Five Short Stories for October

It is that time again! Shadows lengthen outside; summer has passed and the year wanes. I have been diligently working on a series of short stories to reveal to you during each week of the best (and my favorite) month of the year.

This autumn's tales are a slight departure from previous Octobers as you'll see. Not so much direct horror. I hope you will enjoy these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them. 

As usual, if these tales aren't your cup of Irish Breakfast, just hang on and my regular essays will return in November.

Beryl Almighty 

As a single mother of two elementary-aged children, Beryl struggles to find balance and her place in the choppy social structure of school-age parenting. Waking one morning to discover that she may have the powers of a god, Beryl finds out that even possessing godlike abilities may not be as beneficial as one might assume.

Gatorland Junction 

Fresh from a stint in prison and trying to put his life back together, Barry gets a job cutting the grass at a fancy apartment and condo complex in balmy Charleston, S.C. When a hot summer day turns stormy, catching Barry working by a retention pond, he finds himself locked in a battle against a formidable and ancient swamp dweller that has claimed the pond for its own.

Oh, Avatar

We have all created personas that do not really match up with the real us on social media. In this story, a man chronicles how his creation, which he used to build an idealized version of himself over the years, has taken on a life of its own and wants him gone. 

Earth Circle

John Kevin Eddington yearns to break free of gravity and fly away from the grief and loss of life. He has climbed to the top of one of the Twin Pinnacles, a nearly 800-foot stone tower in downtown Hantonville, to finally break the bonds of the earth and return to the arms of the woman he loves.

The Adventure of the Double Lady 

John H. Watson, doughty companion of Sherlock Holmes on countless adventures, takes down a book of previously unpublished tales in which he and the great detective face a malevolent mind, sinister and determined to undo a family home and checkmate Holmes at every turn. It will put the duo to great pains to solve the mystery and it could cause the masterful Sherlock Holmes his sanity.

Thanks for your dedicated readership and I hope you have a great autumn and a terrifyingly wonderful October!

A Head Full of Crows

Few things in life are harder to control than our own inner realm. The world pummels us with so much stimulus, so much emotional feedback, data, physical sensations, involuntary reactions (from sneezes and hiccups to the more—um—pressing needs below the bellybutton) it is amazing any of us can think or focus at all. Add those special alphabetical acronyms, like ADD or ADHD, among others and you will find it increasingly difficult just to maintain attention to one person speaking let alone an entire world of information. 

It is for this reason that I always laughed when the sensei on some martial arts show or movie told his aspiring pupil to “empty your mind”. It seemed like mystical nonsense back then, but it also seemed impossible specifically to me. My early forays into mindfulness were exercises in distraction and futility. If you can imagine a ruined castle or cathedral and that space is filled with hundreds of squawking crows and ravens, the din is exactly what the inside of my mind was like as I tried to “empty” it. My attempts to quiet the inner mind only managed to jack up my anxiety to levels that could tip me into a panic attack. There was no quieting that inner space. The more anxious I got, the louder the noise and the more upset those mental birds got.

For a long time, I managed to get along okay, as long as I only focused on one thing at a time. But life is rather like that scene from I Love Lucy, where she’s working the conveyor in a chocolate shop. Soon things would decay into hilarious chaos. Micki or my bosses would be talking to me and my mind was elsewhere. Meetings were a chore. Conversations were a nightmare. Add to all this the ease with which my inner self got stirred to the point of overstimulation and a healthy dose of emotions and anxiety and you can see the mental agony I was in. That was just one-on-one, or in reasonable small groups. In large, loud, open spaces with lots of people, like a store or the Fall Festival or the Zoo when it is busy, you can imagine my discomfort. Finally, just for fun, place a healthy dollop of social anxiety on top of all of this. I was in a bad way.

I was raised in a family that believed trials of this sort were caused by “powers and principalities of the air” which is a fancy way to say demons or evil spirits. Looking back now, I can see that many of my school issues, my problems fitting in, feeling connected all stem from the way my brain processes information and trauma at being told to ‘conform’ or to ‘try harder’ to fit in. There was no acceptance, no support, no help. The way I was, felt, saw the world had everything to do with me not believing hard enough in their worldview and very little to do with actual, legitimate mental health issues (issues, by the way, that everyone in our family has). This was also around the time that I started to learn that alcohol and nicotine really helped to calm the birds and allow me a space of internal peace. As a kid, most of my alcohol was supplied by my step brothers, but once I was old enough to afford my own (and legally), I started to understand that it provided me with a very useful crutch, smoothing the feathers of the cawing birds in my skull. 

That way lies madness. No substance, no matter how it appears to work in the beginning, can ever take the place of learning to cope with things without chemical assistance. The more I drank, the more I felt I needed to drink. The genie in that particular bottle made the ailment of the mind much worse without access to drink, so that the part of life that had once been nicely calmed by a drink or two, were jittery until several drinks were imbibed. Then, it was half a bottle of heavy stuff. You see the evil of it. The more I had, the more I wanted and felt I needed. Soon, no amount of alcohol would calm the birds and drinking those amounts has its own set of consequences. 

Finally, after a devastating set of circumstances over too many years, I got help. I stopped drinking. I got into a program. The longer I went without a drink (each day a record-breaking duration), the more the crows started to caw. Now, there was no magic potion to calm them. Now, I had to learn how to face the angry avians in my head, as I ought to have learned when I was a small person. There, family and religion were against me, but now, it was (and remains) my responsibility to deal with the sometimes maddening rookery in my brain.

Sobriety requires that I try to tune into my innermost thoughts and dial to the many swirling dark birds there to get at the root of how they got in there, why they prefer my head and how to manage things without addictive substances. The first thing I had to do was understand the nature of the birds themselves. They are not demons or evil spirits. In fact many of them are learned behaviors, modeled to me when I was young. Some are genetic propensities, handed down from generations. Some are trauma-based anxieties, again demonstrated by parents and family who had no idea how (and I sometimes think, no business) raising an intelligent and curious and sensitive kid. It took me a little time to understand that there was nothing wrong with me, per se. These were natural and commonplace among many young people of my generation. So I had to brave the inside of my head and learn to quiet my inner realm and look and listen and feel and think and remember and reflect and learn. All things I was desperate not to do for many years, and which now I had to face, if I wanted to heal and grow.

My first challenge was understanding the nature of some of my thinking. A therapist once told me that we see ourselves as our parents see us. Lack of confidence, social discomfort, and brutal internal dialogues come almost entirely from things we believe about ourselves because our parents made them clear to us in their own behavior. I’m not blaming my parents, here. 

They were only as good at the job as their own parents were, and I’m of a generation whose parents were raised, in turn, by people who didn’t talk about things, didn’t acknowledge mental health, pretended everything was okay and who didn’t (and often couldn’t) manage things that swerved anywhere beyond the status quo. It took being a parent myself to learn that no parent raises kids in a vacuum. Families are dynamic organisms being pressured by all kinds of challenges and personal issues. They were doing the best they could with the tools they had. I sometimes lament (even now) that those tools happened to be the childhood development equivalent of stone axes and animal skins.

As I reflected on my upbringing, trying to give grace to my parents, and to see how it must have been for them, something interesting happened. A large, black bird fluttered down onto a rafter and quietly preened its sable feathers. Each time I acknowledged the problem, accepted how things were and spoke a tiny word of forgiveness for something that, until then, I had blamed and held a resentment for, another bird settled. It had to be done again and again. Soon a whole group of black birds sat quietly, their beady black eyes intent on my inner voice.

Next, I had to look at how I saw my own actions. Here was a man with a serious disease that caused him to hurt the people he loved. A hundred times, maybe a thousand, I had acted badly, used hateful words, reacted defensively, argued when it would have been better to agree, raged when it would have been better to laugh, blamed when it would have been better to empathize. It took a lot of hard work. Looking at family is one thing. Facing one’s actions as they are, without excuse, is another. Yet, each time I did acknowledge, accept and forgive, another crow settled onto a perch. The work wasn’t just internal. I had to actually seek amends from all the people that I had harmed. Those birds swirled for a long time, because it took me a lot of work to be ready, but also a lot of time to muster my courage. Eventually, I got to a place in my life where I needed to forgive just one more person.

Being inside my own head was now a much different experience. Yes, the birds still got jittery and swirled and screamed. Yes, it could be raucous in there. But I was learning to gain command of the ebony wings. I could close my eyes anywhere, take a few deep breaths and bring myself back to a state of calm. There was just one large bird that still never settled, that sometimes swept past, brushing me with its feathers, or clacking its beak at me irritably. This was a larger, darker, more ominous bird. I knew it and it knew me and was used to me ignoring it. I had, for years, pretended that I could comfortably get by without dealing with it, but that particular raven knew this was a lie I told myself and its sharp, steely gaze said as much.

It can be hard, growing up. I had a hard time with it. Things weren’t great for my parents, either and I had to learn to accept that and forgive them. I had to forgive bullies, circumstances, friends, loved ones and teachers. I had to seek forgiveness for my own stupidity and hatefulness. What I hadn’t done was look at myself in the mirror and name the one person who still hadn’t been dealt with. One person, hurting, terrified, anxious, lonely, worried that he would never be good enough for anyone to love. By the time he grew into a man, feathers had sprouted from his arms, and his face had elongated into a thick, black beak. His eyes glinted with self-hatred. His mind replayed the folly of his former actions and cast censure on them.

