Meaning? What does that mean?

Many of my heros---from Viktor Frankl to Wayne Dyer---have stressed the importance of living a life that has meaning, a reason for our being here. If you are inclined to dwell such things perhaps these October Years provide the time and mind-space to consider what that “meaning” means to you.

First of all, I’m certain that the “meaning” of your life or mine is a very personal and individual thing. At the same time I know that for some the subject is theologically “out of bounds,” prescribed by their faith and beyond the realm of allowable exploring. Yet in the course of my reading, writing, and meditation---as well as in the stories I have imagined into being---I continue to tread that ground, trying to understand the “why” of my own life. 

Among other things I have come to realize that meaning is not about the success and acclaim we so proudly list on our personal resume. Instead, it seems to me that the intention we were sent here to live out, and the life we were meant to have, can only be measured by the life we actually live. In that case, perhaps in the depth of my being the Spirit that dwells in me becomes the ultimate judge of my own meaning.

Truth to tell, during the spring and summer of my life I seldom stopped to wonder if my life had meaning. Those years were filled with their own kind of busyness---some of it important, some not so much. Still, for many of us there comes a time, our October Years perhaps, when pause to consider the purpose of our stumbling efforts. Even then, the process will not be a formal interrogation, with pointed questions in search of direct answers. Rather, it is by recounting and remembering our own personal story that we come face to face with clues that may reveal who we are meant to be.

Because the experience of “meaning” is so individual there are endless ways to illustrate its impact on us and our lives. Dr. Frankl and Dr. Dyer each had their way of describing it. In the following excerpt from Family Matters Dan Padgett is on his back-road tour of the western United States when he meets a fellow who is willing to explain his “meaning” in terms Dan had never considered.

                                                                ***

   The Stone Bridge Saloon was not a spacious watering hole. The bar itself seated just three on high wobbly stools. Fortunately, since I appeared to be the only customer, seating was not a problem. Then the creaky rest-room door on the far side of the room opened and a balding, jean-clad cowboy limped across to the bar and plopped himself down on the stool next to mine.

   “Howdy, friend,” the newcomer mumbled, taking the overflowing glass the lady behind the bar held out to him. He took a long drink, then turned to me. “Buster Henshaw here. Don’t believe I caught your name.”

   “It’s Dan. Dan Padgett.”

  “Glad to meet you, Dan.” He raised his glass in my direction, then put it to his lips. Seconds later, with a single long gulp, in was empty. Pushing it back across the counter he explained, “Gertie was hoping to get a little business from that bull-riding thing down the road. So far it’s just the two of us.”

   “I expected to see more folks,” I nodded, taking a stale pretzel from the dish Gertie pushed my way. “Especially after all those signs I passed out on the highway. But I haven’t seen anything that looks like The Battle of Stone Bridge.”

   Buster took a moment to fondle, I believe that’s the right word, the refilled glass Gertie slid across the bar to him. “That’s Pokey Turner for you,” he said between sips. 

   “No one knows how to squeeze a few bucks out of a bad idea better than that old bandit. Folks around here know it’s the wrong part of summer to find enough riders and decent bulls for a dinky little bull-riding show like Pokey’s. All the good cowboys are out on the circuit. So he rounds up a few kids and a couple of worn-out old-timers, pays them ten bucks to ride a couple used-up steers, and puts on his show. I guarantee you he don’t get many repeat customers.”

   “I don’t think it would matter how used-up the bulls were,” I offered. “From what I’ve seen on the tube, riding a bull is a tough way to make a few bucks.”

    Something seemed to have set Buster thinking. He sat staring into his beer, until I asked. “You ever done that? Bull riding?”

   “Oh yeah.” There was a remembering look in his eye. “I’ve done that. Rode most everything with four legs. But I don’t do bulls any more. I might try the buckin' horses again during the fair. But not the bulls.”

    “Horses are easier to ride. Is that it?”

   “Not really. Either way it hurts when you hit the ground. But it’s a lot better to get bucked off a horse than a bull. At least that horse won’t try to run you down when you’re on the ground. Not the way a seriously-mad bull will.”

    “So, how old are you, Buster?” 

  “Well, I just turned fifty-one. I expect that’s close to a hundred in ‘rodeo years.’ About thirty-five of those years been spent on ranches all over the Outback---from Provo to the Canadian line, Ogallala to Boise. Hell, I’ve done it all---trailing cattle, pulling calves, breaking mustangs, and baling hay. For a lot of those years I’d schedule my jobs so they didn’t interfere with my rodeoing. That’s really what I lived for---a good bull, a good brew, and a good woman. Not necessarily in that order.”

