When I was all shook up

I was lying in a hammock outside our Cluster Springs home when I was awakened by a rare earthquake on Aug. 23, 2011. From all of my years in California, I knew right away what it was, but I asked myself, “What coast am I on anyway?”

 

The earthquake did not do a lot of damage here, but it brought back memories of my home state, where earthquakes, mudslides, fires, drought and just recently floods have become a way of life.

 

In 1958, an earthquake shook the third floor of my high school building while I was in class, and we all ducked under our desks. The teacher, though unharmed, was the last one to come out.

 

That same year, our hilly neighborhood, built on a filled-in creek, started sliding after heavy rainfall. Our patio and front walk were badly warped, but some of the nearby houses were destroyed, and we all had to move. We bought a house below a dam on a big earthquake fault, another risky location, but it remained intact, even after the big earthquake of 1989.

 

I remember being spellbound as I watched that earthquake on TV right during the Oakland-San Francisco World Series. It was weird occurring at the same time as perhaps the greatest sports event in the city’s history. A portion of the Bay Bridge collapsed with cars on it, the worst nightmare I could imagine.

 

As editor of the Kiplinger California Letter, I was prepared with pre-written copy in case “the Big One” occurred on my watch from 2000 to 2009. Fortunately, it never happened.

 

My friends sometimes ask, “How could anyone live in that state?” I point out that the Gulf and Atlantic coasts are prone to hurricanes, and we have occasional tornadoes here. Trees have fallen on our house twice during big storms.

 

“We’re pretty safe in Washington, D.C.” some up there have told me. There are no big earthquakes, tornadoes are unusual, and hurricanes become tropical storms by the time they reach there. 

 

“Well, you live right in the middle of ground zero in a nuclear attack,” I point out.

Nowhere is completely safe!

This Teacher Rocked!

 

In case you ever think music teachers aren’t influential, think of Susan Stark.

 

As my 7th grade music instructor, she was expected to teach us the 1800s classical works and such traditional songs as “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and “Oh Suzannah,”

 

Not Mrs. Stark. When she saw me with a copy of “Song Hits” magazine, she enlisted me to bring in all of my copies from home and help her come up with some pop songs for the class.

 

 This was 1954, when “Stranger in Paradise” and “Mr. Sandman” topped the charts. She wrote the lyrics on the blackboard, and the class eagerly sang along.

 

Next she encouraged me to play an unorthodox boogie woogie song I had learned, using her classroom piano at Portola Junior high School in El Cerrito, Calif. My music went over quite well in a talent show, and one of the greasers persuaded me to play it again.

 

A year later, she rounded up a bunch of us boys for an assembly show in which we sang “What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?” unknowingly preparing me for singing it as a senior adult with the Washington Men’s Camerata.

 

Do you think I am writing about her impact on me? Well, no.

 

Four years later, she coached another boy, the son of one of my mom’s friends. “You collect records. Why don’t you bring some of your favorites, and we’ll play them in class and you can talk all about what you like about them,” she told him. They weren’t Beethoven or Mozart.  They included “I’m Walkin’” by Fats Domino and “Boppin’ the Blues” by Carl Perkins.

 

Next, the boy played some blues music at the very same piano I used. He didn’t stop there. He came back and played that piano after class, drawing a small enthusiastic crowd, including a drummer who wanted to join him. They went to the drummer’s house and collected others to play.

 

The boy, John Fogerty, and Creedence Clearwater Revival were headed to the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame.

 

“Mrs. Stark was a great inspiration,” he wrote in his book ”Fortunate Son.” “Rather than thwarting me when I went off to the piano to bang out some rock and roll–which I’m sure sounded pretty awful–she encouraged it and acted like it was the coolest thing in the world.”

 

Answering the Call

Every so often we hear a voice guiding us. Sometimes we listen and sometimes we don’t. I like to think it is from God, but some would say it is a voice in your head.

 

I had several jobs in which I heard “the call” to leave, to do something else. I thought, “No, it’s too hard to find another job. I don’t like what I am doing but I can get by here.” The boss sensed my frustration, and I was finished.

 

When I managed the Associated Press news desk for morning newspapers in Washington, the chief of the congressional staff asked me to join him. “Nah, I was brought from San Francisco to do this.” I had more influence on the news report where I was, though I was suffering from burnout after four years.

 

Later, my boss saw that and sent me unwillingly to cover Congress. It was a shock, but I absolutely LOVED it. Mixing with all of these famous people, and interesting young staff. I should have responded to the call several years earlier. It led to a stint as Treasury correspondent, where I developed a specialty in business and economics.