Christian ideology is full of rules about seeking forgiveness. We are told we are sinners, that we will never be good enough. That no matter how much we seek forgiveness, it can only be granted by a special set of circumstances. Salvation, or forgiveness of all sin, can only come when we have perfect faith that the death of a demi-god cleansed us. This creates an internal dialog that repeats every time we are at fault, “You cannot ever be good enough, to be truly loved.” I grew up with this lie pretending to be not only true, but the unshakable Word of God. When you’re in a closed system, broken by the rules of that system, locked into the world your adults believe, even after you escape and learn to live like a free person, the whispers continue.

The other birds settled, but the largest one still swirled and screamed. Who could tell me I was good enough? Who could tell me that the lies about the state of my spiritual life no longer had power over me? How could I ever break the power of those ideas? Who could issue me the key to break free? Where was the peace of my deconversion, my sobriety, my new, healthier life? The bird swooped, I ducked, the other birds started to shuffle nervously, to squabble; black feathers filled the air. What had worked for the others? Looking at them, directing my attention and examining them; learning and growing. I gazed steadily at the largest bird and it settled before me. Like something out of Poe, the creature glared at me and I looked unblinkingly back at it. I could see the boy hiding in the feathers, the rubber band holding on the beak, the sneakers with taped-on construction paper talons. I could see through the disguise.

Here was a boy I knew and knew well. My first, knee-jerk reaction was to scold him for this ludicrous display, but then, I breathed. I asked myself why he was dressed like this, what was he hiding from? I took another deep breath and saw an adolescent, not dressed like a raven, but just a regular kid, gazing back at me with questioning, fearful eyes. I raised my arms to him and he slowly, with painful hesitation, moved toward me. The ruins are now silent. Every bird perched around the cathedral of my mind goes to stoney silence. 

Here is the boy and the man. Here between them is a vast, dark sea of words, confessions, tears and sullen loneliness. Here is a young man with hopes, dreams, a wish to have meaning, to be loved, to be of worth to someone. Here is a man, who has those things, but only because he got the help he needed only just in time. The words are not said aloud, but they aren’t unspoken. Here is perfect mutual understanding that can only come from the inside of one head. Here is forgiveness sought and given, mutually, simultaneously, sincerely. Here is a man, looking at the boy he was and accepting him, loving him without blame, resentment, regret or bitterness. Here is the boy, a well of gratitude, finally being loved unconditionally.

The ruins have been gloomy, until now, but light from a bright sun, settling onto the horizon pierces the dark. The crows unite in joyful cacophony. Then, one by one, they leave the rookery, and sweep and roll and fly, as only happy crows can. The boy disappears, so does the man, but a new person is formed in the union. He is a man, but his heart is that of a young person. It's not perfect, but they are trying. And, when you can love yourself and find forgiveness—the kind that is born of love and acceptance, not mystical rules and rituals meant to keep people miserable—the birds in your head get happy and things get better.

Epilogue: Nothing is ever perfect, nor does healing come without work. I learned early on that getting into a recovery program helps, but it is contingent upon spiritual health (this isn’t religious spirituality, but the triumvirate of mental, emotional and physical health). It isn’t enough to stop drinking. I’ve seen too many “oldtimers” as we call them, that have thirty or more years of sobriety, but who have not grown, changed or made any personal progress. My own progress is not to be set up as a moral example. I’m a work in progress and it takes daily effort to keep getting better. If I don’t do the work, I will have a rough day. Some days are a challenge because life can be rough and that can make any brain cage full of birds a little rowdy. I try to give myself grace and do the next right thing. It’s not always perfect, but things are better. For that, I’m grateful beyond caws.

With(Out) Power Comes Great Responsibility

We dashed off fairly early this past Saturday to go to Greensboro to shop. Eagerly, we donned our day-off duds and sped off up the highway after a healthy breakfast made with provender from our well-stocked fridge. First we headed to Ollie’s to look for deals on Halloween decorations. After, we got lunch and then headed to Costco to get some more provisions. We were just blithely enjoying day one of a long weekend, much needed after several grim and grueling weeks. As usual, we lost ourselves in Costco and by the time we were wheeling our giant buggy to our car, the storm was building and the wind was blowing hard. We got the car loaded as fat drops started to fall and got in, just as the bottom fell out.

I have driven through some wild storms in my adult life, but few were as hair-raising as that one. Saturday's storm was the heaviest rain and straight-line winds I have ever experienced. As we tooled along at not more than 25 mph, debris from the trees surrounding the highway filled the roadway and made our progress dubious at best. Everyone had their flashers on. Everyone trundled along. Small gatherings huddled under bridges and overpasses hoping to evade the shocking downpour. As we slowly neared home, our hearts rose into our throats in unison. Our big oak was on both our minds. We glanced at each other, trying to mentally and emotionally prepare for the inevitable as a huge bolt of lightning arced across the sky to the ground-shaking artillery report of thunder. We counted the blocks and noted the tree detritus as we lumbered homeward.

Fortunately, by some incredible miracle, our big tree was still standing—leaning as usual—and other than a few branches, everything seemed okay. When we got inside, we noticed that the power was out. Then my heart really sank. Few things are as frustrating as a power outage. One of the benefits of not living in the wilder parts of the county, is that we have a very trusty and sturdy electrical infrastructure. The power goes out regularly, but Duke Power has worked diligently over the years to make a self-healing power supply system. In recent years, even if the power goes out, it is only usually for short periods. We’ve been fairly lucky and generally, the situation has improved since we moved here.

However, after Saturday's massive, mainly red and yellow blob on the radar went shrieking past, thousands in Asheboro had to go without power. We were among them. The power died at 3:06 (based on our devices, not on the data sent by the power company) and didn't come back on until 7:49 a.m. Sunday morning. When we got home, we jammed our coolers with ice packs and waited until all the thunder had departed before putting things away more thoroughly. We played UNO on our screened-in porch with Jess, who had been hunkering downstairs, until Elliott got home from work. Then we went for supper and more shopping for more Halloween stuff, hoping to stumble back home to lights and power. Sadly, our hopes were dashed. 

Dejectedly, we went back to the screened-in porch to play a couple hands of Yahtzee by faux lantern light, before finally turning in. Our bedroom was silent; no fan, no music, no TV. Micki kept the lantern on low and covered it a bit, so we could see if we needed the bathroom, but otherwise, we lay there, until sleep slowly crept over us.

My own sleep was fitful. It was too quiet. It was much too warm. The day had been too stressful. My ears were continuously pricked for the sound of big trucks and the roar of chainsaws. I was also listening for the telltale digital chimes of juice reaching all our devices. I fell asleep, eventually, and woke several times, having dreamed the power came back on only to wake to disappointment. Eventually, Micki rose and asked if we could open a window for a little breeze, or go back to the screened-in porch. I opted for the porch. We were sitting quietly. I was still intensely groggy and grumpy. I went back inside to get a drink of water and use the bathroom and try to start the kettle (dang it!) and try to wake up to face a long day without power. I‘m not melancholizing at all. It was stuffy, hot and humid in the house and what I really needed was a steaming cup of tea and another hour to consider life before attempting anything as daunting as facing a full day without power.

Our en-suite bathroom has no windows. With the door closed and no lights, it is pitch black in there. My eyes kept darting toward our blue digital clock, to no avail. I cursed my stupid habits and washed my hands. Then I glanced at the clock again. It took my brain a minute to define the blinking 12:00 I saw there. Then it finally went in. By all the grace of the gods of electricity, old and new, the power had been restored! I leaped like a young gazelle back to the screened-in porch, where I gave Micki a meaningful look and then glanced meaningfully at the ceiling fan. She looked back at me questioningly and I repeated the move. She looked at me meaningfully, not understanding what I wished to convey. I glanced back up at the ceiling fan meaningfully. It was a big morning for meaningful looks. She glanced up to see the fan gaining speed. And, like for me a few minutes before, the lights came on, both literally and figuratively. She whooped with joy and we went in to enjoy the rooms and passages of our home as the HVAC system brought things back to a more modern temperature.

All together, we were without power for about 16 hours. As I drafted this over the long holiday weekend, some people were still without power. Several very large, very heavy, very old trees came down hard on the power lines and, until just a day ago, left upwards of 5 thousand residents bitter and too warm for much comfort. We both got cooling showers and went for breakfast and then I headed back to Greensboro to return the meats we’d bought the day before that had been lost to temperature and buy fresh. Micki spent that time emptying and cleaning our fridge and freezers of everything. When I got home, we stored the new foodstuffs and then went shopping to get fridge staples, like hotsauce, ketchup, mustard and milk and cheese. By the time we got home and repacked everything, we were both exhausted and opted to have baked potatoes for dinner. I had to run back out for sour cream and salsa.

All this got me thinking about how lucky we actually have been to this point. Yes, I had been making rather heavy weather both about having to endure the agonies of no power for not even a full day and for how slowly the power company had been to complete their repairs. We’d been without power less time than many people nearby, who were still enduring the lack of lightning juice in their walls. Why was I complaining? Why was I being such a baby? 

For thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands, humans walked, crawled, ate, slept, made small humans and died dealing solely with whatever air was around them in their yurts or hovels, caves or teepees or wigwams. They could make things a bit warmer, certainly, but not cooler. The steamier the air, the more the agony of our forebears increased. People who lived in the desert had no way to stay cool. They endured arid temperatures that dried them out and made water a precious currency. Anyone near the equator would find themselves with frizzy hair and drippy, fungusy toes. More recently, but no less comfortable, many of our ancestors decided that they would like to dress up for the Revolution or the Civil War in far too many layers of wool and felt and go out and fight in hot, humid fields of the American South with no reprieve in sight. 