   “You ever been married?” I asked. “Sounds like rodeoing would play hell with a relationship.”

   “A relationship?” my new friend repeated with a laugh. “Now there’s a big-city word if ever I heard one. Fact is, I have been married---three times. Had three kids that I know of. Don’t remember that I ever had a ‘relationship,’ but I did have three wives. The best of the bunch was Elsie. We were together almost a year, ‘til she made me choose between my job at the grain elevator and the Four Corners Stampede, down in the canyon country.”

   “And you had to decide? Between a rodeo and a job?”

   “Yeah I did. And I gave it quite a bit of thought.” Buster paused to nod his thanks to Gertie for the beer she handed him. “But you see, I’d won six-hundred bucks down there the year before. Took first in a short go-round. How could I pass up a rodeo that had been so lucky for me?”

   “So you went back again?” His dejected nod confirmed that much. “Did you win anything that time?”

   “Nah. I ended up with a couple busted ribs. Couldn’t do much of anything for two or three months. By the time I got back home Elsie was long gone, along with the cutest little girl you’ve ever seen.”

    “You ever see her? The daughter, I mean.”

   “I have no idea where she is. She must twenty-five or so by now. Probably has babies of her own.”

    Buster set his beer down and half-turned to greet the lanky fellow, a cowboy from his Stetson to his boots, standing in the doorway. “Howdy, Tom. Good to see you again.”

   Tom answered with nothing more than a touch of his hat brim as he followed Gertie to the front counter. 

    “Ole Tommy and I go way back,” Buster explained. “We started out together up on the North Fork. Went to lots of rodeos together. Had some good ole times. At least we did ‘til he went to work for old man Brunner on the Cold Hand Ranch. After that we didn’t see much of him, especially after he married that Carrie Braxton gal. She was a sweet thing. A heck of a barrel racer too.

    “Anyway, I’ve run into ole Tommy a few times over the years. Heard that they had a couple kids and built up a nice little spread of their own. Near as I could tell he was always working. Didn’t have time to rodeo.”

   I watched as Buster turned silent again, perhaps wondering how things had worked out so well for “Ole Tommy.” Finally, I had to ask, “You ever wish it had been like that for you? You know---a real family, a place of your own.”

    “Sure,” he nodded. “There were times I wished it could have been that way. The thing is, stayin’ in one place that long just wasn’t in me. My old man used to thump we around a bit. By the time I turned sixteen I’d had enough of that. So I hit the road. I was a damn good ranch-hand. Everyone knew that. Finding another job was easy. So I just kept moving around, from one place to another, riding bulls when I could. 

   “Then, after I’d slowed down a bit, I moved on to broncs. Anymore, I don’t even do much of that. It got to where I couldn’t ride anything but a barstool.” I caught a flash of his gap-toothed grin. “Hell, I’ve been bucked off one of them a time or two.”

   “I can tell that rodeoing must have been hard on your body,” I said. “Seeing how you limp like that.”

  “Yeah.” He offered a sad little laugh, trying to make fun of what was not a laughing matter. “It’s my hip, you know. It’s kind of messed up. Been bent, broke, and stepped on.”

   “Damn. That must hurt, whether it’s a bull or horse, or even a bar stool. If it hurts like that, why would you keep doing it---even a little bit?”

   “You’re right. It does hurt. Sometimes a lot.” By then his grin was about as sad as his laugh. “But what most fellows don’t understand is how good it feels when you make eight seconds. Hearing that buzzer---and knowing that you’re still up there and not on the ground. Let me tell you, that’s worth a lot of hurtin'.

   “Anyway, the doctor in Butte told me I needed a new hip, a ‘replacement’ he called it. He also said that I needed health insurance. Turns out, if I don’t have the one, I don’t get the other. It’s the pits for sure. But I guess it’s the price I paid for doing what I was born to do. I was meant to be a cowboy, and this is how a lot of cowboys end up. That’s a fact.”

    I left Stone Bridge that afternoon thinking sad and sometimes envious thoughts of Buster Henshaw---of the hopeful young man he must have been, and the sad and tired old man he had become. Yet even that late in the game he was still claiming to have lived the life he was meant live. A part of me had wanted to argue that point, to help him understand that “what was meant to be” was not suppose to leave him broken and hurting. 

