scottwojahn

[scottwojahn]

The White Sweater

My cell phone buzzed today with a text message announcing that my dad’s Rx was ready for pickup. “Type stop to cancel”, it politely mentioned, as if the only reason to do so would be my annoyance at notification overload. I suppose I should let them know he’s gone. Best to wait until my next trip in for groceries to tell them that Karl will not be needing anything further from the pharmacy? Or would a call suffice?

A few days ago, after a circuitous route through too many voicemail prompts, I finally reached a woman in customer service at Spectrum and explained I needed to cancel my elderly father’s cable tv service and landline phone. Reading from her script, she walked me through some prompts and offers aimed at keeping me from my goal, finally asking, “Has he moved to another place? We could transfer his account”. I said gently, “Yes, he moved….he moved to heaven”. She dropped the script from there, and was quite kind going forward. We worked it out.

I have found in my car and my nightstand drawer and on my library table, hospital release reports, receipts, and medical reminders - all important records - now unnecessary, irrelevant, moot. They serve no purpose but to remind us of a difficult few months. Tossing them in a wastebasket felt like a kind of betrayal.

Even the weather seems to have given up since he’s gone. Mother nature has howled in angst, with biting winter winds and harsh, mocking temperatures. This morning registered 8 degrees F. It’s as if Karl’s spirit itself was a finger in the dyke, holding forth for all of us against her impassive, fierce discipline.

Joan Didion wrote beautifully of the mild insanities that can follow in the wake of losing a loved one. In The Year of Magical Thinking (Knopf, 2005) she describes removing her husband’s items from their closet, but holding on to a pair of nice shoes because he might still need them. My experience is less dramatic, but the myriad questions of what is a keepsake is daunting. As if the world doesn’t yet appreciate what I know; that Karl Wojahn’s Oregon State University sweater might fit me someday and I’d proudly wear it out somewhere fun. Or that there’s value in the monogrammed brown faux leather jewelry case which holds his fifties-era tie clasps and jade cufflinks from Hong Kong, or his beautiful Navy service pin.

In the last year, as my father slipped into the confusion of dementia, there was little thought paid to the long term, the legacy. We were focused on the day to day. He stopped wanting to go out for breakfast to his favorite pancake house. He quit reading. Eventually he even stopped telling stories from his childhood, a quiver of twenty or so colorful reminders of how far he’d come, from a house with no indoor plumbing on the destitute plains of Eastern Montana, to a college graduate with a bright future and enough funds to buy his own convertible. 

A friend observed that none of us will be remembered personally by more than two generations that follow. It’s unrealistic to expect my father’s life and memory to be shared by more than a few who knew him. He lived to be 97, after all. But perhaps the sight of his early 50s white knit sweater with the OSU beaver logo will open up a beautiful conversation someday, if I can ever fit into it.

[scottwojahn]

Christmas Eve morning. One day after my 68th birthday and one before Christmas. My brain let me sleep in ’til 8 this morning, rare any more. We celebrated with the kids and grandkids early this season, so things are quiet. I first fed the birds, now sitting with my favorite cup of coffee - Arabica beans from Illy-brewed stovetop in an old-style Italian Moka pot - puttering fire, and solo piano carols adding to the ambience.

It’s almost compulsory that my spirit takes stock this time of year. Maybe you do too. I tend toward gratitude. Family close, open hearts all around, the wonder and joy of grandparenthood. My dad (97) is still with us, all 114 pounds of him, cheerful in the wake of weakened body and mind.

There’s more and less these days. Less expectation, less pressure. Less hurrying and worrying. Less striving and fear. Less judgement. Less black and white. More reaching for calm and quiet, more pause and seeing, more listening and taking things in. More openness, more acceptance. More remembering. More simplicity.

Terri and I are blessed to have our health while many in our circles struggle. It is a reminder that tomorrow is not promised. And so, with our little woods finally delivered of her leaves and the stoic trees holding up their heads, I welcome this season of change and hold much hope for the spring to come. Merry Christmas…

[scottwojahn]

A Birthday Just The Same

The parking lot is nearly full as I pull in to the skilled nursing facility playing home to my dad for the last two weeks. I steel myself against the emotions sure to come when entering. Each hallway is separated by heavy, keypad-protected double doors requiring me to punch in the code several times - even to access the elevator - in order to reach his room.