Air conditioning, the amenity that I miss more than anything when the power winks out, is newer still and has its inception in the 20th Century. It has only really become ubiquitous in the last sixty or so years and is still not to be found everywhere. Places in New England or the Pacific Northwest don’t have A/C at all, and if you want it, you have to rent one to load into your windows. In the Schaefferstown house, we endured balmy Southeast PA summers with nothing more than the hopes that the cold, limestone walls retained even the slightest chill from the long and dark winter previous. That was hopeless. If anything, it was a nightmare of 18th Century proportions and I remember cursing whoever invented the weakly puffing table fan in my room for its sour breath of stale wind. If we lost power in that house, things went on as usual, because power had only come to it within a very short century.

If I think hard, it is probably my experiences in that house (once again) that have cemented in me such a distaste for a lack of power. I don’t like being hot and I have spent a lot of my life associating being inside during the deadly heat of summer with relief from such things. The irony is that the earth is getting hotter. This past summer was the hottest on record. Ever. That’s been the case for the last thirty summers. Meaning that (dare I age myself) since I graduated high school, the earth has increased by at least one degree to the temps we are seeing now. It’s only going to continue. With the heat comes more erratic weather. The more whooshy the wind and rain get, the more likely the power will go out in our neighborhood. Winter will not leave much room for easy breathing, because, sadly, El Nino in the mid-Pacific will likely cause a pretty moist and chilly winter for us and we’re right at the line where just a few degrees can mean the difference between a few inches of snow and a load of tree-breaking ice. The latter almost always means power outages.

So, we got lucky, all told. A bit of a long and daunting Saturday where we had hoped and longed for an easier, relaxing weekend, but otherwise, we were fortunate. A coworker said that she hoped a branch would dent her roof, so that the insurance company would take care of replacing the whole thing. We, too, need a roof redux but we won’t be quite that lucky, I’m afraid, which is probably a good thing. In the meantime, I’m thinking we’re going to have to adapt our thinking and possibly our home to expect more power loss and also, probably work to connect an alternate and temporary source of power so we can keep the fridge running and the water hot. I’ve already started shopping for generators. 

It's Been How Long?

Last week, on their way through from Illinois to New York for a wedding, my cousin David and his lovely wife Deanna stopped through PA and took my brother and his family and Pop Bare out for supper. Later, back at Pop's apartment, we navigated the realm of video chat platforms and I was able to see them and speak to them. It was incredibly refreshing and uplifting. I went to bed after that and it took me several quarters of an hour to calm back down. The last time we had seen them was via video chat at Aunt MJ's celebration of life in November of last year.

David, as I have written before, is our eldest cousin. He and I represent two bookends on the shelf that are our grandparents’ grandchildren. Coincidentally, we will both be turning 39 again, next year. Me for the eleventh time. 

As they regaled me with tales of their journey, and talked of how good it was to see Pop and Rich, et. al. David started reeling out numbers of years that it had been since we had seen each other in real life. Like his mother, my dear Aunt MJ, he has an iron grip on such things. The amounts of time that have passed, variously from his visits to PA, to our visits to Chicago, ranged at or beyond a decade. Far too long.

Somewhat more painfully, the last time we drove to PA to visit Pop Bare and Rich, was when Pop had his last major surgery, in 2021, I think. Since he moved to his apartment, I have been promising to get up there to get some things I asked them to save for me, but the years have gotten away from me.

Time was, we tried to get up there at least once a year. It was easier, back then. We almost always stayed with Rich. Rich's kids were little and could easily bunk up and make room for Uncle Dave and Aunt Micki. That's just how it went. During our last visit, we opted to stay at Pop's former domicile while he was in hospital. There were spare rooms enough to visit, but opting to finally take our advice after one of his knee replacements went dicky, he sold up and departed to a very cozy apartment. No room for the grown-up kids to stay. Also, Rich's house now has two, nearly full-grown teenagers (we Bares run to height) which makes it cramped for everyone.

However, these are not excuses, because we have had issues finding time in our own schedules to get away. The last time we went to Chicago (somewhat before Pop had his major surgery) to visit MJ, we were not yet grandparents, none of our kids were married and we didn't yet have geriatric pups. Also, it occurs to me that Evan and Sive living across the country has meant that we opt to go to see them when we have a free week and to see the grands when we have a weekend free. 

In short, the many practical considerations, familial responsibilities, distances, work, and the cost of vehicles, fuel and hotel reservations have kept us very local for too long. Add to all of this the odd, hypnotic way that time passes, lulling us with that potent lie that we still have time, and it becomes agonizingly clear that we have been remiss.

My family is huge and spread all over the country. Some, like our Evan, are west-coasters. Many are sprinkled liberally throughout the midwest, some live in New England. A handful of us below the Mason-Dixon line. Not only are we all over, but add the many roles, responsibilities, requirements of adulthood and each of us having our own small clans growing and thriving in those places, and the odds of us getting to see each other again become ever slimmer. We tend to think that the big family events, like funerals or weddings, would draw us all back together. It seems to require an act of Congress (very much the current iteration thereof) to accomplish.

My friend Matthew was away recently enjoying an entire weekend family reunion in the northeast. Happy as I was for him, I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. Not to join him at his family reunion, though perhaps that might have been fun, but to have a family reunion to go to of our own. What fun for the grandchildren to gather once more in some equidistant city, and spend a weekend telling stories of yore. It would be a treasure trove of tales, laughs, joyful tears and literal reunion with flesh and blood family.

In the meantime, David has proposed that we gather soon in Chicago, flying over to see a Blackhawks game and eat amazing food and reconnect. Rich is looking at his schedule, we are looking at ours. David also started a text group with our surnames, to which he attached a photo of himself, Rich and Pop Bare all together. Pop is going to send me a copy to hang up.

As the youngest of us, I was almost more of an age with David's children, being only a handful of years older. I came along so late, that the cousins feel like a brigade of extra adults, for whom I have always kindled deep affection. My cousin Stephanie and her husband Len taught me about great music and took me to see an R-rated movie well before I was 17. David and Josh always felt like extra elder brothers. Hilarious, brilliant, talented, and cool. Their elder half-sisters, who I only met later in life, took such great care of Aunt MJ, and have been such pillars to the family that I cannot but love and admire them as a matter of gratitude and respect.

Our other aunt's children (the middle sibling) is only in contact with two of her children and not to open the family pantry and reveal the secret skeletons, but the other two are no less awesome people for whom I felt a similar sense of awe and celebrity growing up. They all used to visit regularly, too.

My own proximity to our grandparents as a young person gave me an unusually rich experience with them. My grandmother was and remains one of my absolute favorite humans. All she taught me, all she gave me, all the traditions (peppermint tea with honey at bed time, fresh baked bread) that she started with me are treasures beyond the worth of gold. Being with my cousins could only deepen that experience by getting to see her through their experiences and memories. It would also be a great way to honor her and our grandfather, since being together could only awaken memories dulled by time.

At the celebration of MJ’s life, Cousin Beth spoke for me when she suggested that we all strive to unite the grandkids soon. Less an entreaty, more a kid (at heart) looking forward to seeing his cousins at Christmas, Hanukkah or Easter as he once did. I am still a thrall to the pull of kindred. Our wide-ranging clan, full of clever, brilliant, funny, generous, and good looking people hasn’t been all together in literal decades. I have always felt too far from them because of my age, but now I long to feel connected to the only other people in the world who share the exact amount of genetic history as one half of all our families. For them, maternal, for me and Rich, paternal, but no less potent for all that.

As grandparents ourselves, nothing would make me happier than for the offspring of our three boys to be as close as those boys are to their cousins. It would be great if they visited us regularly, but I could wish that they all visit one another regularly with even more enthusiasm. One day, as with our grandparents, we will not be here. Our grands will need one another to feel that sense of connection and belonging that only family can give. I can only assume, but I feel fairly robustly certain that my assumption is grounded in fact, that my grandparents wished the same thing.

A Book?

Several years ago, when I restarted this blog, one of the first people on my mailing list was my Aunt MJ. I had sent her a number of things over the years (and she to me), and one of her most constant remarks, other than an aunt’s pride or criticism about topics, spelling, format, was that I ought to write a book. One of my short stories, she said, was novel-worthy, and the part that I published was just a really good chapter and would have made a really good book. Flattered, of course, I still had that strong sense of doubt. I can write short stories. I like to read them, too, but I have never been able to muster the same stamina when it comes to working on one big project. I get bored or distracted or lose a sense of direction and the whole thing goes whooey.

A few weeks ago, while chit-chatting and slinging frisbees, my friend Matthew asked me a similar question, “A book?” I replied that maybe I would eventually get to it, but that right now, I felt too jammed up with work, volunteer responsibilities and the many nebulous things that people my age have to think about. I know that they were excuses, but until now, this set of well-worn reasons or justifications has helped me avoid taking that next step into a larger literary world.

Oh, I’ve considered gathering up a few of my short stories and creating what librarians call a compendium or omnibus, but that’s less about composition and more about structure. The stories are written, so they would only need revision and then it would be a process of ordering the stories, an introduction (I excel at those!) and then buying a series of barcodes. I may do it. I have funny feelings about a book of my short stories resting on the shelves here at the library. What if someone reads it? I’m not sure I could survive the event.

I actually think that discomfort—people might actually read my book—is part of why I’m so loath to start one. What people think of me now remains between them and their gods. I’m usually not at the mercy of anyone’s overt opinions. For the most part, I don’t care, but if I write a book or compile some of my stories and they go out into the public, what will people think then? This from the man who, several years ago, wrote a tale about sentient bamboo in a man’s backyard at the behest of the local theatre group’s live radio event. I read it outloud, too. I may not be fooling anyone, but I do have some trepidation. It’s less about what people think, though and the immense amount of work involved. I’m not talking about the actual tippy-tapping at the keyboard, either. I’m talking about the other stuff.