    I’d gone a few miles further before I settled on the truth of it. It wasn’t my place to judge Buster and what he was meant to become. He had made his choices, and followed what had meaning for him. What more could I add to that? By the time I had chased away the last of those Stone Bridge thoughts I was wondering if Buster’s choices held any lessons for me. 

                                                              *****

Here’s hoping that your October Years are a time filled with meaning---your own personal brand of meaning, the kind that satisfies you. By now we’ve earned the right to decide what “meaning” means to us. They tell us that we mustn’t die with our music still inside us. I happen to believe that, even if our “music” is getting bucked off a bull, or a bar stool.

DARN IT FOLKS, LET’S BE CAREFUL OUT THERE

     Most of us who have reached our October Years can appreciate the subtle and often hard-won maturity we've gained over time. That is a reality I try to refllect in my Tanner Chronicles stories. Moreover, I like to think those life-lessons are a part of the person I've become. So why hasn’t that maturity of mine served me better?

      The truth of course begins with the sobering fact that, mature or not, at age 77 I can no longer do some of the things I once did. Perhaps it’s a guy thing---coming to terms with the sad fact that self-esteem is no longer won by doing what I do better than you or someone else does it. Of necessity, ego satisfaction has ceased to be a competitive exercise. In my more lucid moments I deal with that sad fact by reminding myself that I must accept my limitations and concentrate instead on those things I’m still able to do.

      After all, you and I have been around the block a time or two, and hopefully we’ve learned a few things along the way. Though our culture may not value the “wisdom of the elders” the way some societies do, I know that I’ve gained a lot of know-how over the years. I’ll bet you have too. So, why don’t I pay more attention to what I’ve learned?

      Example #1 -- I told this little story last year, certain that I had learned my lesson and there would never be a reason to repeat it. The fact that I’m back to retell it gives you some idea of how well I listened to my own advice.

      My son’s request was simple enough. He needed an extra pair of hands taking down a storm window. He’d seen his dad do that a time or two. So when he ran into a two-man job he asked for my help. And why not? I knew what to do and how to do it safely. 

      True, the window was large---six feet by six feet, and heavy too. But it was my son asking. He needed some help. Was I supposed to tell him his old man couldn’t handle that?

      Long story short---when I tripped over the limb I should have seen lying there, Terry managed to hold that heavy sheet of glass, wrapped only in a flimsy metal frame, upright. While I grumbled about a bruised hip and scraped knee he gave me time to get back on my feet and do my part. Had he not been able to do that, I would have been wearing a sheet of broken glass around my neck.

      Fast-forward a mere two months. August 2013. It’s a bright sunny morning. I’m up on a ladder, painting the house. Suddenly, before I realize what is happening, I’ve fallen four or five feet and kissed the very-hard ground with my shoulder. I’ve recounted the resulting  damages  elsewhere -- broken ribs, punctured lung, etc. Suffice to say, my learning experience was long and painful. However, if nothing else I would learn that pain is an effective teacher---but only if the student is ready to learn.

      Fact is, some of us are slow learners. Why else would I be sitting here, wondering about living life with one good arm and one good leg? Meanwhile we are scheduled to see the doctor today for an update on the newly fractured pelvis and broken arm. Alas, in the course of acting like a forty-five year old, life has sent me another learning moment.

      In the face of that graphic evidence, I am reminded again that our October Years are not about giving up or admitting defeat---but they are a time for being realistic, for having the good sense not to attempt what may have been doable once upon a time, but no longer is.

      It’s a simple admission I’m talking about---straight-forward advice that shouldn’t be hard to follow---except when it’s a good friend or your own offspring who is asking for help, or perhaps a grandchild who must hear the distressing news that Grandpa “doesn’t do that any more.” Though I rarely confess that “I can’t,” I am getting better at explaining that “I don’t.”

      I guess that means I’m still learning---even at my age. And giving thanks every day for the caring prayers that surround me and the enabling help that Roma and Terry provide. What about you? If you’ve been in that "learning"space, I’d like to hear how you dealt with it. Let me know in a comment below, won’t you?  In the meantime, be careful out there in October-land.

Gil Stewart

I'm connected. Are you?

Hey there, October friends. Welcome to the twenty-first century. You’ve heard the news, haven’t you? We live in a new “connected” age. The question is, are you connected?

Though not all of us October folks will admit to it, I've decided it's time to come out of the closet. I have been connected---via Facebook---for several months now. At first it was our daughter-in-law’s idea. She assured us that “it’s the best way to keep track of your kids and grandkids.” How could we argue with that?

