Longevity

I have always been fascinated with oddities, prodigies, myths, frauds and other like subjects. When I was a kid I use to study the Guinness Book of World Records until the binding cracked, and it's pages became heavily thumbed and dogeared. Eventually the book would become almost unreadable. But there was always the next years edition. Some of my favorite topics in the book were human oddities; the world's tallest man, the the heaviest man, etc..etc... However, the one that I was always the most curious with was the oldest living person. When I was 8 years old back when America was celebrating it's Bicentennial I went on vacation with my family to Well's Beach in Maine. My family had been renting the same cottage on the beach for decades from a family that we had gotten to know. However, it had been a few years since we had been up there, and being only 8 I had no recollection of having been there before. This year we went with my grandparents. We arrived late at night and I recall walking up some stairs to the front door of a large cottage near to the smaller one that we would be staying in. There was a dim light on the porch and we knocked. When the door opened I was amazed to see one of the oldest people that I had ever set my eyes on. She was the matriarch of the family, nearly 100 years old flanked by her two eldery sons, who, at the time were probably as old as my grandparents who were both nearing 70. She was so old that her wizened face appeared to made of peanut shells. Her hair was a wispy white. It struck me funny at first at how small she was, shrunken and stooped by age I was able to look at her straight in the eyes without looking up. She held herself in a very dignified manner but when she noticed my twin brother and me with our thick wavy red hair she could not resist reaching out with her attenuated and bony hands and run the hair through her fingers. "My, how big they are getting"  I can remember her saying. Of course, I had no recollection of her. It is funny how elderly people have different perceptions of the younger generations. I can remember when I was about 32 my great-aunt (who was around 95 at the time) taking my mother aside and telling her (while pointing to me) "He is getting so tall" Did she still believe that I was growing up at age 32? Perhaps out...but hardly up!

     History tells us of people that have supposedly lived to extreme ages. The Old Testament patriarchs were suppose to have lived for hundreds of years led by Methuselah who was said to be 969 years old when he passed. Of course, this is absurd. The human body without some sort of futureistic scientific interference is not made to last more than about 5 score. The chance of a person reaching 100 is rare, reaching 110 extremely rare, and 120 almost non existent. According to the Guinness Book the oldest documented person was a French woman named Jeanne Calment who lived to the age of 122. She died in 1997. Currently, it appears that the oldest person in the world is a woman living in Georgia U.S.A. who was born in 1896. There are, however, undocumented cases of people living to age 130 and beyond.

     It has been years since I have been to Well's Beach. My grandparents are long dead, as is the old matriarch of Wells, who if she were still alive would probably be blowing out 130 candles or more. Yet the memory of this woman remains with me, even if my only recollection of her is of her running her hands through my hair smiling behind an aged but kindly face. I often wonder how much history I had contacted that night back in 1976. When she was a young girl of 8, with a smooth face, full of hope, beauty, and youth, an eternity away from the peanut shell she would become, the ocean was still in the majestic age of sail which was at that time nearing it's end. Yankee Clippers ruled the sea, sails flapping in the breeze, while their tall masts on the horizon reached for the infinite and beyond. There were no automobiles, and people were living without electricity. One thing, however, remains the same, and that is the surf. At night one can still go out on the beach and look out across the dark expanse of ocean and imagine the times of old while the waves and the wind continue to perform their repetitious but melodious sound... as they have for eons. On this Mother's Day, the matriarch lives in them.