 

I got better at listening. After a music theory teacher heard me play a little on the piano a few years ago, he insisted, “You have to join a jazz band!” So I found one with a paid instructor and played in it for two years. Once we performed at one of Washington’s top jazz clubs.

 

Then there was the friend who told me, “Pickett Craddock is a single woman, Mike. You ought to get to know her.” Glad I didn’t ignore that!

 

Later, on a foreign trip, I told a stranger on our tour bus that I wrote news before retirement but that I was mostly interested in music now.  She looked me in the eye and declared, “You have got to keep writing!”

 

So I just did!

Special People in Our Lives

 Many of us have an “Uncle Fred” or an “Aunt Freida,” someone to look up to. As a toddler, I followed my Uncle Fred around the house, fascinated with this exuberant, talkative man. 

While I did love my parents, Uncle Fred was special, representing the vigorous outside world that my parents did not. He was a World War II veteran, one of the first soldiers to liberate Paris. Reading his diary is on my bucket list.

 

When I was maybe 10 years old, he took me in his car once on his insurance sales calls, describing the local history of every place we went in the San Francisco Bay Area. I was captivated by his account of the deadly accidental explosion at Port Chicago, Calif., in World War II.

 

When I began my cross-country trip to live in Washington in 1971, he told me, “Don’t go! You’ll be killed.” Well, he wasn’t always right.

 

Uncle Fred had aspired to be a journalist but never got the education. I guess I fulfilled some of his ambition. You could say we idolized each other. He would send me far too many newspaper clippings and write me long letters every few days, in the dot-dot-dot writing style of the ever-famous San Francisco columnist Herb Caen. He was almost as good.

 

Our only breaking point came when he sold my grandfather’s 1880 typewriter at a yard sale. I was devastated. The typewriter was so unique that you couldn’t see what you were writing on it–you had to pull a lever. It had separate keyboards for capital and small letters. It was one of the things that got me interested in writing.

 

Uncle Fred felt bad about selling it and went to the buyer and bought it back at a premium. But living 3,000 miles away, I don’t think I saw it afterward. After Uncle Fred died, my cousin shipped it to me as freight on a Greyhound bus.

 

I fixed it up some, but you could never get another typewriter ribbon like that. I took it to my office at the Kiplinger Letter to show it off in our old-fashioned headquarters, full of history and traditions.  It seemed like it belonged there. But I did risk upstaging the typewriter of the founder, Willard Kiplinger, whose writing device was a centerpiece in the museum below. My typewriter was 40 years older.

 

I was a little worried. My last boss was jealous of my grand piano, which was better than his. “I dreamed last night that I took a chain saw to your piano,” the boss told me once. 

 

So I didn’t really want Austin Kiplinger, Willard’s son, to see it. A colleague told this distinguished heir to the news operation about it, though, and Mr. Kiplinger came to my office. He said he was impressed, but he sure looked uncomfortable.

 

After I retired in 2009, I took it to our bed & breakfast, located in a house even older than the typewriter. It seemed to be a perfect place for it.

 

Thanks, again Uncle Fred, for buying the typewriter back!

 

I wonder if I will be someone’s Uncle Fred.

 

 

What I won't read--and will read

 

I read about four newspapers online religiously every day. But there are some stories I will not read. (Hope there aren’t any in today’s paper!)

 

–Any puffy Super Bowl feature article the two weeks before the big game.

 

–Sunday news analyses summarizing what happened during the week and trying to make it into a broader trend. (We used to call them “thumb-suckers”)

 

–Forecasts of any kind: economic, stock market, sports, politics or even weather more than three days out. I used to make forecasts myself. I know!

 

–Most anniversary articles, since nothing new has happened.

 

–Articles that start: “What you need to know.” Let me decide that!.

 

–Threatened lawsuits. (File it first.)

 

–Stories expressing “cautious optimism.” Meaningless words.

 

–Warnings of a government shutdown, which never happens.

 

–Retired politicians telling us what must be done (when they couldn’t get it done themselves).

 

–”These are difficult, uncertain times” stories. Well, all times are! Now, World War II and the Great Depression were difficult times.

 

What I will read:

–Happy, upbeat stories that reinforce the joys of living.

 

–Accounts of people surviving against all odds in disasters and other hopeless situations.

 

–Interviews with musicians, artists and other interesting people.

 

—“How to” stories, especially about technology. (Such as: how can I get my computer to save my password?)

 

–True crime stories.

 

–Big business disasters. Fat cats getting what they deserve.

 

–Scams and pyramid schemes. Glad I avoided them.

 

–Scathing reviews of really bad shows. They are so much fun! I would write them too if I wasn’t such a nice guy.

Perils and rewards of foster parenting

 

When we were foster parents, I would often attend required meetings on the fifth floor of an Arlington County office building. I would look down to the street and think: “So many of these people down there are  tearing down society. These are the people propping it up.”