Of course, at our age we should have realized that sometimes it’s best to be careful what we wish for. True, we are “keeping track” of our extended family more than ever. That’s a fact. And it is fun to read about our family and what they’re up to, especially our grand-childrens’ awards, achievements, and fun. Yet on the other hand, do we really need to know about their tantrums, tattoos, and wild parties? Perhaps not. 

But we've also found that the benefits go far beyond our amazing grandchildren. We've been able to hear about, and visit with, friends and acquaintances we might never have connected with any other way. And beyond that, there is reason for new hope. The so-called experts tell us that the younger generation is rapidly deserting Facebook. Why is that? Well, it seems there are too many parents and grandparents listening in on their conversations. Apparently they don't like that any more than we do. As a result they are moving on to more confidential online meeting places---places that you and I don’t know about.

Does that mean that we, October crowd, are winning the Facebook war simply by showing up? Probably not. But after hearing the news that October folks, the ones I’d like to visit with, are becoming a larger part of the Facebook audience, I wondered if I should expand my own Facebook involvement. I let that bit of information percolate for a few days, making notes on how I might do that. Before long I was dealing with some interesting new possibilities. Specifically---it seemed I should extend my October Years reach to include Facebook---with its enhanced opportunities for an actual dialogue with October folks about topics that matter to them.

At first I thought in terms of Facebook posts that would feature entries from my October Years blog, the one you're reading right not. But I soon realized that with so many seniors adding their voices to the internet these days in the form of blogs, articles, photos, and videos, there is more worthwhile content out there than any of us will ever see. Why not spice things up with generous helpings of October-oriented material from those other sources, interspersed with my own blog material? That should add variety, and make things even more fun.

To be sure I have other, perhaps more sneaky reasons for an expanded Facebook presence. My Amazon Author’s page now lists eleven books---my personal interpretations of October Year's life and relationships. If a Facebook connection happens to make folks more aware of those stories, I can deal with that.

One last disclaimer. Not everyone is a Facebook person. Some of you have made the conscious choice not to be a part of that space. That’s fair. In that case I hope you'll at least take a moment to check out my Facebook page---to see what it’s about. You can do that without having a Facebook account. Once there, if you think what you see might be of interest to someone you know, perhaps a special October friend who might enjoy it, I hope you will pass it on. If you'd like to follow this October Years blog I hope you'll add it to the list of sites you visit periodically. As always, I welcome your comments below.

Gil Stewart

IS IT TIME TO LET YOURSELF OUT OF PRISON?

So tell me, are you an advocate of truth in advertising? Do you like to see people as they really are, or prefer them wearing the sometimes elaborate masks they want us to see? Have you ever been surprised to learn that someone you thought you knew was in fact a very different person?

Before you answer, take a moment to consider the same questions stated in a different, more personal way. Are there things about you that even the people closest to you---friends, family, even lovers---seldom see or never know? Are there bits of the “real” you that you keep out of sight?

The answer, of course, is “yes,” as it should be. Each of us has stored away in the far corners of our mind soul-deep bits of who we are that are so personal they must be for our eyes only. We like to think of that inner repository as a safe place, a sanctuary---a place to keep what is ours alone.

But what about the times we use that same private space to hide the dreams we have for ourselves---those visions of what we could do or whom we could be---the ones we keep to ourselves because we fear the judgement of others or the possibility of embarrassment? What if our sanctuary becomes a warehouse, where we store the dreams we hide because we are afraid to try?

And what about the “you” that wants out of that sanctuary---the possibilities we long for, but can never exploit as long as they remain behind that closed door? By now, in our October Years, we may have spent a lifetime reinforcing the walls that hide those dreams from prying eyes. And each time we redouble those defenses we end up cheating ourselves---stifling the opportunity to have those dreams played out in ways that might help us be the person we were meant to be. 

In one sense what I’m talking about is something akin to enforced captivity. Could it be that for too long we have locked away not only our dreams, but ourselves too? Are we trapped inside that supposedly safe place---on the wrong side of the door that insulates us from the real world---the one place where those dreams can come true?

October Bold is the story of a too-timid lady living a too-timid life, but dreams of a boldness that has always eluded her. In this excerpt she has opened the door to her personal sanctuary, just a crack---enough to let her dream slip out into the light of day.