Made in China

When I was ten my parents sent my brother and me to scout camp. This was in the summer of 1979 when bell bottoms and cut off jeans were still the rage. One day, I was heading to the mess hall when a camp counselor informed me that New York Yankees catcher Thurman Munson had been killed in a plane crash. why I remember this I cannot say. Perhaps death has always fascinated me. It's finality and swift and often times arbitrary end to a once vibrant and healthy life is hard to contemplate. Anyway, turning the dead catcher aside, I found the rest of my troop and we ate heartily. At Camp that summer was a gangly youth from China named Ben. He was probably 5 or 6 years older than me. I believe that he was a foriegn exchange student, but am not sure if he was from Red China or Taiwan. If I were to guess, 33 years later, I would have to say Taiwan, only because of the travel restrictions on the former. Anyhow, everyone, including me, wanted to be Ben's friend. He was a popular guy. The kids at this camp were of mostly English, French, Danish, Finnish and Irish stock along with a smattering of other mostly European ethnic groups. Basically, we were some of the whitest kids on the planet. Needless to say, Ben, hailing from China was a somewhat cultural oddity and was therefore well received at the camp. Everyone wanted to know about China. After eating I can remember leaving the mess hall and started walking back to our campsite with a couple of friends when I noticed a large group of kids gathering around some picnic tables ina shady crop of trees. Curious, I ventured over to see what all of the hullabaloo was about. It was Ben relating some of his experiences in China while his culturally deprived audience, now including me was held spellbound by some of his tales. Near the end of our stay at camp that summer, Ben made each of us a tee shirt with an iron-on logo written in both Chinese and English that said "Scouts of China."

     China has been in the news a lot lately. I no longer have a television, so I get my news from the internet, usually from the BBC or some other news outlet. Apparently the United States is running a trade deficit with China. This is no real shock. just look at the clothes you are wearing, or the toys that your kids are playing with. It might say "Made in China" or "Hecho en China" Sometimes it says "Made in China" but "Assembled in the U.S.A." and there is a little U.S. flag next to it. What is this suppose to mean? We support communism, but have pride in us? Who knows...I quit guessing what kind of tricks these corporatist sharks throw at us. Oh well...so be it, a few corporatists making buku buck through slave labor. I guess that is the American way. So what if small business can't compete. It's their problem for being small. Survival of the fittest...human nature. Oh you can also throw in a few laws that make it virtually impossible for a small business to compete; tax laws, zoning laws, unfair trade laws, building codes and regulations etc..etc...Oh and don't forget the kid with the lemonade stand in front of his house that's against the law too. Anyway, there stands China, a behemoth, a billion strong and growing. The land of the Great Wall, the Ming Dynasty, Ghengis Khan and Egg Foo Yung. I have nothing against the chinese people, they are merely doing the best they can under a despotic regime. But that is another story.

                                      Thurman Munson (1946-1979)    

     It has been 33 years since that week at scout camp. 33 years since Thurman Munson and his pork chop sideburns met his maker, and 33 years since Ben was a superstar for a bunch of kids at a now forgotten scout camp. I wore my yellow tee shirt with blue lettering with pride. At first it fit large on me, but as I got older it sort of molded to my skinny frame. After a while stretch marks began to show in places until it became almost transparent. Eventually, one day, my tee shirt disappeared. I did not notice it's passing. One day when I was about 16 I can remember looking for something under the kitchen sink, and presto! there it was in all it's yellow glory, now somewhat discolored, indignant but proud relic of my past having found a new life as a cleaning rag. It was my introduction to another culture beside my own, my Chinese tee shirt probably made in the U.S.A. These days I have plenty of Chinese tee shirts, one of them even has a picture of the U.S. flag on it. Oh well...such are the times. I don't know what ever happened to Ben. For all I know he could have been that guy that walked out in front of that tank in Tiananmen Square back in 1989. He would have been about the right age. Of course that is an absurd assertion. As far as Thurman Munson...I don't even know how the hell he made his way into this post. Perhaps Curt Gowdy was something of a prophet when he called the last play of the 1978 World Series. "popped up behind the plate....going back Munson...throws his mask away...he's there...it's all over! it's all over!"

Time continues to roll on...

Myles Standish & the Mayflower

Not too many people today have heard of Myles Standish. This was not true in another age. Today, Myles Standish would be considered...well...how should I say it without offending anyone..ok...damn it!...Politically Incorrect. He was a pilgrim...well not really, only sorta. He came over with the pilgrims on the Mayflower. He was actually hired to be their military Captain. He had been a professional soldier in the army of King James I of England, but little is known of his career before embarking on the Mayflower in 1620. When I was a child I remember hearing stories about Standish along with the pilgrims first Thanksgiving with the Wampanoags. Since I am a native New Englander I was fascinated with these tales and legends which happened nearly in my backyard. Some of the tales were obviously fabrications passed down through the generations as fact. For instance, Myles Standish never fell in love with Priscilla Mullins (who married John Alden) This legend came about through the vivid imagination of Longfellow in his Courtship of Miles Standish in the 19th century.