I’ve been working with Micki in her writing adventure for a long time. I have helped set up and tear down from a lot of book events, talks, teas, author invitations, programs at libraries and in bookshops. We’ve done events where she’s the only author. We’ve done huge, regional events where there are writers of every possible level and booths as far as the eye can see. It is a lot of work to market one’s book. It is a tough and sometimes cut-throat realm in which to try to get one’s intellectual property into the hands and minds of the people for whom you’ve written your books. Micki is an amazing promoter. She’s a genius at marketing, so she has real talent and skill when it comes to such things. The very idea of sitting at a booth and trying to get people to buy my book fills me with a level of dread that makes going back to school seem like a walk in the park. I love helping her with her books. I know that she would help me with mine, but I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to actually do it.

And, I ask myself as I turn back and open a long-dusty project that I started years ago that is close to my heart, what's the point of writing a book if you’re not going to promote it? It is one thing to compose, create, and (for lack of a better term) Frankenstein all the little bits of plot and backstory and exposition and dialog and description together into a draft; revise it, fix a bunch of issues, revise it again, get help from a ‘beta reader’, re-vise it again and then upload the whole thing into a self-publishing platform, choose a cover, buy several boxes worth and hand them out to people you hope will enjoy them. It is entirely another to be burdened with the unbearable need to write amazing tales, create amazing characters that come to life when you read them, and try to get them into the hands of people that will love them. A writer these days has to do it all. The odds of getting a ‘book deal’ with one of the big publishing companies is as likely as falling into a black hole, getting sucked out the other end into an English garden with a steaming cup of Earl Grey on your lap and Winston Churchill by your side. It’s not very probable at all.

But Dave, the libraries and bookstores are full of traditionally published books. True! And it is not easy. Sending your work to publishing houses is a nightmare of rejection and failure. If you write a good sci-fi book, they’re looking for fantasy. If you write fantasy, they’re looking for romance. If you’re writing nonfiction, several other “more well known authors’ have written on that topic already. It is beyond daunting. It is actually frustrating. Then they say that to get published you need an agent. So you try to get one and the goalposts move continually there, too. It’s not a fun realm to dwell in. 

Then there are the local writers. Almost all of them are wonderful and supportive—a great community to be part of—but all of them are trying to accomplish the same thing as you. Any bit of success that others accomplish can make one’s own dreams feel futile. Any successes that one manages can make others resentful or feel threatened. It hasn’t been our experience often, but it can and does happen. It’s hard to get one’s work to rise above a thick and generally talented base of writers all attempting the same thing.

All of these are daunting to me. You don’t write a book in a vacuum. However, more than anything else, I don’t have the chops to do it. For all that I write on a weekly basis throughout most of the year, none of it could be put together into a book or find other ways to cohere. The fact is, I’m trained to the short format and that’s where I’m comfortable. 

Micki swears—bless her—that I’m actually capable of doing it, I just haven’t gotten to the story I want to tell yet. Her most recent series is excellent. Not only is each book a wonderful novel, but the five bind together to tell an overarching tale. She worked hard on them. She dug deep and found something that she really believed in and put it out there to change lives (and it has!). Her books are uplifting, encouraging, and educational. They teach about conservation of the natural world without being preachy. She has managed to create characters that teach lessons, stories that create hope. She’s won several prestigious awards along the way, too. All of these things she says I have the ability to do, but lack the belief in myself to do it.

She may be correct. The reality is I’m a little overwhelmed by the urge to write, sometimes, but I don’t think any of it is really worth the effort to publish a book, even if I had one that rose to the level of long enough to be published. 

Aunt MJ did sort of make me promise to at least try. I told Matthew that I might try my hand at it, if there is anything left of my brain when I retire. The old Google Drive is full of partial and half-completed tales. I just get bored with them. “Write something you would like to read,” Stephen King or somebody said. Well, yeah. The problem is that so much of what I write rarely keeps my interest. Sometimes it does, but it is rare. I much prefer the short format for both sides of the coin, anyway. On the other hand, maybe writing a book is like writing a series of short stories and sewing them together. If that is the case, I may be able to scoop victory from the jaws of defeat. We shall see.

In another month, when October starts, I’m trying my hand at a few longer-format stories. One might even come in two parts! Anyway, stay tuned for that, but in the meantime, I’d love to know what you think. Would you want me to write a longer format book? Fiction or non? Let me know in the comments!

Accomplishment Panic

We were heading to one of our weekend adventures recently, when we realized that it was Ethan and Melissa's anniversary. In the four years that they have been married, they have given the world two very beautiful girls that are the light of all our lives. Micki then recited all she had managed to accomplish in the same period. Almost everyone knows that Micki is an incredibly accomplished person. We were driving at the time, or my head might have spun to listen as she listed everything she’s managed to do—with great aplomb—in just four short years.

She published the lion's share of her 5 book series, won several domestic and international awards for those books, got her masters degree, taught for three years (middle school!) She also took on her current role as director of marketing for our community college and just signed a contract to redo her children's chapter book series called Thurston T. Turtle Moves to Hubbleville.

During the same four years—and here's the point of this essay—I really haven't done much at all. I haven't been coasting, or anything, but my list of goals met is pretty sparse. It’s positively dismal compared to Micki’s stellar list. It made me a little self-conscious. Then, I started listing the accomplishments of our kids in that same four years and I rapidly found myself completely outpaced in the accomplishment tournament.

All three lads are well-educated, brilliant, talented, and hilariously funny. They are successful at their respective jobs, and have slowly but doggedly climbed their corporate ladders. Their significant others (one wife, one fiancé and one serious girlfriend) are equally self-possessed, brilliant and hardworking. They're still young, but I shall look on their future endeavors with great interest and pride. Then I thought of our nieces, their families and my brother's kids. All of them are so accomplished. All of them were way further ahead in their lives, than I was at their ages.

I mentioned this and Micki made several concessions for me. She said that I had done a few things over the years, too. Like what, I asked. I restarted this blog, I wrote a dozen or so short stories, I went from walking at the YMCA to consistently running three times a week. These were just the personal ones. She mentioned going from a regular board member of a local non-profit to the chair in that time, also several successes at work.

I thought for a moment as the countryside passed outside our car windows. She wasn't entirely wrong. These were fairly prosaic accomplishments to me. Nothing on par with winning book awards or crossing the stage with a masters degree. My life is pretty quotidian. I'm surrounded by brilliant, talented, hard-working and successful people, a fact which, in itself, makes me extremely proud. I'm not saying that I am jealous. However, my little accomplishments aren't quite on the same level. 

The more I thought and meditated on this over the next few days, the more I wondered what was at the root of my sense of disconnection from accomplishment. Micki had given me a list of things that I had done that showed that I wasn't just a human lump. Why did they feel silly by comparison? At length I came back to that word—comparison—and saw the crack in my thinking. 

It is one thing to compare prices or deck stain colors or the duration of different routes. It is entirely another to compare one's life with others. This has the tendency to make one feel somewhat unhappy. The word kept floating in my head, when I remembered the adage, “Comparison is the thief of joy”. I started to see light in my mind.

The adage is right, to a point. Comparison may also be what inspires or impells a person to work harder, do better, take chances. I realized that I was focusing on the wrong word. It was joy that I needed to think about. In my head, I swung the ship of thought hard from ‘comparison’ to ‘joy’. Here was a destination I knew well. This was a place I had become comfortable in. Joy, for me, meant shifting from thinking my own accomplishments have no gravity or heft, to immersing myself deliciously into a very fulfilling life. 

If I were to list all the things that bring me joy, I would soon dozy the heads of my readers and wear my thumbs down to nubs. That's a good place to be. My wife, my kids, my work (generally), our family, our traditions, they bring me great joy. That joy forms the tectonic plates upon which my life is built. And for that, I am incredibly grateful.

In my mind as I performed this mental exercise, I came down hard on gratitude. I have a lot to be grateful for. The life I have is made up of all of the celebrations, joys, moments of great happiness and the stratum of pride I feel at all times for my loved ones. That is a kind of wealth that exceeds riches. One of my best accomplishments is that I have been here, sober and recovering daily, to experience it, share in it, feel pride and love for the accomplishments of my family. I am a very fortunate man. Understanding that fundamental fact—acknowledging that, accepting it, thrilling in it--has been a treasure I cannot even begin to fathom; a king's ransom of joy for this man.

Subjecting myself to comparative thinking is good. Given the chance, I have excellent examples to emulate in my own journey. And maybe I will write that novel or long-form nonfiction book. That's not a priority now, but it could be in the future and I'm sure not going to draw a line under it yet. Aunt MJ would have—in fact did—insist that I at least try my hand at it. Success is not the point, of course, because just attempting something audacious is really an accomplishment. 

In retrospect, leaving PA and coming to NC and starting a family and taking on all the challenges and joys of being a husband and a father is the best and remains the most rewarding accomplishment of my entire life so far. So, in future, when I am feeling a little short on my own accomplishments by comparison to my talented, brilliant, incredible wife, kid and family, I will remember just how lucky I am to be here and share their glory, but also the decisions that got me here. 

A Man for All Eras

If you asked me who my favorite fictional character is, I would—at first—be hard-pressed to single one out. There are so many. I might cite Samwise Gamgee, Aragorn or Gandalf from Tolkien’s Middle-Earth. I might also mention Lovecraft’s Randolph Carter, or Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin. There’s also Winston Smith (1984) and Guy Montag (Fahrenheit 451). For historical or non-magical characters, I’d have to mention the Finches from To Kill a Mockingbird and Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. I also love Myshkin from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot and Alyosha from The Brothers Karamazov. It’s not hard for me to find that this list, upon careful consideration, goes on and on and on. 