For two restless nights and two long days Marian played and replayed her surprising dilemma. In more normal times the anxiety of dealing with David Larmer’s unexpected interest might have been too much for her fragile self-confidence, enough to put an end to such thoughts.

But these were not “normal times.” Weeks of frustration and disappointment in her own timidity were providing a new incentive. For the first time she could remember she was unwilling to settle for the easy way out, even though the situation called for bold action. But what action? Given her personal history, whatever course she chose would require a courage she had always found just out of reach.

The truth of it was beginning to sink in. It was one thing to replay her personal dream of becoming the bold and adventurous person she had never been. Actually becoming that new and unfamiliar version of Marian Crocker would be more difficult. She was not at all sure how to do that, or even where to start.

She had never been a bold person. There was little room in Tom Crocker’s world for a bold wife. Being the bold one had always been his role to play. For as long as she could remember, life with Tom had been a matter of safe and comfortable options---ones he carefully screened to avoid inconvenience and hardship. The vision she was piecing together now, of a future she could scarcely imagine, was sure to involve a new and heightened level of risk.

To further complicate matters it appeared that beyond the impact of his injuries, David was still mired in the hurt of his aborted Tanner venture. According to Jason, he was not ready to approach Marian. If there was to be a reconciliation it would be up to her to step forward with her own olive branch. Small wonder the uncharacteristic mind games she had played for the last two days, the ones that assumed a new blend of bravery and boldness, had her on edge.

One by one she studied her options, weighing the pros and cons, until finally she had settled on the most audacious choice of all. Never in all her life had she considered such an “unMarian” course of action. Though she had yet to determine her exact approach, she had managed to identify a starting point---a place to begin. Now the challenge was to take that first step before her already suspect resolve faded.

And there you have it---the first step. Whether for Marian, or the rest of us “sanctuary-bound” October inhabitants, the process of “becoming” begins by freeing at least a piece of our inner-self from its prison. We may fault the young for being too impulsive. But too often by the time we reach our October Years we have lost that adventurous impulse. To follow the dreams we have tried so hard to deny we must begin by freeing the inner-self from its captivity.

Let's Hear It For October Boldness

Do you ever wish that your October Years came with a crystal ball. If you’re like me, by this stage of the game your time and energy are a bit limited. It would help if you could see around the next corner of your life-path---to have a better idea of what to expect and how to prepare for it. Alas, like every other time of life, October does not provide that kind of foresight. 

There are times, of course, when each of us indulges in our own form of looking around that next corner. How often have you said with conviction that “I am definitely going to do this or that” or “I’ll never do this or that again”? Were you intending to predict the future? Probably not, though you may have wanted it to sound that way. In the end, however, it is the choices we make, along with a host of circumstances we may or may not control, that will shape our future. 

Perhaps you know someone who is weighed down by October realities, who seems to have given up on the future. Maybe you have been in that space yourself---where what you can’t see has already defeated you. What could be sadder than the person who decides that a productive change of course, at this late date, is simply not worth the effort? Seems to me that using our October status as a reason to cease “becoming” is to sell ourselves short.

Months ago I mentioned in these pages that I planned to call my next novel October Bold. Now, having completed the first draft, I find that name still fits. It's a simple tale of a sixty-something couple---each of them still dealing with the loss of a spouse, while realizing that a new relationship will require a change of course and attitude. 

The necessary changes will require a dose of October Boldness. After all, the questions they face are daunting and decades removed from the last time they were asked. To be sure, the October Boldness I advocate is not a matter of daring adventure or great physical risk, but rather the risk of hurt feelings, embarrassment, or head shaking snickers. It is a willingness to venture beyond one’s comfort zone, and learning that a sometimes fragile ego can deal with those insults and injuries. 

More to the point, October Boldness is a frame of mind---a conscious decision, no matter how timid, to act in the face of all the reasons we have created for not acting. It’s about taking chances. After everything we’ve gone through to reach October, haven’t we earned the right to be bold---in an October sort of way?

Perhaps someone will buy my books. Maybe they won’t. My blog may be read---or not. Either way, October Boldness allows me the opportunity to be true to myself. As a storyteller I create change in the lives of the characters I imagine into being---leading them toward a hopefully more desirable future as they adapt to the never-ending change we call life. Just like those stories, life ought to be lived with the future in mind.

It’s what I call ‘becoming’---the process of moving toward a future that is always changing. It may be good, or bad. But there will be change. No one stays the same. Yet, while there is no avoiding that reality, we can influence those changes. An important part of our October reality is the small voice in our head urging us to become the person we are meant to be.