                              Myles Standish Trading Card 1933

     Myles (Miles) Standish was born in England around 1584. The location of his birth is not known with any certainty, however, tradition holds that he was born either on the Isle of Man or in Lancashire in England. He was a man of short stature probably standing a little over 5 feet with reddish hair. His height was mocked by one of his contemporaries, Thomas Morton, who ran a trading post and traded guns with the natives. Morton referred to Standish as "Captain Shrimp." Standish arrived at Plymouth colony in November 1620, and was one of the signers of the Mayflower Compact which essentially was a document that installed law and order to the fledgling colony at Plymouth which at the time only consisted of the ship in the harbor, and a few makeshift structures on the shore. His wife, Rose was among the colonists who died during the first winter when a sickness engulfed the colony. Standish was put in charge of some of the early expeditions that set out to explore the countryside. At first, the colonists got along well with the natives. This, however, changed as the colonists spread into the interior. In the spring of 1623 Governor William Bradford received some intelligence from Massasoit  that some natives were threatening to attack the English colonies at Plymouth and Wessagusset. Standish and a troop of men were sent to investigate. The leader of the troublemakers was a native named Pecksuot who was said to be a man of gigantic stature. Standish and his men met Pecksuot and his men at a small village. According to most accounts, Standish and Pecksuot went inside a small house to perhaps parley. Pecksuot then started to insult Standish, apparently making remarks about his small stature. It is said that Standish tired of these insults grabbed Pecksot's knife and plunged it into his chest killing him. After this there was a brief skirmish between the English and the natives in the woods around the village. Eventually the English were able to drive them off.

    
        I have always been fascinated with Standish and the trials and tribulations of the Mayflower. After all, if it were not for the good Captain I would not be here today writing this little post about him. You see, he eventually remarried and had a son Alexander and eventually after 12 more begats came me. So I guess I can call him Grandpa Standish. Maybe that's where my rather puny stature and red hair comes from?  Eventually Myles Standish moved to Duxbury where he died in 1656. Some good books on Standish and the pilgrims are Miles Standish by J.S.C. Abbott, Of Plymouth Plantation by William Bradford, and The Mayflower And Her Passengers by Caleb H. Johnson which gives mini-biographies of all the passengers on the Mayflower and is an invaluable source. Also, for Standish buffs only there is the fictional Courtship of Miles Standish by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. A rather sentimental story, but good neverthless.
    

                                     Classics Illustrated Comic Book

A Certain Encounter

A number of years ago I crossed paths with a stranger and perhaps talked with him for about five minutes. However, I have never forgotten this man or what he said. He was one of those eccentric characters that intersects a persons life. I have met dozens of these people who's imprints are stamped permanently in my mind. I don't even remember this man's name, or for that matter whether he even gave it to me. Not that it matters. The reason that I can remember him so well is because of the large wooden cross that he carried on his back in imitation of Christ. He wasn't a big man, but he had broad shoulders and large muscular popeye looking arms. His face was weather beaten, reddened and creased by the sun. He was perhaps 50 years old...maybe...he could have been older, or younger, it was hard to tell. I could hear him coming. Halelujah!!...Praise the lord!!...Praise Jesus Christ our savior!!...Naturally, when he saw me directly in his path he was elated to find that he had a willing audience. I noticed that besides the cross, this man was carrying a backpack with a bedroll strapped to it. He came up alongside me and asked me if I would touch the cross. For some reason I was hesitant to do so, but decided "what the hell, i'll humor the guy."  I touched it. "Praise be Lord Jesus Christ" he exclaimed "You are saved."
I asked him where he was from and he responded "wherever the cross takes me." I then asked him if he belonged to any church. He said "I belong to the Lord's church." I then asked him where he was going and he looked puzzled at first, but then his weary eyes lit up and he said "why, wherever the cross takes me." I looked down at his shoes. He was wearing a ratty old pair of tennis shoes and I wondered how many miles he had put on them. He asked me if I was one with our Lord and savior Jesus Christ. I said that I didn't know. He started to quote scripture, although what verse I cannot recall at this late date. He then urged me to follow him carrying the Cross of Calvary. I told him that I could not, that I had to work, people relied on me, but I wished him well. He uttered some biblical verse before ambling his way by me and continuing on his journey to I know not where.