However, of all of the fictional characters who have spoken to me, and who seem relevant for our time, there is only one who manages to rise to the occasion in every possible way over and over again. Sherlock Holmes. My readers will know and no doubt will have seen this answer coming, but I think it will surprise you to understand why I think that he is the man we need in our current crisis. The Victorian Era was not so different from our own and though there are obvious dissimilarities, it is also clear that the fictional Holmes was a man of incredible moral and ethical sensibility, as well as being a brilliant thinker and observer. He’s coldly rational in an upturned world; he’s methodical when most rush to judgement; he takes care and is dedicated to the truth not just because it feels good. More than all of it, Holmes represents a potent and unavoidable fact about humanity: our minds (and ourselves) are only at their best when we lean toward rationality and reason, rather than emotion and reaction.

It may sound a bit silly to put a fictional character up as an exemplar for our very real and very difficult modern problems. After all, real dilemmas call for real people to solve, right? Actually, though, there’s a neat loophole here. Most of the people we look up to, the heroes from history, the mythological entities some of us worship, the legends that inspire us, and even the stories that fill us with hope are, essentially stories, just like the fictional tales we read. This isn’t to say that Thomas Jefferson or Ben Franklin weren’t real, but our understanding of them comes from stories, just like with Holmes. Interestingly, many people thought that Sherlock Holmes was real back then, and flooded Doyle letters begging for the detective’s help. It’s even a well-known fact that he used some of Holme’s “art of detection” to solve crimes in his own time. Even if he isn’t real, though, Sherlock Holmes can still teach us some very important and useful ways of dealing with modernity’s stickiest troubles.

"It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts." — A Scandal in Bohemia

What could be more modern? In a world connected by a giant, convoluted series of tubes all of which floods each one of us with information, it can be hard to filter out all the noise. The world has become a nightmare version of the worst of Holme’s above quote. Everyone—yes, even you and I, dear reader—have been consistently twisting facts to suit theories. This is why so many people believe in nonsense, like flat-earth or anti-vaxx conspiracies. They backed up their beliefs with dubious sources online that support what they want to be true, rather than what is. A confirmed rationalist, Holmes never made a decision based on information that he wanted to be true, but only on what was available, regardless of what would help solve the mystery.

"Data! Data! Data! I can't make bricks without clay." — The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 

Holmes is often portrayed as solving crimes which makes the client (or Dr. Watson) reel with the power of his skill. Even the reader wonders how he can so easily point out so much, with no more than a brief glance. In fact Holmes isn’t just looking, he’s observing. In almost every story, after he demonstrates his skills, Holmes goes back and explains the trick. Time and time again, he shows Watson and others that the most important thing needed to solve a crime or mystery is data. Most of us cannot do the tricks that Holmes did. However his techniques—like close observation and deduction—are quite useful in real life, if we take his advice to Watson and apply them.

"You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear." — A Scandal in Bohemia 

Most of us look at our phones a lot. Some of us look at our phones a dangerous amount. These tiny and very useful tools have become extremely addictive. They do this by a careful manipulation of our reward centers, which makes us need the stimulus, but without any real or measurable benefit. It also makes us see things, but not really observe them. Hours of scrolling dulls the mind. If you asked me what the last reel I looked at on Instagram was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I know I looked at it, but I have no idea what it was. 

And here is the point: we see, but we no longer observe. This became apparent to me, when I had an issue with a person and I had to call the police. I had just looked at them, but when the dispatch agent asked me to describe them, I couldn’t remember what they looked like. Thank you Social Media. So I have limited myself to no more than nine minutes a day of scrolling, using the inbuilt safety timer. It seems like a very short time, but I’m also balancing that limit with intentional observation exercises, to re-train the cerebellum to not just see, but actually observe and remember.

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." — The Boscombe Valley Mystery 

It was right there. I saw it with my own eyes. The news was obvious. The famous writer had died and I was crushed. News spread like wildfire. No more stories, no more excellent books, no more genuinely spine-chilling tales of the macabre. And then, the writer spoke up. The whole thing was a hoax. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even ailing. He was fine and we were all victims of a false death claim. I went back, then, feeling foolish and looked at what it was I found so credible. It looked like it had been put together by a three-year old. Given a minute and a little more observation (see above), I would have recognized that it was fake. These days, thanks to the nefarious skills of AI, it is even more difficult to tell when something has been faked. Just ask the thousands of people who had their likenesses used and put online nude and in compromising positions by Musk’s AI platform. It might not be real, but it is dangerous and harmful.

These images and claims appear obvious to us and yet, they are not real. Holmes was right, there is nothing more deceptive. We have to train ourselves, not only to observe, but to be mistrustful of what we’re being shown until we have all the facts. Sometimes just a bit of common sense and patience can help us step free of the swamplands of Internet fakery and into the light of reality and hard facts.

"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important." — A Case of Identity 

This is one of my favorite quotes. Details matter. I’m not a detail-oriented person. Like most visual people, I tend to take in the bigger picture rather than the minutiae. It’s hard for me to focus on the little things. In my work, especially, though, I have had to learn this lesson and make it my own axiom. When we miss the details, we cause ourselves much trouble. It might not seem like a big thing, but when solving a technical issue for library patrons, or getting the data-entry of stats right, or even making sure that we have all items on a meeting agenda, the little things are what makes the difference. It’s how I handle those small things, too, that influences the bosses when they look at my performance. They know I care about my work, and they know I’m here to help, but if I’m sloppy or shoddy or take the work with broad strokes when a fine brush is needed, it will show up in my evaluation. The details matter.

"I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose... It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls." — A Study in Scarlet 

I have long subscribed to Holme’s concept here. What we put in our heads stays in our heads, regardless if it is useful to us or not. Uncle Dan used to say, referring to learning and packing for camping, “It is better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.” I have applied this to most of my life, which is why my brain is full of useless trivia, movie quotes and partial song lyrics. In fact, Holmes was right; the mind is a finite resource and if it is chock full of stupid information, like a hoarder’s garage, then there is no room for useful things.

The idea of a “mind mansion” is one that I’m fascinated with. For years, I had trouble remembering my brother’s address. Then, having read a treatise on this concept, I decided to try to apply the principle. I closed my eyes and in a state of semi-meditation, I imagined the address as if it was floating before my eyes. I then took it in my hands (in the mental picture) and set it on a shelf and placed a dancing tomato on top of it, (the tomato was a trick suggested by the writer of the treatise) and to this day, when I scramble to remember Rich’s house number or street name, I just close my eyes and think of the dancing tomato and it jumps to mind. 

I’ve successfully done this with countless other things that it is important that I remember, though my head isn’t full of dancing tomatoes. I think of something silly for each item that needs remembering, which helps as a mnemonic device. Holmes (and apparently Doyle) were far better at this trick. Apparently Doyle used a similar trick when he was studying to be a surgeon, which requires a limber mind. HIlariously, to prove the effectiveness and seriousness of the concept, Watson tells us that Holmes had no idea (and didn’t care) whether the earth rotated around the sun or vice versa. It didn’t matter to him, because it had no effect on his ability to remember the essentials to solve crimes. It wasn’t ignorance, though, it was conservation of space in the finite brain.

"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius." — The Valley of Fear 

I see it all the time. Someone with lots of knowledge, like Neil DeGrasse Tyson or Bill Nye says something in a video or podcast and the comments section becomes a sewer of hatred and vitriol. When Nye agreed to debate Ken Ham more than a decade ago, the famous Biblical Creationist who built a “life-sized” Noah’s arc in Kentucky, it was obvious to anyone who hadn’t drunk Ham’s Kool-Aid who had the upper hand. But Ham and his supporters weren’t likely to believe actual science. Meanwhile, in a slightly less well-known interaction, Nye was called out by another scientist about something he had said, and immediately posted a video correcting his mistake. The mediocre fans of Ham (and Ham himself) couldn’t acknowledge that their dear spokesperson was wrong, but the man he “debated” readily adjusted himself when corrected by an expert in the field. This was Holmes’ (and Doyle’s) way of pointing out what we now call the Dunning-Kruger Effect, but I like how it is put in this quote far better. And it is an important lesson for all of us to learn.

"Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons, with the greatest for the last." — The Red Circle 

The most dangerous mentality is the one that thinks it has learned all it needs to know. Certainty is deadly and in the modern era, this is so common that it is epidemic. Everyone knows all they need to know. Unless it outrages them or keeps them emotionally engaged, few average people want to learn anything new. This is a constant gripe between me and Pop Bare, especially when we talk politics. Everyone he doesn’t like is a communist. I’ve explained it to him a thousand times. I’m sure I’m like this, too. My coworkers or family might wish I updated my thinking sometimes. I sure need to—we all do.

But as Holmes suggests, here, we ought to be constantly learning and building our knowledge base. It is a joy to come home each day and feel like I learned something I never knew before. I try every day to do just that and each mistake I make provides an important lesson. I hope I never stop learning or feel like there’s nothing else to learn. That’s the mentality of a closed system, or a tyranny.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." — The Sign of the Four 

One of my favorites, and probably the most well-known quote—certainly the most quoted—I have this one hanging on the wall in my office. It is a principle of economy, rather like Occam’s Razor, that might fit in the same context as other intellectual razors. It is a check against intuition and a means to calibrate the likelihood of an event by bringing the intellect to bear, rather than the feelings. 