So why not scrape off the limiting barnacles, the ones that hold you back, and be more open to taking those chances? Who cares if you end up looking silly or out of place? If you’re like me, you’ve been there before. To hold back or hesitate because of what someone else may say or think about our feeble efforts strikes me as a cowardly and very unbold reason for not acting.

Finally I pray that you can be bold in your own October way. If there is something you want to try or do, and nothing more than your own timidity is holding you back---then give it a try. What are you waiting for? Will it be easier next year?

As always, if you’re so inclined I’d appreciate your comments. Beyond that, if there are folks with whom you’d like to share this October Years post I hope you’ll pass it on. It’s an easy thing to do. Just click on the “M” at the bottom of the page to email the post to any address you choose.

October Years - does that mean Going Poor?

I’ll tell you what, it feels too much like having a job---which is one of those things I don’t need. Writing a two-a-week blog---deciding what to say and whether it’s worth saying, trying to get the readers involved---it’s a hard thing for a guy who sometimes goes two weeks between good ideas. Moreover, though it may not show, it’s a time consuming process---time I would rather spend telling my stories.

It is the combination of all those things that has prompted my decision to become an ex-blogger. Though I expect I’ll add a post from time to time, just to have it on the record, that probably won’t matter much. Once folks will have stopped visiting October Years not many will come back to see what I post.

Having made that decision I probably could have stopped right there. But I had a couple pages of notes I wanted to spring on you. I haven’t posted about Going Poor until now. It’s one of my favorite stories, and I think it deserves a few minutes in the spotlight before I go.

I’ve said it before---our October Years can be an intimidating time. By the time I started working on Going Poor, and its depiction of poverty’s impact, I had written of relationships impaired by divorce and death, Alzheimer’s and heart disease, stroke and decades of separation. So why not explore what has become an all-too-familiar part of October life? Why not take a close look at poverty, and what happens to relationships when they face the harsh realities of Going Poor?

I’m not exactly sure what prompted the idea. I suppose it’s a child of the times. We read every day about how many people are unprepared for retirement, how many of us face an uncertain financial future. 

By itself “poverty” is more depressing than interesting, not a likely topic for the stories I tell. But what about the impact of poverty---its effect on those who deal with it? Beyond the basics of food and shelter the cruelest part of financial hardship is its impact on the human psyche---the emotional price of not measuring up to what we or society expects of us. How do youthful dreams of success fare in the face of late-life poverty? What are its effects on self-esteem, families and children? Those that are ingredients for a worthwhile story.

And what are the effects of poverty on relationships? On one hand, no one is more in need of the support and caring of a committed partner more than a truly needy person? On the other, how do the deeper questions of personal worth and not being a provider affect relational possibilities? Relationships can thrive in a real home, no matter how modest it is. Yet poverty and homelessness do not lend themselves to permanency. In Going Poor the couples, or prospective couples, I write about are dealing with life as it is. For them, “it is” means being poor.

Going Poor - excerpt 1

Lane Tipton has reached the end of his rope. Calling his sister in Tanner is a last resort. Sadly, he has no other choice.

Lane flinched a bit at that, remembering how much he disliked those moments when his sister’s questions focused on his unfortunate circumstances. “So how are you doing?” Sally asked. “Have you been working at all? If I remember right the last time you called you were retrieving shopping carts for the Merchants’ Association, and living in someone’s garage.”

“I worked myself out of a job.” He was laughing to himself as he switched the phone to his other ear, wondering why she would remember something like that. “A place like Medford only has so many shopping carts. It took about two weeks to round up the lost and stolen ones, at least the ones I could find. It earned me a few bucks, but then I was out of work again. As for the garage, that worked out pretty well, until I got evicted.”

“You got evicted from a garage? That sounds like a first.”

“I should have seen it coming,” Lane admitted. “Ron had been talking about getting a car for his wife. When he finally did, there wasn’t room for me and the Honda. The Honda won out.”

“So where are you staying now? Have you come up with a new answer?”

He turned quiet, offering no hint of his normally upbeat banter. That was very much unlike him. For years he had endured hardship and hard times without complaint, relying on his characteristic optimism and an exaggerated bravado to mask the hurt. But now, as his silence continued, Sally was inclined to believe something different was at work this time. 

“Lane. You have to tell me. Does it feel like you’ve run out of options? Is that it?” She paused, wondering how to pry the truth from him. “Come on. I understand how that feels. I’ve been there. Remember?”