     I have often wondered where this cross-bearers journey took him. Eventually the road ends somewhere. Was he still on it? Or had he gotten off somewhere? Either by taking a different path or running his old one to the end? It has been at least a decade since our paths crossed. In my travels I have met hundreds of people caught up in their religion who happened to find some sort of motivation or release by being vocal about it. Some of these people are outright frauds and hypocrites and are merely using religion  as a front for some other insidious purpose. This man was the genuine article. I could read it in his eyes. He had seen his God, or at least he truly believed that he had.  The sweat on his brow and neck, and his sun-scorched leather looking face was a testament to his genuine sincerity. The day after talking to this man I was astonished to see him again. This time, however, I merely caught a glimpse of him as I was driving down the highway. I passed him. He was wearing the same sweat stained orange tee shirt, carrying his cross with a still determined look on his weary face. He was at least ten miles from where I had seen him the day before. After I passed him I looked in my mirror and could see that he had turned his head around as if he might have recognized me. His scraggly hair and beard blowing in the wind. I could almost hear him whispering to me "I have found my salvation and my peace...have you found yours?"

Abubakari II and the Mali Sea Voyage

Recently I was reading a book on the exploration of the Atlantic by the Spanish and Portuguese seafarers. This led me down another road and I began to read about earlier expeditions in the Atlantic off the coast of New Foundland by the Vikings, and the voyage of St. Brendan, an Irish monk who some believed sailed across the atlantic in an open boat back in the 5th century. This path led me to a book titled They Came Before Columbus: The African Presence in Ancient America by Ivan Van Sertima a former professor of history at Rutgers. Of course I had to have the book so I found a copy on E-Bay and waited for it to arrive.

     History, naturally, is my favorite subject. I live in the past, a relic, who tolerates the present because It is the time in which I live. Whether I like it or not I am forced by sheer habit to live in this plastic world. I suppose that hundreds of years from now some people will long to live in the early 21st century. I don't know why they would. I guess that it could be worse. I could be living in the 1st century B.C. in Rome, as a slave. Or perhaps a heavily taxed surf on a nobleman's land in medieval Europe (not that most of us are still surfs today). I guess as the old cliche goes the grass is always greener on the other side. What was it for Abubakari II?

     The king of Mali stood at the waters edge staring out at the endless expanse of ocean before him. Some had told him that if he sailed he would find the end of the world, but Abubakari II knew better. Scholars at Timbuktu had told him that the Earth was round, and that if he sailed toward the setting sun he would eventually make a complete circle and find himself at his place of origin. The year was 1310 and the kingdom of Mali was at war, however, Abubakari was wealthy and he had another ambition that did not include war, he wanted to find out what was beyond the ocean. He built a great fleet (possibly 200 vessels, not including the supply ships). Some of the ships were equipped with sails, others were manned by men with oars, while some possessed a combination of the two. They were supplied with rations for two years. According to Van Sertima they were told not to return until they had either found what was beyond the ocean, or had exhausted their supplies. Only one ship returned. The captain of that vessel told his king that the fleet had entered a strong current and disappeared. His ship was the last one in line and he decided not to follow. He did not know what became of the rest of the fleet. Abubakari became a man obsessed. He immediately ordered up another fleet only this time he left with them. He never returned to Mali leaving the kingdom in the capable hands of Mansa Musa who had been appointed king by Abubakari in the event that he did not return.

                           Mansa Musa, King of Mali (1312-1337)
     
     Did Abubakari II and his great fleet ever make it to the new world? This is the million dollar question. During Columbus' 2nd voyage to the new world in 1496 the natives at Espanola (modern day Haiti) told the Spanish that they were trading with "black people" that had the tops of their spears made of metal (Van Sertima 13). Also,the Atlantic current off the coast of Mali would seemingly make it extremely favorable for a vessel to ride its way south and then west where it would eventually end up off the coast of South or Central America. It is therefore quite possible that Abubakari set up a colony somewhere 180 years before Columbus landed at San Salvador in 1492. One can only imagine the scene as the natives watched this great fleet approach it's shoreline. Sails flapping in the breeze. There would probably have been a mixture of fear and wonderment as the Africans disembarked, not knowing if these people from across the water were friendly or had arrived with bad intentions. We will probably never know, but it is tantalizing to speculate.