 

There was a couple in their 70s who had dozens of foster children over many years. At this age, they decided against more difficult teen-agers and accepted only babies. Babies, in their 70s?

 

In Cluster Springs, I recently came across a family that has taken in 15 foster children over time, mainly through Halifax County Social Services. Why would they do that? “We did it to make the world a better place,” says Gertrude Slabach, who has had six of her own children with husband David. “Sometimes parents get tired and weary and make bad choices. The goal is to get the kids back to the parents if it is a safe place.” 

 

We got into foster care in 1997 not really to save the world but  because we felt our daughter Sara, age 8 and adopted from Honduras, needed company. . Sara got along wonderfully with a 10-year-old girl, our first foster child.  The girl  acquired a life-long interest in reading when a great teacher read the Harry Potter books in class. After she returned to her mother, we had a Guatemalan refugee whose father paid to send her to find work (unsuccessfully) in this country at age 14.  Her primary language was a Mayan dialect, but she knew a little Spanish and so did we. That was our language at the dinner table. She was miserable in this country and eventually returned to Guatemala.

 

After that, we took two girls whose mother had a crack problem. Another child lived with us for a few weeks and took to skiing immediately on a nearby ski trip. And last came a 14-year-old former Russian orphan who was troublesome but who admitted later she just didn’t want a family. She was quite intelligent, and when I thought she had quickly plagiarized a paper off the Internet, I found that it was really her own work. 

 

Then came the rewards. Last Thanksgiving, our first foster child came to our house with her husband and four wonderful children for dinner with Sara’s family.

  

We kept up with the last, difficult child, now an adult, who ended up getting a B.A. in psychology at George Mason University.  And when I left my last job in 2009, she showed up unexpectedly at my retirement party. With a big smile, she proudly gave me a big hug and a  huge bouquet of flowers. It was worth it!

Getting fit for freee

 

Laverne and Shirley are my heroes.

 Oh, not the girls on the old TV show! I’m talking about Laverne Adams and Shirley Moorefield, two women in my Silver Sneakers class at the South Boston YMCA.

They take turns driving the 35 miles (45 minutes) from Brookneal to South Boston three times a week for Silver Sneakers and a water aerobics class before that.

“It keeps me going. The exercise keeps my back from hurting,” says Adams. “Another thing is the wonderful people. When you get to a certain age you have to remain active to keep your mind employed.”

The two cousins, who turn 81 this month, go through a mild routine of lifting light weights, making aerobics movements and stretching muscles, sometimes seated in chairs. In the background is the pop music from their younger years, such as “Ain’t No Stopping Us Now” and “Solid As a Rock.” And they laugh as they play catch like kids with a plastic ball to improve their coordination and balance.

The group is led by Rona Collins, an enthusiastic teacher who shouts out encouragement as if they were a couple of generations younger. “Whoo! It’s happy Friday, everybody. You’ll leave here feeling great,” she says during the seated jumping jacks.

“Everybody’s sweating!” she shouts as we pretend to kick a soccer ball to the tune of Jingle Bells.

“Go on, you can do it,” we hear as we pretend our rubber straps are bows and arrows. “But if it hurts, don’t do it!”

Since Collins began in September the class has grown from about 15 to 25 per session, some drawn from the group she used to teach at the library.  Now it includes five or six men, including me on occasion. She remembers most people’s names and even passes out water to those who need it.

“This is more than about exercise,” Collins says. “It makes them feel good about themselves. And it is about fellowship and community.” 

At one session, a woman whose son had died thanked the others tearfully for sending her a sympathy card. Collins hugged her and comforted her after the class.

Remarkably, the program is free to those who are eligible! In fact, its members can use all of the facilities at the Y or join any of its classes. The costs are paid for by many Medicare Advantage plans and policies that supplement Medica

re coverage. The companies figure they save money if their insured are healthy. The Y gets people who wouldn’t normally come.

To find out if you are covered, simply go to the website, www.silversneakers.com. You only need your card, printed from the website, to enter the Y.

 

In Defense of Soccer

 

My uncle in Newcastle, England, apologized for the boring outcome after he took me to a 0-0 soccer game in 1974. It wasn’t necessary. I had a blast watching the action, including the famous “hooligans” disrupting the game.

 

As I watch the World Cup, I think soccer is more exciting than baseball, though I have been a lifelong baseball fan. I grew up going to baseball games with my dad in a sport where seven players stand around watching two teammates play catch most of the game.  

 

My interest in soccer grew when Sara was in kindergarten and Pickett organized a team in Arlington. She knew nothing about soccer but was good working with parents and keeping the kids from running off the field to pick flowers. It took a lot of effort to get the children to play defense rather than just huddle around the moving ball.