His reply arrived in a hushed near-whisper, tinged with a hesitant resignation she had seldom heard from him. “Yeah,” he said. “It kind of feels like I’ve hit the wall. There’s not much work to be had around here. There are a couple dozen guys going for every job that comes up. An old fossil like me doesn’t stand a chance. 

“The only ones who are hiring are the orchards. They’re pruning this time of year, and looking for young bucks who can run up and down a ladder a hundred miles an hour. I just can’t do that anymore.” By then Lane was scolding himself for sounding so down in the dumps. Still, he owed her the truth. 

“The thing is,” he continued. “The few shelters in town are turning guys away. They don’t have any room. There aren’t enough beds to go around. Winter’s coming on and I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“So?” Sally voiced her one word question and waited.

“So? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m wondering what you’re going to do. You can’t do nothing.”

By then neither of them wanted to be the first to say what must be said. Without another word being spoken they each realized where their sparse dialogue was taking them. Sally understood her brother’s reluctance to sound like he was giving up. Yet, if he could not say what needed saying, she would have to do that herself.

“Listen to me, brother. How many times have I told you that you ought to come back here, to Tanner. Why not do that now? Stay with me until you get things sorted out. I’ve got room for that. It’s not fancy, but it beats the heck out of staying in some camp on the Bluffs.”

“Sal, don’t you kid me. You don’t have room. You’re still in the same single wide, aren’t you, the one you had in the other park?”

“That’s right.” 

“Which means you don’t have room for another body bouncing around your trailer. I can’t be imposing on you like that.”

Brother Lane was raising his predictable objections. That was not so surprising. Her challenge was to make him listen to reason. “Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be imposing at all. In fact, I think I’d appreciate some company for a change. In fact I’d probably feel more comfortable with a man around the place. Who knows what kind of guys are poking around here at night?”

“And you expect me to scare them off?” The thought of that had him laughing. “That’s not too likely. Besides, how are you ever going to get acquainted with any of those guys with little brother hanging around.? I might end up scaring off the wrong one.”

“Don’t you fret about that. You won’t find any fellows buzzing around this old girl. At least none that I’d be interested in meeting. That doesn’t bother me at all. Don’t forget. I know what the real thing is like. Why would I ever settle for second best?

Going Poor - excerpt 2

Lane has made his way to the downtown Job Market, where area farms and nurseries come each morning to hire the day-workers. 

“So tell me,” Lane said to the only other fellow waiting in what appeared to be the senior section of the Job Market. “What are the odds of making a connection here? Is there any work to be had, especially for old guys like us? I’m standing here in the rain, hoping to make a few bucks before the day is over. I need to do that. It’s been way too long between paychecks.”

“You can see how it works,” Robert replied “Most of the outfits that come in here are looking for the young guys. They have crops to get in, or plants to tend. They need help and they’re not worried about age discrimination issues and stuff like that. Those young kids, especially the Mexicans, are hard workers. They’re the ones they want. Hell, I’d hire them in a minute if I had work to get done.”

The rain had picked up again, sending Robert down the wall, under the wider awning in front of the fitness center. “During the summer,” he continued. “There’s plenty of work for everyone, even us old farts. But by now, in the fall, it gets harder. The work has slowed down. The only thing in our favor is a lot of the Hispanics have headed south to California, where there’s more work. Another month or so there won’t be much call for extra help. Except for the Christmas tree farms, everyone will be going with a skeleton crew.”

“Does that mean you’ll be going south?”

“I don’t know,” Robert answered. “I’ve done that the last couple years. Mostly because it’s warmer. But the truth is, my body can’t take that kind of beating year round. I turned sixty-one this summer. Been fighting bad knees for years.”

“You got a place to stay up here?” Lane asked. “If you decide to stay?”

“Yeah, sort of. Another fellow and I have what we call our Penthouse. We’ve set up a tent, made out of plastic sheets, against one of the warehouses on the bluff. It’s not pretty, and sure as hell doesn’t meet code. But we stay dry, even half-warm most of the time. That, along with the Mission House, keeps us going when there’s no work.”

It was an interesting exercise, creating a relational story from such unpromising fabric. Sadly, it’s a story being played out all around us in these hard days. I hope you’ll take time to check it out.

In the meantime, thanks for being part of this ride. Check in from time to time. Perhaps our paths will cross again sometime.

Gil Stewart

Is this who I was meant to be?