Today is November 30th and my father’s 97th birthday, but he doesn’t know what day it is. In the last two months, much of his cognitive awareness has disappeared.

“Karl-with-a-K” smiles and remains upbeat despite growing weakness, a failing mind, and three ER visits in the last four weeks due to falls, pneumonia, heart failure, and dementia. It’s a tough cocktail to swallow. For all of us. It was only last December we would find him checking stocks on his Iphone, rereading his New Yorker magazines, and even asking about politics. More recently, after a move into memory care, he would retell stories of his life, especially the childhood years spent on farms in Montana and Oregon, rave about servings of ice cream, and flirt with every female nurse, aide, and staff member. Dad and I would take regular walks around the garden perimeter, chatting about the flowers, and he’d ask after my family, kids, grandkids. Sometimes we’d sing together. Every visit ended with him remarking on how fortunate his life had been.

My father’s recent falls and complications have paid difficult dividends. He lives, seemingly overnight, in a sort of grey area, one with no sense of time. No day. No night. No reading. No television. No purpose. I wish for his contentment to hold, pray for his joy to linger, and hope to have some recognition between us until the end. It could be a long couple of years. Happy birthday Dad. I know you’re in there, and I love you.

[scottwojahn]

Shorty

He came down the block almost falling, as if he had a bum leg, each step a lurch, both arms extended, catching himself on the stretch of windows which lined the building to the sidewalk. Everybody calls him Shorty. A wiry little fellow in a white baseball cap. Shorty is a regular at Our Daily Bread, the soup kitchen/social center where I work on Mondays. We had just opened the doors when he came in and fell down in front of me. A seizure. Several of us jumped in to help. Got him on his side. Called 911. The life squad arrived quickly. They know the place well. Shorty left on a stretcher and we made sure he had his cap for the ride to the hospital.

Just another morning with the disenfranchised, the homeless, the poor, the addicts, the lost.

I’ve been working on Monday mornings at Our Daily Bread for nearly five years, almost always in the kitchen, prepping, cooking, serving, or doing other tasks as needed. The last two weeks found me up front in the “bag check” area, where all belongings are stored while the guests have something to eat, a rest, a chance to be safe and calm for awhile. It’s been a hectic, visceral change from chopping rutabagas or prepping spaghetti sauce or ham salad. After the security guard who “wands” each entrant, I’m the next contact. “Good morning. Let me hold your things while you’re here”. Many know the routine: place your effects into a large plastic bin, take the playing card that marks its location so we can return them to you, and head down to the serving line.

Hectic because it’s crowded on Mondays. Visceral because every person has a short story evident in their behavior, their dress, their mood, and especially their personal stuff. Stuff we don’t see on the serving line or in the kitchen.

Some have backpacks or plastic bags. Others drag enormous suitcases holding everything they own in the world. The waning remnants of a life of struggle.

There’s tall, young, cheerful guy wearing dark eye makeup, with a basketball and a leaking large plastic bag. There’s “looks like a runway model” 6’2” stunning girl with clear eyes and nothing but a blanket roll. There’s sullen middle-aged man with a suitcase and a long stick and a bicycle wheel. There’s designer party clothes guy in David Bowie platform boots and faux fur, a Muslim mom with two young girls and everything in a wheeled shopping cart. Some are grateful and kind, some are edgy and still coming down from the weekend. Eyes are uncertain or sad, bright or crazy, some lifeless and almost frozen.

But the lingering, unsettled feelings I brought home today - the mood I can’t shake - is the privilege gap made clear in the vast array of random belongings, and the understanding that the line between their lives and mine is so very paper thin. There but for the grace of God, go I, right?

It was a hard day, but a good reminder that we are all human, worthy of respect and kindness. I sure hope Shorty made it.

[scottwojahn]

The names are purposely vague. The Anderson. The New England Club. The Harmony. The Provision. Each an assisted living and memory care facility. The next-to-last-step before a nursing home, hospital, or the great beyond. I suppose if the branding were more specific, descriptive, it would be even harder to “place” a loved one, knowing the descent is coming, that things will become only more difficult, more time consuming, more weight bearing.

