Anticipating the Grim Reaper

 Many older people I know are preparing for their eventual deaths.

One friend is planning her funeral, naming pallbearers and dictating the hymns to be sung,

One uses a package (called Nokbox) that allows him to sort out all of his estate plans, passwords, possessions and final wishes for once he is gone.

Some write their own obituaries. I wrote mine, but I can’t find it.

I am in denial about death. Yes, I have made a will and signed do-not-resuscitate agreements. But since I have no known terminal illness, I haven’t any idea how I will go or when.

Sometimes you can prepare too soon. My wife, Pickett, planned for her burial almost 35 years ago by acquiring a wooden coffin stored at our church in D.C.

She had me take the ugly pine box home on our pickup truck. I suspect that our neighbors’ eyes popped out as I unloaded it onto our driveway. Did he kill her? Is he going to? Nobody called the police.

The coffin freaked out my poker friends when they went into our basement. If she ever died, they would be able to finger me as the first suspect.

I’ll have to admit that it came in handy once at Halloween. I rose from the coffin on the front porch in some ghastly costume, amusing and horrifying trick-or-treaters.

I probably would have refused to put Pickett’s remains in the awful pine box. But then she decided anyway that she wanted to be cremated, so what good was this chunk of wood?

And then we moved. What were we going to do with that warped box, which had gotten even dirtier and uglier with time. I finally found a theater company that accepted it gladly and with great admiration. Not sure what the play was. “Hamlet?” “A Christmas Carol?”

Well, now that I have begun this article, maybe I should start making some plans of my own, after all.

I shall have a memorial built for me in Constitution Square with bicycles, typewriters and pianos piled on top of each other.  Grand pianos only. If Bob Cage were still with us, I would have him build it out of junkyard parts. If it is good enough, I will have it placed on the Washington Mall.

And then I will have infrastucture renamed in my honor: The Mike Doan Heritage Hiking and Biking Trail and the Mike’s Mic Fine Arts Center in Clarksville. Trouble is, that would be quite expensive. My heirs might not like it.

I shall write the Mike Doan Requiem, the kind composed by my peers, Verdi, Brahms and Mozart. But counterpoint is too time-consuming to write. I will get AI to write my requiem!

So I really did that, but it’s all in Latin! And the phrases with “Agnus Dei”, “Dies Ire” and “Sanctus, sanctius,” are the same ones Mozart used. Plagiarism! I can’t have that! What’s more, it can’t write classical music.

So I had ChatGPT write me a song in my memory to the tune of “The Heart of Rock ‘n Roll” by Huey Lewis and the News.  Here is part of it:

“He was always rollin’, with a smile on his face,

Lighting up the room, no one could take his place.”

Hmmm. I don’t think this chatbot knows me very well!

So I will have a prestigious musician write and conduct my requiem.

 It will be performed by the Danville Symphony and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir at the Mike Doan Prizery Center in South Boston before it tours world capitals.

I select: Leonard Bernstein! What? Mr. Bernstein is no longer available? No one else could do it!  Then the whole idea just falls apart.

Granny camp’s Surprise ewards

I was quite frightened when Pickett told me she was holding a week-long “Granny Camp” in August. I wasn’t sure I could tolerate five children ages 6 through 9 for a week.

“Why not?” sh said. “We have done that at least 10 times before over two generations.” Good point.

It can be pleasing to hear children’s voices around the house for awhile, even if they can get awfully loud. So they knock over lamps, disrupt conversations, quarrel and get homesick. They are children. They can’t help it. I have learned to take a break and distance myself when it gets to be too much. Pickett, a former preschool teacher, has a much higher tolerance for chaos.

This year, the kids swam every day with teacher Zoey Plapp for an hour and a half (while I took a break). They got baby octopus toys and learned about these amazing creatures via books and the movie “My Octopus Teacher.” It is fun to watch them marvel at new-found wonders of our incredible world and universe.

For me, the most touching moments came when we had each child check out three books at the Halifax Library. We heard Sue Brooks, the story lady, tell them a tale about “Ten in the Bed” and watch her with a mouse puppet.

Then we started reading. I decided to help Delanie, a quiet 6-year-old who is entering first grade this year in Mechanicsville, MD. At that age, she shouldn’t be expected to read at all.

Delanie is in the third generation of a family that originated in El Salvador. Their mom, Joseline, has been like a sister to our daughter Sara, who helped out that week.

With some guidance on my part, Delanie picked out a book entitled “Are You Ready to Play Outside?” We looked at some words. She recognized one: “Yes.”  Then another: “The.” We sounded out “rain.” The second time the word came up, she knew it!. We started getting into bigger words, like “everything.”

After dinner, everyone was supposed to read a book (not a smart phone.) Adults were asked to pick out a child to help. “Delanie!” I shouted, as the little girl smiled.

When I almost forgot about it, Delanie came into the room with a book in her hand. “Mike, it’s time to read!” She ran to the parlor and sat there with her book. I followed her.

Again she knew “yes” and “the” and “rain” right away. I gave her lots of encouragement several times when she wanted to quit.

Finally, we reached the end. She grabbed the book and ran to my wife. “Pickett, I read the whole book!” she said and then went off to play.

I wasn’t sure who got the most out of this episode. She or me. It made me appreciate teachers, who do this every day. I have been reading a book by Thomas Merton called “No Man Is an Island,” which says there is a lot more joy in helping others than helping yourself.

