Mike Power

Happy 250^th America. You don’t look a day over 249.

It has been a quarter of a millennium since a group of determined dreams affixed their signature to a declaration that has been a beacon of hope for every person on the planet in search of two, simple things: freedom and democracy. To say we have fallen short of our ideals is a massive understatement, but one that does nothing to diminish the glory and righteousness of those ideals.

May this nation of immigrants come to cherish our diverse cultures and laugh at the bigotry of those who think White America is Real America. And may the stain of MAGA’s moral depravity echo down the generations and inspire future Americans to keep flagrant criminals and traitors like Donald Trump from ever again holding positions of power in our government.

Today is officially “many years from now” for me. I must have first heard the Beatles’ When I’m Sixty Four when I was still in single digits and that age sounded so incredibly old. But, like everything Paul McCartney touches, it also sounded fun and sweet. And as I turn 64 today it is fun and sweet, because I am lucky enough to have someone who still needs me and still feeds me.

When I get older, losing my hair
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine,
birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I'd been out till quarter to three,
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty four? Ooh

You'll be older too.
Ah, and if you say the word,
I could stay with you.

I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside,
Sunday mornings, go for a ride.

Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear.
We shall scrimp and save.
Grandchildren on your knee;
Vera, Chuck and Dave.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line,
stating point of view.
Indicate precisely what you mean to say,
yours sincerely, wasting away.

Give me your answer, fill in a form,
Mine forevermore.
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty four? 

I saw you in a room surrounded by people neither of us knew and wanted to give you a promise that my voice was the most interesting one there, even if it squeaked sometimes (my voice, not the room) which can be embarrassing for a man. Also, I was told today, by someone who should know, that I am not a good kisser. I am generous and creative though, by nature, and capable of learning things I want to learn with incredible speed, things that other people could never learn, no matter how hard or long they try.

When I was a kid, no more than ten, and maybe half that, I was playing a game and for the first time I put the good of a playmate ahead of the spirit of competition. And in that moment I was overcome. I ran to the bathroom because I thought I might cry. That’s the way I remember it anyway, which is the same thing as reality after enough time passes.

Even listening to silence doesn’t drown out the noise. The nothing is more than I need to hear. There is a baby crying, not far off. An airplane and traffic and birds and a siren and a dog. Who is supposed to take care of the dog? Not me. I have my own things to worry about. I guess we all have our own things to worry about. Death is one thing, or, like, starvation. Or falling off a diet or the wagon or absent-mindedly running a red light. Can somebody please shut up that dog?

It was late afternoon when I had my fall. I guess it could have been early evening. They are so similar that I can’t keep track of when one ends and the other begins. Either way, the important thing is that I fell. This time, there was nothing to break my fall. Or is it brake my fall?

They say the universe is billions of years old, but you wouldn’t know it by me. I just got here, relatively speaking, unless I’ve been here all along and don’t know it, or don’t remember. Maybe I’m just visiting from a different universe. That’s probably it. This one is a little loopy. Or I am. There goes that dog again.

I didn’t fall from any great height. It couldn’t be measured in football fields. Maybe just half a basketball court. Not enough to kill a person, depending on what they fell on but, like I said, there was nothing to break my fall. Which makes me think maybe I’m still falling and maybe it can be measured in football fields.

When I was a kid I used to lay in a field near my house and stay as quiet and still as I could in the tall grass until the creatures of the field became acclimatized to my presence and resumed their natural habits. Maybe I resumed some of my own natural habits there too. It was so long ago that it’s hard to remember now.

Wait! I think I see something coming to break my fall. 

And the sea, cobwebbing all its wistful green and umber,

Winds about her gossamers of evenings remembered,

Light-skirted evenings, tip-toed or tilted against the sounds

Of adult night and disillusions without number

She might stay there until all the sands are counted

And each wave has been reduced to well-remembered laughter

This may be the perfect dream

- David Cornel De Jong

A defining characteristic of aging is the way things stop making sense. My mother was excited when a Dunkin’ Donuts opened in her neighborhood. In her mind, she pictured herself walking there in the morning, ordering a coffee and a donut from a person behind the counter, maybe even sharing a conversation with them. Instead there was only a screen to interact with and the people behind the counter would not even make eye contact to help her out. She never got her donut.

The other day I drove to a spot for a hike and had to pay to park on the street. There were no parking meters to feed the quarters I keep in my car. Instead, I had to download an app, create an account, and link it to my credit card and license plate. It was easy enough for me, if more time-consuming than dropping coins in a slot, but I can see the day coming when something as simple as that will be difficult and, eventually, impossible.

The funny thing is, what older people think of as simple (because we’ve been doing it since we were children) can seem ridiculously and needlessly complicated to younger people who are always on the lookout for newer and better ways to do things. Learning new ways to do things is what can seem ridiculously and needlessly complicated to people who have already found a way that works for them. And nothing is better than that. Is it?

