am not arguing but explaining why I’m correct. This leads to ructions and if all goes well murders and suicide. Once when we were at each other’s throats TOM and I paused to hang high the fellow who suggested teal.

A group of queens discussing color is an ugly sight to see.

When people argue over the definition of a word they consult a dictionary but colors are ticklish as various people and paint companies call the same color different names. One man’s deep cyan is another’ aquamarine and don’t get me started on Prussian Blue versus Midnight Blue.

Making the shot glass color controversy worse is the shot glass seems to be changing color over time. When I took it out for the photo it looks more green than I remember it. Not only is the color uncertain, the color isn’t constant either. Oh the horror. It’s enough to hold one’s breath until you turn cerulean in the face and drop dead from frustration.

Someone and I made a reservation for a weekend in Palm Springs in June. I plan to bring my shot glass and invite The Other Michael to bring his dominos and let’s have another round shall we.

Please tell me in the comments what you think is the color of the shot glass. Thems who say cerulean or just ‘blue green’ are itching for a fight.