I have tried to be the island most of my life, and I think Merton is right. You must share your efforts.

So I am sharing this story. With you.

I’ve Got the Password Blues. So Do You.

 I’m sure I am not the only one struggling with passwords on the Internet. I decided to write a song about it.

Password Blues

I’ve got the password blues, I can’t get  in.

My bank account is frozen and my wallet’s too thin,

What can I do? This just isn’t  fair.

I wrote it down some place, but I don’t know where.

 

Refrain:

Password Blues, please let me in.

Password blues, I don’t know my PIN.

Password blues, I lost my long list.

According to the Internet, I just don’t exist.

 

“Forgot Your password?” Now here’s where to click.

This whole awful process just makes me sick.

They texted my phone. But where’d I put  that?

I’ll have to call the bank and have a long chat.

 

They’ll give you a password but please don’t explode.

With capitals and numbers you just can’t decode.

It will pop up always in a a password app.

But when you need it, what happened to that?

 

Facial recognition, the new tech religion

Will solve this problem, require no decision.

But I’m wearing a mask or maybe a hat.

The website looks and asks: Who the heck is that?

 

 

To prove who you are and show you aren’t a trickster,

They’ll ask: How many cars are in this picture?

I just don’t know. My idea is better.

Give me your address, and I’ll mail you a letter.

-0-

 

I wrote a song in 2008 called “Blogger Blues” after a music host asked for a Labor Day song that wasn’t about manufacturing, mining or farming.  Immediately, my own profession came to mind. The song is not about me, but I know people in this situation.

Blogger Blues

My editor told me, we have to let you go.

We can’t sell papers anymore, we need a website pro.

Now I’m a blogger, a lonely blogger. I’ll be a blogger til I die.

 

If you go online, I asked him, why can’t you charge a fee?

 He said, haven't you heard? The Internet is free.

Now I'm a blogger,  a lonely blogger. I'll be a blogger till I die.

 

I've got 10,000 friends on Facebook. I'm on Tick Tok night and day.

I'm number one on Google, but I can't get no pay.

‘Cause I'm a blogger, a lonely blogger. I'll be a blogger till I die.

My wife brings home the dough. Where she gets it I don't know.

I wash, I clean, I cook the beans,

And she wants them done just so.

 I'm a blogger, a lonely blogger. I’ll be a blogger till I die.

-0-

It was heartwarming to watch the Halifax County High School band stage its two-week summer camp before the start of school.

Gilbert Baskerville, the band leader, and others taught the fundamentals of band music, formations and marching at the middle school (while the high school is being rebuilt.)

The 60 kids seemed to enjoy the camaraderie and the music instruction, and their parents probably liked them doing something so constructive. A lot of adults volunteered for lunches and other activities.

Go Comets!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Getting Some Shut-eye in My Old Office

When I told a former colleague I was returning to Washington for a few days, she said, “Why don’t you stay in the hotel that used to be our office building?”

What a great idea! This suggestion came from Courtenay Mullen, who visited our bed and breakfast in South Boston, VA., a few months ago.

Great idea, except: Why should I pay my good money to sleep in a building where I used to get paid to sleep from  1992 to 2009 (well for maybe 15 minutes around lunch time.)

The Hampton Inn hotel was built 10  years ago shortly after the Kiplinger Editors building was sold and the company moved to new offices. There was a nice display in the lobby of the new hotel with some photos of founder Willard Kiplinger, Austin Kiplinger and a staff meeting. The main floor, which used to be the company’s art gallery, is filled with tables for breakfast. What were all of those tourists in shorts doing in this historic space? Is some kid spilling cereal where the founder’s typewriter used to be on display?

The first thing I asked the front desk attendants was to have my old office back on the 8th floor. “We can only give you what is available,” one said. (Hey, that’s MY office!)  I got a room on the 7th floor, which used to be occupied by the magazine staff, but I was on the separate newsletter staff.  What? Sleeping with the enemy?

It overlooked an alley, and you could still hear the terrible beeps from the trucks backing up.

One of the elevators didn’t work. Well, that made me feel right at home! The elevator repairmen used to spend so much time with us, I thought they were employees! I wonder if it they still use the same guys?

 I sneaked into the basement and found two meting rooms, one called the Editors Meeting Room and the other the Kiplinger Meeting  Room. I tried to open the door of one. What should be the lead story this week? Was I late for today’s staff meeting? Oh, today was Saturday.  It was locked. The basement even had a swimming pool! Wow.

The neighborhood surrounding 1729 H St. NW seemed to have fallen on hard times. Citibank was still there, but so many office buildings were emptied out when employees could work from home. Even Starbucks was gone. The International Square food court may be kaput, but there is a new one, with mostly Spanish food. The tapas restaurant was fully booked on a Saturday night and the food was quite good. There is still hope!

How did I like the hotel? Well, not much. It was cheap for Washington, in the mid-$200s per night, but the rooms were small, one desk clerk was unfriendly and the breakfast was not very good: watery  oatmeal and rubbery eggs. After reading this article, my former boss, Knight Kiplinger, told me this Hampton Inn has the highest occupancy rate of any Hampton Inn in the country.

Our storied organization, just three blocks from the White House, certainly deserved a Ritz-Carlton or a Four Seasons chain. But that’s OK. It’s lunch time, where’s my sofa? Time for my 15--minute power nap!