The modern era is one of emotion; how something feels to us, especially a gut feeling, seems to have more weight than a coldly mental observation. This might be a natural or knee-jerk reaction at the moment, but it is just that: a reaction. Here Holmes is saying that we can do a bit better. By applying a cold and rational thought process, we may not like the answers, but we can be assured that the emotion is removed and therefore the treacherous landscape that emotion sometimes causes.

It’s not that I expect everyone to feel the way I do about Sherlock Holmes or the Doyle stories. They’re not for everyone. But aside from the stories, few fictional characters have such practically applicable ideas that really can make a positive difference not just as a subject of Queen Victoria, but also in the modern world. Holmes really is a man for all eras. 

Straight Shootin'

I’m not a naturally confrontational person. Aside from (now far rarer) arguments with friends or family, I’m unlike the Bares in this way. Pop Bare and the rest have no fear of saying what they think in public or in private, consequences be damned. I’ve always been a bit more peaceful, but then, as the youngest, I learned that I would get belted if I spoke too openly to anyone. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten a little less patient, especially with the public, with people who ignore the rest of us, behave badly or in any way forget that—to quote George Costanza, “we are living in a society”. It’s been a long journey from skittery to unflinching, but I have had the benefit of many years of on-the-job training. As our society has suffered the ravages of this modern era, people in front-facing jobs have had to learn to adopt an assertive tack or be squashed under a tide of rude entitlement. My own grit has come from rough personal experience, some from direct contact with the masses. Certainly, there are some people who may be more naturally suited to saying what they think. For me, though, it has come at length and with work from a desire to be better at dealing with the sea of nonsense in the public square.

I always admire people who, like the rest of the Bares, despite social norms, taboos, fear of embarrassment or impending loss of friends or work, can just say what they're thinking. It doesn't take them to the top of any social standing. That’s not really the point. The point is to say what’s on one’s mind. It’s about communication, even when it is a bit rough. 

Most generations after mine (Gen X) tend to react very badly to people speaking directly. I get it. It's one thing to be frank and honest. It is entirely another to be hateful or unkind. I think there is an art to saying what needs to be said and being courteous at the same time. However, there comes a time when courtesy fails and all that remains is the need for straight shootin’. Most situations in the home or as a civilian never rise to the level where one needs to be verbally tough. But when one ventures out into the wilds of society, being unafraid to say what needs saying is a powerful tool.

At work, professionalism dictates that we watch our tongues when treating with some individuals in a candid and up front manner. Customer service methods taught to us and reinforced for decades make front-facing workers a little more subservient to the clientele than we normally would be in regular life. There are a few things one just cannot say while clocked in. That is perhaps for the better. No one wants to deal with Linda in HR. When interacting with the public, though, things can become rather unpleasant. Ask any of my coworkers, who can forward you documentation of their countless interactions with difficult people.

I regularly witness or partake in conversations with members of the public where I come away feeling worried for the state of humanity. People seem to have become less able to hear and process information. They certainly have become averse to responsibility, accountability and trustworthiness. Some evidently believe that the way they speak online works just as well in real life. I won't dig into the myriad reasons why this is in this essay. Generally speaking, there are some folks out there who could use a little more straight shootin’. I've had one or more moments in the last year when I’ve had to act in loco magistratus, (standing in for the police), until they arrive. I’m routinely called to deal with people who have forgotten how to act like civilized humans in public. My tolerance for such behavior is waning and it’s bleeding over into my non-work life, too.

I was wandering around at a store recently, and I heard a ruckus in the next aisle. There was a time when I would have moved away or left with celerity in such a situation, but these days, I'm not so skittish. I moved to the aisle where the fuss was, and was quickly aware of a developing situation. A young female worker was being viciously upbraided by an older woman who apparently had nothing better to do than unload a lifetime of bile at the poor girl. When my presence in the aisle didn't change the situation, I cleared my throat and interrupted pointedly and asked the girl if she could help me find something a few aisles away. We left the older woman—call her Mrs. Vinegar—standing there stammering. Then, when we were moving and clear of Mrs. Vinegar, I asked if the girl was okay and told her I would be a witness for her supervisor if she wanted. She told me that Mrs. Vinegar was prone to such outbursts and that this was nothing new. The whole staff was on edge the moment the woman came in.

I had gone back to browsing when I saw a man who looked managerial approaching with the female worker in his wake. He asked me a few questions, and I verified what I had witnessed. He thanked me. Later, as I purchased my items, I saw the manager laying into Mrs. Vinegar. He made it clear over her loud protests that she had one more chance before he involved the constabulary. She scoffed and threatened to take her business elsewhere. He then became my hero when he told her calmly that he very much hoped she would do just that. I felt akin to the manager and his employee. Here were people whose work was inventory and evaluations and schedules, and they were having to deal with a tiny focal point of nastiness in the shape of a senior citizen. 

I’m usually able to muster a little patience when helping some people. There are a handful for whom my patience has run completely out and with whom I have an internal bet with myself about how long it will be until I reach the end of my tether and haul up my slacks and weigh in with verbal cannonfire. Their names are not important. There was a time when I would never say boo to them. It would have been unthinkable for me, like the good manager of the store, to let them know for all to hear how happy we will all be to see the back of them. The idea of confronting anyone made me jumpy, as if to do such a thing would be to put my head on the chopping block, but the times call for a more direct reaction.

We have better years and worse. Since the pandemic, the number of active loonies seems to have eased up a bit, but rather like a hornets nest, it doesn’t take much to stir some people up. I was 34 when I started in this role. I’m now nearly fifty. The intervening years have been one long generally good series of interactions with essentially nice folks. However, as the time passes, the difficult people we have to deal with seem to get more difficult. Just this week, as I write and revise this essay, we’ve had a few interactions that would curl your hair.

Only once thus far, I'm happy to say, have I had to face down someone dangerous but I had backup and the police were already en route. It could have gone very badly indeed. However, this individual had burned out my patience and I was no longer able to fake tolerance or professionalism. I felt no rage in the moment, just an icy chill and an intense calm. I only wanted to get the man out. He was behaving extremely dangerously. I put myself between him and my coworkers and members of the public and quietly told the man to leave again and again until he finally left. I ignored his bravado and didn’t respond to his threats. I didn't put my hands on him. My coworkers came to my aid and together we got him into the hands of the police. It was nothing like on TV. On several occasions, I was later informed by friends in our police department, that he had attacked several of them, and was charged some time later with “going armed to the terror of the public” for threatening a pregnant woman with a pipe. In every way imaginable, I and my coworkers were fortunate. Things might have gone very badly indeed. And remember, we work at a library. Imagine what it is like for all front-facing public service people out there.

I’m not looking for a fight. I haven’t set myself up as some kind of hero, like Marshal Matt Dillon or my police officer friends. I’m just a regular person. Daily, we have to help all kinds of people and we’re well trained and used to the work. I’ve been very lucky that things aren’t as bad at our library as they have gotten in other places, but we’re aware that the likelihood of something happening is no longer less than zero. The realization has caused a natural dampener on my nonsense-o-meter. I am not mean; most people really are fine and I am happy to help them. In any context. Some people, sadly, just really aren't okay, and yet I'm not even averse to helping or working with them to learn the rules. However, some people really are intolerable and I have no ability to reset the meter. Most of the time, I still opt (when I'm there) to work with them, so my coworkers don't have to, but that's the only reason. Out in the world, if I happen to see them, they will be surprised to realize that my professionalism clocks out when I do.

I still haven't mastered the ability to always say what needs (or what I feel ought) to be said. I'm curt, even terse, but I still have to bring home a paycheck. Confrontation is still not my milieu but I'm getting less and less worried about it. Some of my coworkers are less concerned with taking the guff, too. Some have no tolerance at all for the actions and words of rude or hateful people. They are upset and hurt by other people's actions, which burns me up too. Why be rude? Why be hateful? But, maybe like Mrs. Vinegar, they have no other way to manage their unhappiness. It may be sad, but that doesn’t justify it.

For every wonderful, thoughtful, genuine, kind, delightful, friendly, respectful, caring, decent and lovely person (and these remain the majority) there are those who just cannot manage even a modicum of politeness. It is part of the job to treat everyone equally. I accept their nonsense only because I have to to keep my job, but that acceptance comes with a very limited tolerance. I will only take so much. 

More than just the workplace drama, though, I worry for society. Regular jobs like ours have evolved to require dealing with mental illness, drug addiction and use and just very angry people with no positive outlet for their misery. Assertiveness, confidence and courage in confrontation ought not be necessary for the job description, but sadly, more and more, they are. The only thing that will put such nonsense to a final, total end is straight-shootin’. I'm working to get better at it. I'm hoping that I'm modeling the right way to do it for my coworkers. It isn't easy. 

It sometimes feels like the Wild West out there. Things aren't quite that bad, but some days, we go home feeling like we spent the day dealing with bad guys. Our job, like the heroes of the many westerns from TV and cinema, is to not lose sight of how to not take nonsense from people and remain the good guys and not be contaminated by the negativity, anger and rudeness of some of our fellows. And when the time requires it, I’m working hard to be the kind of guy who is willing to do some straight shootin’.

Code Brown

The planet is overflowing with fecal matter. There’s not enough smell-good spray in the universe to cover it up. As one of the larger dominant species on Earth, we produce a lot of poop. It's not a savory subject, but it is one worth considering. We are one serious engineering catastrophe away from being reverted to a very nasty period in history when being inundated with defecation was a way of life.

You may be asking whether I really want to use an entire essay to talk about number twos, and the answer is, to quote the popular and adorable children's book title: “Everybody Poops”. It happens. Whether or not we want to face it (ahem), sitting on the crapper is one of life's most inevitable things, right up there with death and taxes (both of which can cause one's bowels to release). Nothing we do can prevent poop. Not the most potent willpower, not the most intense abdominal strength can prevent the inevitable. As my Uncle Dan used to say, “It’s something that not even Superman can hold back.” 