This is Karl-with-a-K. This is my dad. This is us.

I’ve written about my parents. My mother’s dementia, her passing, and my father’s aging. He’s 96 now. We always felt sure his body would weaken while his mind hung in there. He has that old German Lutheran stubbornness, after all. So much for expectations.

This morning I visited dad in the rehab facility that is his current residence and found him sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, leaning back on his elbows and swinging his feet together like a joyous 5 year old. Just four weeks ago my siblings flew out and helped us get him organized in a new apartment nearby. The 50-minute round trip to see him had become difficult as he needed more and more help. Signs were missed. Signs of confusion. A TV remote hidden and assumed lost. Poor self care. A fridge full of egregiously expired dairy products and leftovers. We thought it was normal stuff, after all, he’s 96.

Then, two weeks ago my father, alone, fell. He was weak, heart rate in the 30s, didn’t remember the incident. After a hospital stay, he’s now in rehab, getting stronger, but the mind is waning. Sometimes he thinks it’s 1934. Or that he is living with his brothers and sisters (he had no brother). It comes and goes. He confuses day with night. Still, he remains cheerful and upbeat. Grateful for his life.

All of this means his next move will be to a beautiful building with an innocuous name, where he can “age in place” within minutes of our neighborhood. It’s a difficult time for all of us but it helps being a member of such a large club. So many families agonizing over care decisions. Somehow there’s a comfort there. At least Karl is still “smelling the roses”. Now, if we can keep him from trying to kiss the nurses too…

[scottwojahn]

December 23rd falls next Friday. My 67th birthday. I’ve always coined it the “Eve of Christmas Eve”. Yesterday, while picking up a prescription, the woman noted my birthdate in the computer record and commented on its proximity to Christmas Day. It’s a common tease that I’ve been cheated somehow, a celebration largely shadowed by a bigger name. I smiled and told her that I’m also a twin, which makes it a double cheat. She laughed and asked if my mother dressed us alike. The answer, if you’re wondering, was… sometimes.

Some things remain. December still finds me sleeping on the couch out by the lighted Christmas tree, as is tradition. A tug from warm childhood memories of a large brick hearth built by my father and his father. I still snack too late at night and procrastinate in filling up my gas tank. I continue to splash olive oil and ruin every t-shirt I wear in the kitchen despite a stylish collection of aprons hanging nearby.

On the other hand, this year brought significant change. Three new grandchildren. Where there was one, now there are four. Our schedule is full. Full of life. Full of wooden trains and holding hands and carseats and high chairs. Full of laughing and amazement and photo sharing and hearts swelling. We’re sometimes worn out, but it’s uplifting to see your kids become parents, and a treasure to have it all happen in the same zip code.

This year we also convinced my father to move to the zip code. His diminishing faculties require more of our time and help, so he’ll be in a community a few minutes away. My family stretches from age 4 months to 96 years. I guess the theme for now is “time and help”.

Also this year, I learned to make Muhamarra, a lovely Middle Eastern red pepper and walnut spread. Begged cocktail recipes from kind bartenders. Found a new gal to cut my hair. Read more non-fiction and poetry and have a near perfect bell curve of results in Wordle. Practiced a lot of slide guitar (trying for my 10,000 hours) and attended Pilates class with Terri every Wednesday morning at 8. Not sure my flexibility is any better but it sure feels good. 

I have navigated deep loss and tried to lift up others in kind. I have sought to practice kindness and embrace simplicity. To show more love. To listen. To hear. To be more mindful, humble, and grateful. Mostly, I’m trying to live in the moment, laugh and hug as much as possible, and look for the joy and the good. Here’s to 67, and a couple of new t-shirts.

[scottwojahn]

A fallen leaf. Pulled from our deck this morning. Its recently altered earthen color, now fixed. The brittle texture, a reminder that all things return to the soil. Our calendar’s page has rolled over to October, the most beautiful month, and the time of year which always brings me pause, reflection, and a bit of melancholy. 

It’s a strange combination of beauty and loss that ails me, and in past seasons, as summer waned and autumn slipped in, I questioned the origin of my wistfulness. It is not my usual nature, yet seems inescapable. I’ve since learned to accept and even greet it as a habitual visitor.