 

As the team grew older, games became more serious. The goalie always cried when someone scored, and several times I saw parents rush onto the field and argue with the referee. One team was given a dreaded yellow penalty card when a dad became too aggressive.

 

For three summers in a row, the team came south to our bed & breakfast for a soccer camp, led by an experienced coach. One year the coach of the Halifax County Middle School girls’ team led the camp and let the girls play her older team on the school field.

 

As play got even more serious in later years, the scores started coming down. At Sara’s high school junior varsity game, the team lost  3-0. “That’s not too bad,” I remarked to Sara’s recreational soccer coach. “Mike, in soccer 3-0 is a massacre,” he said. “An absolute massacre!”

 

The coach was Latino, like many of the players, whose families were from El Salvador. In weeks ahead, I was deeply touched by this coach’s admonition when kids on another recreation league team shouted “Mexicans! Mexicans!” A racist insult.

 

After complaining to the opposing coach, he gathered the kids together and gave them the kind of talk that only a Latino coach could: Don’t be intimidated. Be strong. We have all been through this. Don’t shout insults back at the other team. Instead, be proud of your heritage. Move on  with self-confidence.

 

A lesson not only in soccer, but in life.

How to see and hear better

 

It’s amazing how much technology is available for people with visual and hearing impairments. There are a lot of advantages to living in the 21^st century.

 

I have macular degeneration myself, meaning that my central vision is not up to par, even if the peripheral vision is fine. Glasses don’t help. It makes it difficult to see average-sized type in a book or newspaper.

 

There are lots of work-arounds:

--You can easily magnify type on a computer or tablet. Because I occasionally sing and play piano at the same time, I often print out the lyrics in large type and mark the jazz chords on top in large letters with a magic marker for performing in front of others.

--The cameras on tablets are remarkably useful. Before I go to a church service, I photograph all of the hymns and read them off a 12-inch ipad.

--A phone app can be used as a magnifying glass with a light and with adjustments for choosing distances. You can get a full-page magnifier to put on top of a book page.

—There are talking thermometers and a product called Seeing AI, which tells you out loud the name of the object where you have pointed your phone.

--Audiobooks are remarkably helpful. Computers, phones and tablets also dictate texts of any online publication, e-book or website. When I read back what I write for this column, I tend to miss typos. I can have the computer read back what I write and when it says a funny-sounding word, I know to fix it.

—Voice commands allow you to tell phones and computers what you want. You can dictate texts with remarkable spelling accuracy.

—On the highway, a GPS is useful to anyone, but its turning instructions are a big help if the road sign is hard to make out. On many newer cars, safety precautions include lane assist for keeping you in your lane and automatic stops when an obstacle gets in the way.

 

And there is aid, too, for people with hearing problems, which I also experience.

—Hearing aids today can be equipped with Bluetooth receivers, which send the signal louder from your phone straight to your ears. They’ll connect, too, with the music or audiobook on the phone, as if you were wearing headphones, like a teen-anger. You can groove to the Rolling Stones during a boring lecture or sermon, while the speaker thinks you are inspired by his or her words!

 

So think twice before you curse the latest technology and long for the good old days.

 

 

Are you old? Here’s how to find out

 

How to tell you are getting old:

--The hair cutter calls you “Pops.”

--Funerals are your primary social activity.

–The 12-year-old who stopped your VCR from blinking 12:00 is now retired.

–You look in the mirror and see your Dad.

–The “golden oldies” you now hear on the radio were recorded when you were in your 40s and 50s..

–Your son or daughter joins you in ordering the “seniors’ special.”

–The photo you think is of your daughter is really of your granddaughter.

-When you talk about a 45 record, younger people have no idea what you mean.

--You walk into a room and have no idea why you are there.

–You prefer matinees to a night on the town.

–Your bosses are all younger than you.

–You have outlived most of your doctors.

–”In Memorium” is the only section you read in your alumni magazine.

–Your friends only want to talk about their surgeries.

–Not until the end of a book do you realize you have read it before.

–Spam in your mind is a canned food your parents ate.

–What used to be party time is now bedtime.

–Nobody else remembers Twiggy or James Dean.

–Your former students are now the faculty.

–You still write checks. And you keep making the first two digits “19.”

–You realize you are older than the State of Israel and post-colonial India. (But not as old as dirt.)

–When a young adult introduces you to her grandmother, you find that she is younger than you are.

–The blaring rock music you grew up with is now streamed in grocery stores to soothe shoppers.

--You mail out Christmas cards. You use stamps.

–You and your child have matching pill dividers.

–You wake up with a hangover, but you had nothing to drink the night before