Our entire lives are, in one way or another, ordered around going to the bathroom. We all (almost) have bathrooms in our homes, but so do offices, churches, restaurants, and there are (in some states) rest stops with the appropriate accommodations for relieving one’s bowels every so many miles along interstates. 

While preparing for a colonoscopy a few summers ago, I was astounded to discover just how full of shit we all really are. It took all of 36 hours for me to clear my intestines of all solid waste, and it was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life in which I partook voluntarily for the health of the tubes that produce and move waste through my body to its eventual release into a receptacle and at length into an exponentially longer and convoluted set of larger pipes and drains run by our town. Contrary to popular belief, the average set of adult small intestines is only about 22 to 25 feet long, the large intestines about 5 feet. There's still a lot of flex tubing in the tummy area, but it takes that much to turn our food into absorbed nutrients and remove the unused portion along with excess water, dead cells and bacteria from our corporeal forms.

Most of us (about 50%) use the bathroom to remove solid waste about once a day. Depending on diet and exercise, of course. Some (about 28%) use the bathroom twice a day, again depending on diet. Not only are we what we eat, but we are also what we poop. The truth is, humans, whatever else we have done to change the planet for the better, poop a lot, and it is having an effect, whether we want to talk about it or not. Dealing with poop is a $9.5 billion-a-year industry.

Americans have been thinking about their backsides a lot lately. A very unpleasant parasite called cyclospora has got everyone shunning fresh lettuce, berries, and cilantro. The bug, if ingested, can cause “explosive, watery diarrhea” that lasts for several days to a few weeks and, without proper medical attention, can be lethally dehydrating. Most frightening of all is that the parasite takes time to gestate in the system, up to two weeks in some cases, meaning even people who haven’t eaten anything contaminated in the last few weeks can still be carrying the bug and not yet experience the symptoms. Horrifying as this sounds and has been for the over 18,000 people who have gotten the parasite, this particular bug might have been a far worse and more common (as well as deadly) experience even just a century ago, especially in the more sparsely populated areas of the world. Healthcare, clean water, produce-handling standards and access to appropriate curative medicines have reduced such outbreaks, as well as education about how washing fruit and veg (and hinies and hands) have helped immensely. The sad fact is we are still susceptible, no matter how many safety precautions are put in place to protect us. It is worse in poor or rural places and in countries where sanitation standards are still pretty much in the Dark Ages.

Micki had to deal with an arresting bout of something horrible on her trip to Ecuador, a decade ago. She was as careful as could be, but still fell afoul of the infamously unclean water that can occur. It was the same for a former teacher of mine, who had the honor to travel to China for a teaching gig and wound up with a serious and hard-to-eradicate intestinal bug that hung with him for months. Yes, we all poop, but regular, healthy pooping is the preferred outcome of any trip to the potty but it is intensely and still fairly rare except in industrialized nations. 

I reflected on all of this, one night recently, as the house lay quiet, and I was experiencing my own eye-popping bout of intestinal distress. I woke with severe nausea and cramps in my pelvic region. I spent some time groaning and gasping through what imitated the description of the CDC website symptoms of cyclospora mentioned above. By midnight, I was worried, by 2 a.m., I was deeply concerned. By 4, I was messaging my doctor to beg her to put in a prescription for the antibiotic that kills the bug. By 8 the following morning, I was bedraggled, dehydrated, unpleasantly rung out and very tender in the nether regions. Thank the gods for Pepto Bysmol.

Later that morning, I awoke from a dismal stupor to my buzzing phone. The nurse had put in an order for me to go to the outpatient facility to leave a stool sample. I would have laughed out loud but for fear of having an accident. The mechanics of trying to catch the required substance to get a culture seemed like something out of the scatological comedies of John Waters. No thank you, I mumbled as I took more of the pink stuff and laid back down.

As it turns out, I was being a little hypochondriacal in the wee hours but in my dessicated state, it's not surprising I got panicky. Sometimes news from the world leaks in and let's face it, I wasn't at my best. I don't want to reach for melodrama, but, other than a night of post-binge vomiting followed by a roaring hangover, there have been few times that I seriously wondered if I was staring down the barrel of a very disgusting demise.

I wouldn't be the first. About 1.2 million Americans died of complications due to diarrhea as recently as 2021, the most recent complete data we have on the subject. Over 400,000 of those were infants. The World Health Organization blames poor water and sanitation, and one might expect that to be elsewhere in the world, especially in the places that Sally Struthers shows up asking you to contribute a cup of coffee's worth of help. Actually, a lot of people right here at home are incredibly susceptible, especially way out in the “boonies”, poor communities and especially in homeless camps. The latter has been a real problem recently, as such encampments have been a fixture of almost every town in America. Similarly, contaminated wells in western NC, in the wake of Hurricane Helene jammed hospitals with intakes related to parasites and bacterial infections of the lower digestive tracts. Our Ethan had to dump copious amounts of cleansing chlorine into his own well, thereafter as a precaution. Even so, he still uses a series of redundant but mind-easing filtering solutions.

Diarrhea was, until about 1900, one of the three top killers of humanity, alongside tuberculosis and pneumonia. Clean water, sanitation and working sewer systems provided some relief. In the age of vaccines, a particular kind of infant-susceptible intestinal bug was nearly eradicated until the most recent administration started putting out false information that the vaccine caused intellectual delays. Credulous parents and anti-vaxxers went on a tirade about the drug and many more infants died as a result. None of the claims made were based on actual (and very available) empirical data. But then the man making the claims had dead worms in his cerebellum, likely caused by drinking unclean water while in Africa. Go figure.

Generally, Americans have faced a fairly robust reversal in sanitary water, not just from storms but from severe cuts to infrastructure, which puts into context not only how important such funding is, but also, just how close we are to old-world horrors. Without saying that this was the direct intent, there is a Hobbesian feeling to it all. People who are forced into dangerous water situations, whether by lack of access to clean water, safe disposal of waste, or by dismantling of education and tax-funded resources, have a way harder time thinking critically about how to fix their world.

Hobbes said, in his masterpiece Leviathan, that such a condition pits human against human and human against the natural world. The implication is fairly straightforward: it doesn't take much to tip things back to an older and more dangerous time.

At any rate, we tend to take all of this for granted. With each successful flush, I was brought back to just a few months ago, when our household plumbing was compromised by a root system that blocked the drain line from our en-suite bathroom.

Our house is nearly ninety years old and is, in some parts, a series of four additions onto the original house (not all made by us). One of the earlier renovations turned the former garage into a bedroom with an en-suite. The plumbing was tied into the house's larger drain system, and it was done with oil-soaked cardboard tubing called Orangeburg pipe. This ridiculously fragile system is easily cracked and shatters like a terracotta plate. It took three months, some serious outdoor demolition and an obscene amount of money to get it fixed with a functional outdoor cleanout to a state far better than we purchased, but for that time, we had to use a half bath that we wittily call The Chocolate Bathroom, not because of what's done in there, but because of the color it was painted when we bought it. We've since decorated it with Hershey's memorabilia. We're a funny family.

There's nothing funny about drain plumbing. I did a little math to make the point. The average adult poops two-to-three times per day. Assuming a family of four grown-ups, that's 8-to-12 poops a day per household, assuming everyone's tummies are functioning more or less normally. On our street, from one intersection to the next, there are ten houses. That's 80 to 120 poops per day, just from a very small section of our street. There are 27,990 residents of our small town. Assuming each one poops about 3 times per day, that's just shy of 100,000 flushes, not including guests in town, people with intestinal issues, and kids, who poop a lot more than adults. The burden of waste on the city's aging infrastructure is a topic for another essay, but suffice it to say, that's a LOT of crap. Larger towns have larger issues, and big cities are terrifyingly huge poop bombs just waiting to destroy communities downstream.

This happened in Asheboro, recently, when a very high concentration of a potent chemical was not completely filtered out by an aging and strained system, affecting the Deep River and communities and water systems that depend on the same reservoirs. Our system is being monitored and updated, but such a failure is fairly critical.

Most sanitation systems are quite old, and understaffed, as well as susceptible to threats like cyber attacks, upstream inundations of water, excess storm runoff, chemical spills and, like from Helene, massive storms. Under regular operational standards and proper upkeep, most systems can handle daily amounts. But as the weather becomes more chaotic and equipment more expensive and difficult to acquire, many US towns are on borrowed time.

The good news is that, from 1900 on, continually improving systems for dealing with sewage and pollution have been developed and are available. The real question is whether or not they are affordable. A small town like Asheboro has limited funds and many needed projects to attend to. Most of us want things we can see, like parking or building remodeling, to be managed first, because we all take for granted that our next flush will be as successful as the last thousand.

The reality is, it takes everyone informing themselves, not just of the dangerous parasites that can cause serious problems, like cyclospora, but also, an awareness that each person's tax bill helps to keep things—for lack of a better term--regular.

In the meantime, I'm avoiding salads, berries, fresh parsley and cilantro, and washing my hands like a fiend. It turns out my illness came, not from contaminated veggies or berries, but from failure to clean my water bottle regularly and also the water tube on our fridge. The combo was intensely disruptive to my sleep and my naturally sleek digestive system. I won't soon forget the inherently important lesson. And I will continue to send thoughts to those who are suffering with digestive issues: I hope they feel better soon. I cannot think of a much worse way to feel.