I, who took the money?
Who took the money away?
I, I, I, I, it’s always showtime
Here at the edge of the stage
And I, I, I, wake up and wonder
What was the place, what was the name?
We wanna wait, but here we go again
I, takes over slowly
But doesn’t last very long
I, I, I, I, no need to worry
Everything’s under control
O-U-T, but no hard feelings
What do you know? Take you away
We’re being taken for a ride again
I got a girlfriend that’s better than that
She has the smoke in her eyes
She’s coming up, going right through my heart
She’s gonna give me surprise
I think it’s right, better than this
I think you can if you like
I got a girlfriend with bows in her hair
And nothing is better than that (Is it?)
Down, down in the basement
We hear the sound of machines
I, I, I’m driving in circles
Come to my senses sometimes
Why, why, why, why start it over?
Nothing was lost, everything’s free
I don’t care how impossible it seems
Somebody calls you but you cannot hear
Get closer to be far away
And only one look and that’s all that it takes
Maybe that’s all that we need
All that it takes, I’ll bet it’s right
All it takes, if it’s right
I got a girlfriend that’s better than that
And she goes wherever she likes (There she goes)
I got a girlfriend that’s better than that
Now everyone’s getting involved
She’s moving up going right through my heart
We might not ever get caught
Going right through, try to stay cool
Going through, staying cool
I got a girlfriend she’s better than that
And nothing is better than you (Wait a minute)
I got a girlfriend that’s better than this
But you don’t remember at all
As we get older and stop making sense
You won’t find her waiting long
Stop making sense, stop making sense
Stop making sense, making sense
I got a girlfriend shes’s better than that
And nothing is better than this (Is it?)

Food is not the first thing that comes to mind when contemplating the Grateful Dead but there are two foods in particular that make me think of them. Pistachios and licorice. Pistachios because of Bob Weir and licorice because of Jerry Garcia.

The incident with the pistachios came in answer to the question, “Has success spoiled the Dead?” Jerry immediately answered, “Yeah.” Bob’s answer went a little deeper.

Then there’s licorice. I like it myself but not everybody does. I mean real licorice, the black stuff (don’t even get me started on red licorice) with the overpowering flavor. It is not like other sweets, or anything savory for that matter. It is sui generis, like the Grateful Dead. Jerry explains it like this:

The story goes that a priest (or bishop) in Rome (or Terni) was under house arrest and was speaking with a judge about Jesus when the judge's blind daughter came in. The judge said he would do anything for the priest if he could restore her sight. The priest laid his hand on the girl's eyes, prayed, and when she opened her eyes she could see. The judge immediately freed all the Christian prisoners under his control and was baptized, along with all his family and servants.

The priest was later arrested again and sent to the Roman emporer, Claudius II. The emporer told the priest to either renounce his religion or lose his head. You can probably guess which path the priest chose. His head is now on display in the Church of Santa Maria in Rome.

On this day, in the year 269, the priest who would go on to become the patron saint of beekeepers and epilepsy, was beaten to death and beheaded. In addition to his skull in Rome, pieces of his body are claimed as relics in churches in Madrid, Dublin, Vienna, Malta, Glasgow, Poland, and Prague.

Before losing his head, the priest wrote a note to the judge's daughter whose sight he restored and signed it, "from your Valentine." Since the Middle Ages that message has resounded as a symbol of courtly love, like the ones I found in my father’s drawer after he died.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

This is going to be a special Christmas for all the wrong reasons. It will be my first without some people I love who have died. Just like last year. I have reached an age where most years ahead will include the death of someone I love. Right up to that Christmas when I am the loved one who is mourned.

Every year brings other milestones too: obvious things like births, marriages, and graduations, as well as those little things that pop up in the middle of even the most ordinary years, like finding a new job or hobby or friend or love. Maybe every Christmas is special because every Christmas lights a fire in the heart of each person who celebrates it and, for a short season, the idea of peace on earth doesn’t sound like a punchline.

The inevitable question is a simple one: Why can’t we keep this feeling through the year? I never heard a satisfactory answer. The only thing I see standing in our way is a primitive fear that if we let down our guard and open ourselves up to that kind of love, bad people will take advantage of us.

Christmas in old age has almost too many memories. It becomes overwhelming to try to understand the world you were born into. How could things have been so different back then? When did the tinsel that hung on every tree disappear from drug store shelves? What happened to sending and receiving piles of cards? Every year some beloved Christmas tradition dies with the passing of its last adherent. It is good to remember them kindly as we will each eventually become a Ghost of Christmas Past to those we leave behind.

Until we become the Ghosts of Christmas Past, we would do well to take a page from the bard of the season, Charles Dickens:

There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what is used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes – of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire – fill the glass and send round the song – and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse.

Just when the magic of Christmas starts to fade as we get older, a new generation comes along to bring it back. All the wonder and joy of the season is reflected in fresh eyes. Memories flood from the time when our own eyes were clear and bright. Only now, we are Santa Claus. We are the ones who get to carry a sack of Christmas magic on our backs. We listen and watch and ask, “what do you want Santa to bring you?”

Magically, things that were relegated to the past become present again: school holiday concerts, making snowmen and snow angels, and sledding down a hill covered with snow so fresh that it is still falling. You can hear the excitement of the season whooshing downhill with you.

Home is now your own invention. You have traditions to fall back on but you also invent some new ones to match the times you live in, the new holiday music and movies you absorb, and the new creatures – human and otherwise - who share your home.

One of the oldest traditions to fall back on is the Tannenbaum. People have been putting trees in the middle of their living rooms for 500 years and there is still a strange mix of the absurd and the familiar whenever the tree goes up and the outside comes in. I never met a child or a cat who didn’t love a Christmas tree.

In fact, the only time a cat doesn't like a Christmas tree is when they are being herded in front of it for a holiday photo.