This year the invading mood is lighter. Could be that living in the woods has brought calm and focus. Here, the wind picks up slowly in October. The sky can be utterly clear for days. And against the warm, bright background, the leaves begin to fall, slowly at first, tenderly, almost before the coloring of the woods has changed at all. 

I stepped out this morning to admire a tree that, seemingly overnight, had gone completely amber, and it suddenly clicked for me.

This falling, so familiar, so expected, so necessary, only comes in letting go. 

Our souls ached with loss this year. It gripped us. It felt like a theme. This October morning, in the midst of my own life’s autumn, with so much richness to behold, I’m comforted to know it’s a theme shared by all. Every soul suffers. Every spirit breaks.

If the heart is a leaf, mine certainly changed color this year. But it’s new hue, now fixed, must be beautiful. And in letting go, I can float.

[scottwojahn]

There’s always a morning - that one morning - which breaks with renewed surprise. An absolute gift from mother nature’s bag of unwarranted treats. Usually coming in mid-August, when the seemingly endless string of sticky “three-shirt” days fairly drains the soul in our Ohio river valley. With no warning, up pops a sunrise so new and refreshingly mild, one can taste the glorious fall.

It’s not a tease, really, but a promise. A promise that the burned up, worn down, don’t-know-if-I-can-make-it days that threaten the spirit, have a waning half life. The sadness of loss will fade. Calm is coming. Joy is in the wings, like a parent, hushed but bursting inside, encouraging from a distance.

We, like many others, suffered loss this year. Our hearts have struggled. We’ve also welcomed new life into our family, with more blessings soon to come. And even though these dog days of summer will dart in and out for a few weeks, the unshakable truth of ever-changing seasons is an encouragement and a balm for our melancholy.

We’d grown weary of sadness. But this morning…

Well, this was that morning.

[scottwojahn]

SSF

It’s Song Share Friday. So named by my niece Kirby. It’s the day each week when we send a song to each other. She and I both get to hear something new or old or in between, and it provides a lovely touchpoint, adding meaning to our relationship. I look forward to it every week.

This Friday morning dawned with a hopeful calm after a night of concerning storms. The sun was out, as it is so often following these events, and I had just sat down with a coffee, to think about the song I’d send, when Terri came into the kitchen and told me we needed to divide Jackie’s ashes. We’ve planned to spread some in Venice, CA, its boardwalk a place she never missed when visiting and one of her most happy places. Turns out there are some loved ones who want to have part of Jackie fashioned into a piece of jewelry, so here came Terri with the box.

I felt disturbed. Unsettled. A bit… wrong.

Wrong to “touch” her. Divide her. Reach in and scoop her. Yet, I recalled the evening she passed, after a long, troubled, wearying day in the ICU, her finally letting go, her last breath expelled, Jackie’s body sunk down into the bed and literally flattened. Even her face seemed to diminish and become immediately vacant, the soul flying instantly away. It was so clear to me that our body is a shell, housing the life that makes us, and when it’s gone, what’s left behind is, well, “former”.

So we got out the plastic baggies and a yellow measuring cup, walked out to her favorite spot on our deck where she would sit and music would be played, friends would be gathered, and life would be shared. And we “shared” Jackie, just like she would so often share of herself. Without reservation. Without guile. Without condition.

Terri may even have a piece of jewelry crafted. I kind of hope so…

[scottwojahn]

Soon there will be 66 years behind me. On one hand, a good long stretch of time. On the other, a few blinks, a flash, a dream. Flip book glimpses of life on California beaches, in Oregon and Hong Kong, Kentucky and Ohio. A childhood filled with bikes, kick-the-can, broken bones, family vacations in Yosemite, warm friendships, growing, learning, and becoming. Ten thousand hours of musical study and practice rooms and performances. Jobs to pay the bills while casting for a fitting career. Marriage, parenthood, joy, loss, grace, life lessons, faith, self-reflection, repair, lots of hard work and laughter, and finally, this waning arc toward tranquility, gratitude, and a finer-tuned appreciation for the now.