     Somehow I can relate to this Mali king who lived 700 years ago. What was he looking for? Something better? A greener pasture perhaps? More riches? (He already had enough of that so this is doubtful) Or was he merely possessed with an inquisitive mind and wanted to search for his Shangri-La. What is it that people seek? An illusion of something grand and profound? A perception of a reality that does not exist? The quest to find the unknown?...Perhaps this last is it. Give me a ship and unfurl it's sails and I will sail it on a waterway to the stars.

 

    

Thoreau

I first read Walden back in the summer of 1990. I was 21 at the time. Freshly removed from a four year stint in the Marine Corps. I was floundering, still not sure where I was going or what I was going to do with my life. I moved back in with my parents, bought an old clunker Ford van, a lawnmower, and began cutting grass. I thought about going to college, but decided that I was not cut out for academics. I was never a good student. I couldn't hold my attention that long, so I was often lost quickly. My mind wandered too much especially if I was sitting next to a window. Also, there was something about the fluorescent lights early in the morning...they made my head spin. I would sit at my desk while the teacher stood in front of the class making gutteral sounds or grunts (at least it seemed that way to me). Since I never ate breakfast I was protien deficient, and therefore lacked energy. In desperation the only thing that I could do was sit there in my seat and wait for the bell like one of Pavlov's hungry dogs. No, academics did not suit me, at least in a formal setting. So what to do? In 1990 I was four years removed from that torture known as high school. My business was slow in starting...actually my heart was never in it. I would mow a few yards, work on my van, and have the rest of the afternoon off. I was always a reader, and this summer I read like a madman, and took notes. I read Homer, Virgil, and Herodotus. I then started reading philosophy books. Somewhere along the line I found Thoreau. I had heard of him before since we both hailed from the same state, Massachusetts, but I knew very little about him or his work.

                                                              
     Henry David Thoreau was born in Concord, Massachusetts in 1817. He came from a middle class family. His father was a manufacterer of pencils. He studied at Harvard, and then taught school for a while. He became friends with a number of other New England writers including Nathaniel Hawthorne, Louis May Alcott, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Thoreau is now associated with a philosophy called transcendentalism, which, basically is vague in definition, but most adherents believe in a subtle return to nature, and a form of self reliance. I guess that I would define the philosophy as being thus: A person is not truly free unless he or she breaks away from the constraints of a rigid society where government keeps an individual yoked. It is a utopian philosophy that even some proponents admit is probably impossible to attain. Thoreau was an idealist of sorts. He was willing to spend a night in jail for refusing to pay a poll tax. In 1845 he moved into a cabin at Walden Pond in Concord on land owned by his friend Emerson. He lived there for two years, making observations and attempting to live a transcendental existence in which, of course, he was only partly successful. Some so called conservatives today erroneously believe that transcendentalism was actually an early form of communism, or socialism. This is absurd, and nothing can be further from the truth. This belief probably took hold because of a community known as Brooke farm, where for a time a number of these transcendentalists went to live. Transcendentalism today would probably be likened somewhat to the libertarian movement that stresses less government intrusion. Thoreau helped spark the civil disobedience movement where proponents engaged in peaceful protests against governments at which they felt wronged. This type of protest would work well when directed toward civilized governments as Ghandi proved in his protests against Great Britain. However, it could never work against despotisms that are intent on retaining power by any means regardless of the cost.

Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

  
 Before today it had been many years since I had picked up Walden and read from it. I guess that I got it's message. Not long after I first read it I was driving to Worcester from Boston, and drove through Concord on the way. Out of curiosity I decided to stop at Walden Pond. I don't know why...did I think that I could somehow become Thoreau for a while? It was summer and the place was mobbed with people, myself included in the herd. Needless to say I left without even visiting the cabin and continued on toward Worcester. My mother-in-law use to always say "my reality is not your reality." The lesson that I learned from this, was, perhaps, "Thoreau's Walden is not my Walden." If that makes any sense at all. Everyone has their certain place of repose, mine was not at Walden Pond. I hate crowds, or anywhere that there is a large gathering of people. It makes me nervous, although I can't explain why. Not that I am an agoraphobic, at least as it relates to the standard definition of the term, for I love the open spaces of the outdoors. So...what might Thoreau think if he suddenly found himself at his restored cabin at Walden Pond on this the 5th day of May in the year 2012 (the sesquicentennial of his death).Who knows...he might greet his green disciples with some tofu, a latte, and a power bar. Then again, he may, perhaps, stand behind a tree peering from afar and wonder what all the hullaballoo is all about.

Coffee

I love coffee. I have been drinking it for as long as I can remember...almost. Actually I was probably about 12 or 13 when I started drinking it on a regular basis. I grew up in rural central Massachusetts... Worcester County to be exact. During the autumn I would go pheasant hunting in the fields and swamps with my uncle. Usually I would spend the night on the couch at his house, for we would get up early in the morning and go. It was still dark when I would hear him coming down the stairs from his bedroom, the boards creaking under the weight of his heavy step. A dim light would come on in the kitchen and I would suddenly hear the coffee percolating. There was something about the sound...and smell, what it was I cannot say, but it was distant, yet placid and peaceful. My uncle would then pour the coffee in a thermos, screw the cap on, and make a couple of egg sandwiches, wrapping them in wax paper. I guess he thought that I was still sleeping, but I am a light sleeper, I will sleep heavy when I am dead. I wake at the slightest sound. When he was finished preparing the morning snack he would come over to the couch and nudge me on the shoulder..."get your ass up bud...it's time to go". Those autumn New England mornings are very cool, and crisp, one can feel the presence of winter around the corner. The coffee would warm the blood. We would load the shotguns in the back of his Blazer and drive to a hunting spot, usually somewhere near the old Rutland prison camp. It was usually still dark when we arrived, so we would eat our egg sandwiches and pass the thermos with the scalding coffee while we waited for sunrise.

                               18th century London Coffee House     

     Coffee has a long history. The drink, it is said, appears to have originated in Ethiopia sometime in the 12th or 13th century by a goat herder named Kaldi. The legend has it that Kaldi observed some of his goats eating coffee beans from the tree which, he noticed, caused them to be more energetic. The story may be somewhat apocryphal, however, with every myth there is usually a tinge of truth. Coffee spread to the Arabian peninsular where Bedouin travelers traded the commodity with Persians, Turks, and other peoples of the Islamic world. Coffee spread to Europe by the 15th or 16th century. The papacy in Rome was initially hesitant to accept the drink. This was probably due to it's popularity in the east. It was therefore considered by some to be the devil's beverage. However, around the year 1600 Pope Clement VIII while decked out in his papal vestments decided to give the devil's beverage a try. The Pope, being of an inquisitive mind brought the cup to his holy lips and took a first sip. After this he probably told his flock "Take this all of you and drink it, for this is the fluid of life everlasting." No doubt Clement ordered the papal commissary stocked with plenty of "Joe" hereafter. Coffee house began to spring up all over Europe where intellectuals gathered to enjoy the beverage and engage in stimulating conversation. during the early 18th century some of the most popular literature was written in coffee houses.  The Spectator was a series of witty (for the time) essays written by Joseph Addison and Richard Steele popularized the coffee houses in London. No doubt but that these two powdered periwigs were helped along in their thinking by the so-called devil's beverage. Coffee, today, is as popular as ever. Not only does it have a stimulating effect on the human mind, but it is now thought to be beneficial to a persons health if taken in moderation.

                                  Pope Clement VIII (1536-1605)
    
I am drinking a hot cup of "Joe" as I write this. Recently I have graduated to the single cup Keurig coffee makers, however, I cannot part with my old percolator which remains dusty and scarred, a relic from another age now in permanent residence in my attic. I have long since moved away from my home in Massachusetts. My uncle passed away suddenly, while hunting alone near the old prison camp a number of years ago. No doubt a thermos of coffee sat on the seat of his truck. If there is a heaven, perhaps he is there drinking some. Yes, perhaps heaven is one big coffee house. I would be ok with that.