The Entropy of All Things

I once wrote an essay about the heat death of the universe. Based on the Second Law of Thermodynamics, it basically says that all the moving things in the universe will eventually lose steam and flop over. It was a gloomy topic to research. A good illustration is if you set a top spinning on the table, eventually the top will wobble and stop. Hot tea cools down. Cold tea warms up. Energy runs out. Our sun will slowly expand as it runs out of the elements necessary to keep up fission; it will generate less heat, but grow beyond its current girth to a red giant, enveloping all of the inner-system planets. Then, when its fuel finally hits the big “E”, it will collapse on itself into a white dwarf, and maybe, some way far down into the future, it will further implode into a black hole, sucking in all light and whatever remains of our former home into an inescapable void of gravitational destruction. Of course, to quote Bill Bryson in another context, we will be “considerably past caring”.

As I say, gloomy. But the great cosmic petering-out is many millions of years off, and we can console ourselves in the meantime by the apparent lack of evidence for cosmic entropy in our daily lives, right? After all, the sun ‘rose’ this morning and it will ‘set’ later. All is well, because all appears normal. 

At least, that's what 6’3” Dave might have said. Unfortunately, the Dave writing this essay, is 6' 2 and 7/8”. I used to be 6’3”. I've shrunk a bit recently. Why? Well, the Organic Mechanic says it is age and gravity. She says my vertebral discs aren't as youthfully springy as they once were. Almost fifty years of walking upright under the 1G gravity pull and atmospheric pressure of our homeworld, combined with that aforementioned loss of supple springiness in the back region, has compressed my spine the tiniest bit so far. The Organic says there will be more to come. 

This decline from an orderly system (my perfect springy spine) to a disorderly one, is just one more example of entropy. It’s not just my back, either and it’s not just me. It is happening to all of us, every day, all the time and it is a perfect example of the Second Law of Thermodynamics: all systems lose energy over time and come to disorder.

We have a picture of the two of us, Micki and me, sitting at the beach at dusk, waiting for fireworks. My beard is without even a sprinkle of frost. Micki hasn't changed—she fortunately has strong Sicilian genes—but I have nary a crow's foot or crease in the picture. I was probably not thinning so much on top back then either. It was the long-lost age of 2018. I was 41. Compare it to a picture of me from just last Spring. I have aged more than a decade in less than a decade. Sure, some of it is genetics, but it is really just entropy. 

Other than for jellyfish and the naked mole rat, aging is a universal and extremely odd thing. No one is really sure exactly why it happens. They know what happens as we age, of course, but not why the aging factors, sometimes called senescence, turn on. When it does, though, cell death becomes more frequent, skin loses tone, muscles atrophy more quickly, the long, lean form of the body thickens and shortens, knots from arthritis appear at the knuckles and other tender joints, our eyes cloud over, and of course, my favorite, hair turns grey, loses its luster, thickness and color and then turns loose. 

Some of the consequences of aging come from star damage. The sun’s rays are essential for life and provide a lot of Vitamin D for us, but those same rays also damage our eyes and skin over time. Compared to that lovely pic of us at the beach, I look a lot like I’ve spent the last several years living out in direct sun all day every day in every season. Pop Bare saw a more recent picture of me and said that I looked “weather-beaten”. It’s funny, because I have an inside job.

Back before AI took over generating pictures by scraping the internet, I asked a popular (at that time) application what I would look like when I was old. I shared a pic of myself sitting at my work desk. The result was me, but looking more like Arnold Schwarzenegger than myself. Still, the result of the aging was not completely inaccurate. That was more than a decade ago, now, I think and the creases and lines suggested by the app are turning out to be pretty accurate.

Speaking universally, we all age. Some of us more quickly than others. Some seem to age more brutally than others, too. I helped someone recently and in the course of helping them they told me their age. It was a year off from our Elliott, but this person looked for all the world like they were older than me. I had a second startling moment a few weeks ago, when I got an invitation from a High School classmate for a [redacted] year reunion. It has been a while and of course, I'm not really in denial about it. Obviously, I opted out quickly. I worked hard for 4 years to clear my obligation to the state education requirements and though I made some very close friends during that time, we few, we happy few, we band of graduates do not need a reunion on that scale. At any rate, looking at some of the pictures of my former “peers” I was horrified to see that some of them (of an age with me give or take a year) actually looked weather beaten. I guess I should have sent one of them to Pop Bare.

By those lights, I guess, I have been quite lucky. I could look like an extremely elderly man while only in my (very) late forties like some of my former school mates. Still, eventually, I will succumb to a countenance that looks more like that than the man in that beach picture. I'm not so vain that I cannot bear to see the Bare face reach its wrinkliest stage. Rather, my dread of entropy is a more cerebral problem to consider and by that, I mean literally my brain.

After a dramatic fall at age 95, our Nana had to be moved to a senior facility. After that, her once sharp mind atrophied. It was devastating. Of course, by then, too, she had lost her ability to walk or to see because of severe macular degeneration, so she just pulled herself around in her wheelchair, and sang hymns with her friends. The idea of slowly but surely losing oneself in a labyrinth of dementia is horrifying. It has motivated me to keep the brain as limber as the physical form.

The other end of the same spectrum is no less terrifying. My dear Aunt MJ was sharp as a razor her whole life—in many ways the smartest and best person for family memories, book recommendations and recipes on the Bare side—but for her rebelling physical form. Lung cancer, horrible arthritis in her back, and a terrible sickness near the end, reduced her piteously. She never lost her wit or sharp memory, but she confided that the pain was not worth it.

So far, now entering the last half of his time as octogenarian, Pop Bare is still sharp, too. He has the occasional problem with what he calls “CRS”, an ailment I also struggle with daily, but his doesn't rise to the level of dementia. He seems fit and takes good care of himself, and can talk for ages about all kinds of things, but especially automobiles and his favorite show about treasure hunters digging on Oak Island. Since he retired from all his jobs, at 80, he’s less physically fit than ever before, but is still hale and hardy by comparison to many other people I know, his own age. That may mean that, other than my weather-worn face, I might have a chance at longevity, but entropy is still coming for all of us.

Of course, entropy, while a universal law of physics, can be influenced. Compared to our ancestors, life expectancy has grown quite a bit since industrialization. It varies by country, region (and in the South, by county and town, judging by what I’ve seen) but people are living longer, healthier lives. Even just in my short few decades here, the term “old people” has changed. Anyone at the base level of the AARP range when I was a kid was “old”, looked old, dressed old, acted old. Today, a man or woman can be seventy and be the fittest they have ever been in their lives, running, exercising, eating right and getting plenty of rest. Proof, perhaps, that we can slow the aging process, if not stop it altogether.

Thankfully, entropy is usually extremely slow. The sun won't burn out for millions, possibly billions of years. Humankind, if we can survive the next few generations and the incalculable damage done to our earth by greed, lust and brutal disrespect for the web of nature, will have a shorter time than that. If dinosaurs could talk, they would mention the Chicxulub Asteroid and the cataclysm that brought the Cretaceous period to a crashing halt.

There have been five such cataclysmic chapter endings thus far (that we know of) on our meager backwater planet. Survival—human or any other kind—is not guaranteed. That puts a slightly different spin on the problems of entropy I mentioned before. If true, then the whole human race may need to find another home or space station to dwell on.

This brings another problem to the forefront. Humans are short-lived (sorry, Methusela). Our minds, memories, and capacity for knowledge are necessarily limited. If we were to live to be 900 or more, with—like Moses—our “eye undimmed and natural force unabated”—our minds would definitely not be able to handle the strain. To live that long would be flatly impossible.

A good friend of mine is a transhumanist. He feels that, very soon now, human consciousness will be able to be uploaded into the Internet, or into mind-like programs that will go into humanoid or android bodies, allowing us to transcend the natural barriers of our physical forms. I leave this to him, though I have read some believable theories that show that a human mind will not be able to stand the transformation. The emotional stress of not being one with the body, or the devastating need to rest or die without reprieve would eventually cause a kind of cascading failure. It would be like organ rejection, but on a cybernetic and cerebral scale we cannot anticipate.

How then do we bring ourselves to the furthest reaches of the galaxy to find that special and rare new homeworld? The distances of our solar system, let alone our galaxy, even at incredible speeds, wouldn't have us arriving within three or five generations, meaning that humans would have to learn to dwell on space arcs, traveling the bleak and dangerous cosmic oceans, until we found a new home. Even there, we would not escape aging and entropy. 

This is not to say that such hopes are unreasonable, but that they present significant barriers to immediate solutions. The strange and terrifying fact is, we will have the same problems of entropy on those other worlds. If the gravity on Earth 2 is higher than our Earth, I will presumably shrink even faster. The sun that charges the mechanisms of life on that hunk of rock, might be even closer to its own fuel crisis. There is genuinely no telling. The only good news is that, being on a space ship or space station (as in the ISS) are both good for counteracting entropy (time dilation means that people onboard age just a few seconds slower than those on the planet surface) and the micro-gravity helps to stretch one’s back to its regular length.

These are perhaps problems for the next generations, but mine is most assuredly an earth-bound age group, focused on the wear and tear of earth-bound living, aging, facing the slow and interminable slowing down of ourselves, first, and then, eventually, all things. In the immediate future, therefore, we must face our own fragile mortal frames, the disreputable reliability of our tiny, primitive brains, and the potent, unavoidable reality that our solar system is a top, slowly but inexorably losing steam. We may still destroy the earth with war or famine or pestilence, long before the planet ever dies. All that makes the grey in my beard, the thin spot on my head and the crow's feet by my eyes seem pretty tame by comparison, but I can at least take some hope in the fact that naked mole rats and some jellyfish will still be here.