These days need and duty have given way to cherished freedoms: a park exploration with my grandson, Auggie. Sunday family dinners. Unhurried conversation with friends. A perfectly brewed Italian coffee. Keeping the bird feeder filled so the cardinals won’t doubt how much I love their visits. Admiring our Japanese Maple. Having the girls so near they drop by unannounced, as if we’re all in a sitcom. Revisiting beloved novels and discovering new ones. Sharing breakfast with my dad at his favorite pancake house. Puttering in my kitchen, then lounging, feet up with a well-honed cocktail, watching the seasons transform the woods beyond our deck. The unspoken closeness and reward that comes with a cherished, long marriage. And always… music. The soul language I most want to speak and hear.

This is my calendar now. These are my essentials. Each one a fiercely protected gift of later age. What is 66 years? Turns out it’s everything.

[scottwojahn]

Thoughts On Becoming Grampa

I wanted to stay awake all of last night. You see, my eldest daughter is to have a baby. Quite soon, as in, checked-into-the-hospital soon. Corona virus keeps us at home, awaiting word. He will be our first grandchild. Haley and my son-in-law Christopher were, for the last two or three years, uncertain whether or not to choose parenting for themselves. It is, of course, an epochal life decision, understandable in these uncertain, trying times. Anticipation tonight is high. Head swimming. Heart full. Prayers whispered.

I’ve been thinking about this tiny soul inexorably coming our way. How life will change. Be new. Be richer. Be…more. And there’s a poetic, beautiful, polarity to it all. 

On one hand, this new life, this grandson being born into the family - a huge event to us - will barely register to the world at large. Unicef estimates worldwide births at 353,000/day. That means in any full year the number of babies born to joyous families everywhere will reach nearly 129 million. My grandson’s life, when measured against the enormity of mankind, is minute, nearly imperceptible, a humbling drop in the bucket. A single heartbeat, heard only by us.

Of course, it’s possible his life will have significant impact. The world remembers her William Shakespeares, Abraham Lincolns, and Winston Churchills. Her Martin Luther Kings, her Vincent Van Goghs, her Jesse Owens’. But the rest of us have to accept being forgotten only three generations or so beyond our own passing. A life, and the memories of it, are short. It can all seem so small.

On the other hand, as Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey learned, one life - each life - profoundly touches the many surrounding it. Like the pebble thrown into a lake, its impact spreading waves further and further, eventually moving even beyond view, we all touch others with an impact impossible to foresee, measure, or undo. It travels quietly, moving outward in geometric perfection to untold people and places. A ray of sun here, a saving kindness there. Each moment, however insignificant or fleeting, leaves its imprint. That tiny heartbeat is tiny no more.

It is in this way the life of a child is immeasurable and enormous. From one blessed moment of birth, the world is changed forever and can never, will never, be the same. Welcome, my grandson. You’re gonna be somebody.

[scottwojahn]

"He took a bullet for me...He's a hero, you see...'Cause I'm free."Remembering Christian Michael Pike and all who gave everything.

[scottwojahn]

8.11.18

If you spend any time in Oregon, you’ll eventually wake to the type of day that only the Willamette Valley can provide. An unearned gift of quiet, epic beauty. Intimate and vast, breathtaking, bracing. Pastoral vistas, shaded greens and golds, quiet summer fields punctuated by soaring, abiding evergreens. Peaceful cloud formations that mock scientific description. The kind of day when the air feels layered, as if God couldn’t decide on sunny and warm or speckled and crisp, so he did the impossible and melded both. It’s probably the most perfect thing you can feel on your skin, or in your soul. 

And it was the perfect morning for my mother to quickly, quietly pass away.

I wasn’t expecting a tumult, but here we were, in the first exhilarating hours of a long-scheduled vacation, when a call from a hospice doctor advised that Joanne had been diagnosed with pneumonia. She was transitioning and we needed to call in the family.

I sat down and tried to calm my breathing.

The next hours were a blurred mix of hectic, out of body, “What are you talking about?” types of conversations and feelings. Mom had been in dodgy health for years, suffered with dementia and multiple hospitalizations, and generally kept us guessing. But she had rallied again and again. And in between those closed, shrinking sections of her memory, were lucid, even sharp and funny, observations, and warm, crinkling smiles of understanding. This time however, there would be no coming back.

So, for one day, we gathered and murmured gentleness to her. We encouraged and sang to her. Old songs, cowboy songs, girl scout camp songs, folk songs. Her toes danced and her lips even smiled a bit. Her eyes cloudy but present, she shed slow, heartbreaking tears. But I believe she was ready. Ten hours later, my mom was gone, and that gorgeous, rural, horseback riding, softball playing, musically inclined, upbeat, faithful, energetic, imperfect, loving, supportive, loyal woman - daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother, partner, friend - finally let go. And we cried and hugged and marveled. 

Then we walked out into God’s perfect Willamette Valley, and knew everything would be alright.

[scottwojahn]

Oregon Summer

I shed some tears this week. In a leafy, established, quiet neighborhood south of Portland, with broad, mature spruces keeping watch over the gabled and well-kept houses, I stood in a two-room assisted living apartment my parents just moved into and I shed some tears. Because they now live a thousand miles away and my mother’s condition is markedly, suddenly worse.

And I helped them get there.

She had just come into the bedroom and stopped, hunched over her walker, staring at the floor. I thought she wanted to get onto the bed, so asked if she could use some help. Without turning her head, she said, “I don’t know.”

I rubbed her back and leaned in. “Mom, do you want to lie down?”

“I don’t know.” She seemed frozen, paralyzed almost.

“What would you like to do?” “I don’t know. I need Karl to tell me.”

She hadn’t looked at me once. “Mom, do you ever make choices about what you want?”

“I don’t know.”

Dementia slithers. It stalks. It waits. It hovers. Like the slowly warming water that, without warning, eventually boils the frog in the pot, there’s no turning back by the time the danger is conspicuous. We tried to convince my folks to stay near us in California. Every expert and doctor advised that a significant change in her life (moving) would almost certainly cause a worsening of her illness. This seemed more. This seemed crushing. Just a few weeks ago, my mother was bubbly and engaged as she sat for an hour-long Skype interview with the nurse at her soon-to-be new home. She answered every question. She was excited for this chapter, full of purpose, even showing off a brightly colored, shiny paper hat, something you might see at an Independence Day parade.

Now that hat sits on a windowsill. The color and the excitement are gone. Out that window is a lovely, flower-filled garden, drenched in the incredible Oregon summer, but mom never looks over to see it.

I’m trying. Trying to see the upside of my folks’ gypsy restlessness. The value of one more in a series of lifelong adventures. Trying to embrace the truth that they may pass without me being near. Perhaps my nomadic parents simply want to spend the last chapter of life back in the familiar landscape of their youth. Maybe they want to live farther away so as to keep us kids at a greater remove from the failings, the weaknesses, the decline. I’ll never know, but the choice is theirs to make.

So I helped them move away. And today, I saw the dividend. And shed some tears.

[scottwojahn]

Go Jo, Go!

My mother took a joyride a couple of mornings ago. That is to say, at daybreak, with dementia as her sidekick, she dressed quietly in the apartment as my father slept, slipped the car key from the hook by the door, and with snazzy aluminum trike in hand pushed past the threshold, figuratively and literally, down the walkway to the carport, settled in behind the wheel, and drove away.

I should mention that mom hasn’t been behind the wheel in over 16 years, so doesn’t need a driver’s license. Why would she?

Joanne had been gone for about an hour and a half by the time dad phoned us at 8:30 am. 911 was alerted, the Thousand Oaks police dispatched a team to gather information and subsequently put out an APB. A real one.

Alarm begat incredulity begat worry begat fear. It’s an odd thing to hear the authorities tell you to go home because there’s nothing more to be done. It’s harder still to try and go on with your day with any sense of normalcy when your mother is gallivanting who-knows-where around the southland.

Hours passed. I could picture her careening down the 101 freeway, windows open to the morning air, laughing out loud at her triumphant escape, while the local television news breaks in to cover the story, OJ Simpson-in-a-white-Bronco-style, with helicopter footage of a delusional 84 year-old woman, barely able to see over the dashboard, executing her spontaneous caper.

Of course, she also could have wrecked the car or worse. Much worse.

So wait, we did. We drank coffee and more coffee. I tried to work. Terri stood guard inside my parent’s apartment and by midday, Jo’s great escape came to an extraordinary conclusion.

In the end, my mother had driven 180 miles, traveled freeways, cruised over canyon roads to Pacific Coast Highway and, with mud on her tires from who knows where, came in for a soft landing at a grocery store about 25 miles from home. We found her sitting inside, eating a tuna sandwich and chatting gaily with the employees about her adventure.

We were relieved. We were more than a little angry, and have set ourselves about the task of helping my parents find preventative ways to avoid a repeat performance. But I can’t help but wonder if, much like Randle P. McMurphy, Jack Nicholson’s wonderful character in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, mom simply acted out of a fundamental human need. After all, doesn’t each of us from time to time seek independence and freedom, or long to throw caution to the wind and let our spirit fly?

Maybe that’s what was going on in my mom’s damaged brain. If so, it’s hard to blame her.

[scottwojahn]

Sixty Years On

“Who will walk me down to church when I’m sixty years of age?” - Elton John.

1955.

March 12th, the world lost jazz great Charles (Bird) Parker. Lockheed’s new U-2 rocket made its first official flight on August 4th, and on December 23rd I came into the world, a following twin to my brother Roger, eighteen minutes tardy and a bit underweight but ready to go.

Sixty years on, I’ve learned to value punctuality, and that underweight part is no longer an issue.

It’s been a wonderful life, to coin a phrase. I grew up in a loving home, was fortunate to travel the world and study, make a living, find music, art, love, fatherhood, friendship and blessings too many to count. And, while I do look back, there’s plenty of reason to look forward.

Of course, this 1955 model shows wear and tear, creaks and groans, dents, repairs and scars, all of which have conspired to add a fairly-acquired patina. In fact, my inside, battered and healed, and my outside, wrinkled and dry, are marks of a certain truth — that aging brings with it a unique beauty, a beauty that can only be earned in the crucible of living. It’s the beauty of understanding and forgiveness. The beauty of eyes that see myriad shades of gray between the black and the white. It’s the beauty of a heart that recognizes human brokenness as the one club in which we can all be members of equal standing.

I see that beauty in my loved ones and peers. Faces lived-in, imprinted with  histories of challenge and struggle, triumph and joy. Voices sometimes thick with emotion, sometimes crackling with laughter. Embraces filled with knowing, understanding and acceptance. This is the beauty I celebrate today. I’m grateful for this life, these broken places, this club of common understanding.

Sixty years on, my goal is simple — to live with more. More sharing, more loving, more kindness and laughter. And more sunsets. Especially sunsets.

[scottwojahn]

“Scott, you need to let me know which shoes I should wear.”

On the first Monday evening of every month, an anonymous ballroom in a tucked away, neighborhood motor hotel plays host to a most unexpected treat. Arrive early enough and ten dollars will earn you a seat at a sold out swing dancing event, complete with live big band and vocalists. Mediocre food, strong drinks, unflattering lighting, temporary parquet floor, It could be anywhere, USA. It can also bring tears to your eyes. In a good way.

Here, where the average age of the band is probably 70 and there’s not a  star-studded, botox-beautified dancer in sight, the mood is buoyant and the smiles are easy and genuine. Here, for a few hours, songs like “Pennsylvania Six-Five-Thousand” fill the air. Invitations to dance abound. Women of all ages wear flowing skirts, graceful in a spin. Men are courteous and mannered, and everyone seems to have a shared sense of appreciation - for the music, for the sheer joy of it all. Dapper fellows gently leading, women willingly taking cues, eyes sparkling back and forth in that warm personal space that only an experienced cha cha partner can provide. There’s a quiet thrill in it all and it’s a thrill to watch. The dialogue of dancers.

The best part? The whole scenario is devoid of irony. That can be hard to come by in these parts.

My folks went once and had a great time, promising to return the first of each month. But they haven’t danced together in 25 years, due to mom’s health. When my friend Karen offered to step in as a surrogate, dad agreed but didn’t make a big deal.

Then, a few days ago, he called. “Dad, why are you asking about shoes?” “Well, I was going to wear my tennis shoes, but if Karen is serious about coming, I want to wear my nice leather dancing shoes.” Indeed, he showed up in his jaunty best and, watching him dance again, wearing his debonair outfit and an irrepressible smile, warmed my heart. Next month, I’m gonna be out there on the floor, learning the steps and smiling right alongside.