I am still processing Thursday’s post about “thriving” in our October Years. In my own mental shorthand I have defined thriving as “coming closer to being the person I can be.” That in turn has led me to questions like---Am I thriving? Should I expect to thrive? Does it matter one way or the other?  I’ll admit, there are times when I’m inclined to just settle for being the person I am. 

Of course, thriving is a very personal thing. My thriving isn’t necessarily your thriving. If you happen to be one of those October thrivers, chances are you’ve found the proper balance in your life. You look ahead, but remember the past. You accept the person you have become, but hope to be more.

Yet I see, and perhaps you do too, October friends who are not thriving---who seem to have been beaten down. Some have given up. Be aware, however, that such judgments are fraught with danger. Who is to say that his or her kind of thriving is the only acceptable kind? I have to remind myself that thriving, and the change that comes with it, is a very individual thing. Your change doesn’t have to look like my change.

I’ve mention “change” before. It seems to me it ought to be an important part of October life. It is, after all, still allowed at our age. One way of viewing life is as an unending chain of choices, adaptations, and changes. Though I can’t judge what change is appropriate for you, I am sure that adapting to life’s changing circumstances is an important part of thriving at any age. To use our October status as a reason to stop “becoming” is to sell ourselves short. What could be sadder than the person who believes that it is too late to become something more---that change is not worth the effort at this late date?

One way to integrate change is in the context of a life lived on purpose. Do the concepts of “purpose” or “intention” resonate with you? Have you ever thought about becoming the person you were meant to be? As you may have guessed by now, I’m a Wayne Dyer sort of guy. In that life view there are no accidents---things happen for a reason. To resist the changes implied by life’s “non-accidents” is the same as resisting our destiny.

As a storyteller I constantly create change in the lives of the characters I imagine into being. In a hopefully entertaining way I lead them from one place, with its particular circumstances and outlook, to another more desirable place. More than once I have used the notion of life’s “intention” to link someone’s beginnings (childhood perhaps) to a much later October event. In the same way that it happens to each of us, I ask my characters to follow the twisted, but continuous chain of change and adapting to where it leads them.

Take for instance Jack Benz in Becoming. For fifty years, half a century, he has nurtured his improbable dream, knowing the odds were stacked against him---yet willing to stay the course.

For a few seconds he thought perhaps he had lost contact with her, until she looked up, ready with a new question. “Do you really believe that? What you said at lunch.”

“What did I say?”

“Last night, at the motel, you said that when something is meant to be it will work out. Then today, at lunch, you told me that everything is working out just right---just like it was supposed to.” She turned back to him. “Is that what you think? That this is meant to be?”

“Meant to be?” Jack blinked at the sound of her words. For a instant it felt as though she had traced his own questions back to their source. He could not remember exactly where he had first read about it---the idea that there was actually an “intention” behind what he had always assumed to be the random unfolding of his life.

It was a notion that had captured his imagination. When viewed from that perspective, perhaps his years of unremarkable plodding had served a purpose. There might have been a reason for the way his life had played out. If nothing else, it would help explain the unlikely fact that Cynthia Larson was seated comfortably beside him, seeking his interpretation of their unexpected and life changing connection.

“I’ve read stuff like that---how everything happens for a reason.” He rolled his eyes, offering a hint of doubt for her benefit.

“According to that, there’s a purpose for everything that happens to us. It’s not just accidental. It means that every person who shows up in our life is there for a reason. We may not know what it is, but it’s important---otherwise they wouldn’t be there. It also means there are reasons that we don’t necessarily understand, for things like strokes and divorces. It might even explain why I’ve been such a pest lately.

“Just think about it.” Shifting in his seat to face her more directly he hurried on, caught up in his not-so-conventional logic. “That day in the sixth grade, when we held hands and didn’t want anyone to see us. I’m not sure you even remember that. But I do. Anyway, I’d like to think that happened for a reason. Because, without those few minutes together, more than fifty years ago, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here today talking about getting old, maybe together.”

For a few seconds the sight of the bridge in the distance seemed to capture Cynthia’s attention. When she looked back at him her crooked, but comfortable grin had returned. Was it the soundness of his argument or her growing hope that he was right? “And maybe all those things happened because we held hands?” she wondered out loud. “It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve asked myself over and over,” Jack continued, “if it could be just a coincidence. There must have been a million different ways to get from where each of us was on that day in the sixth grade to where we are now. It seems to me that you took the high road---living the good life with Eric, while I bounced along on the low road---working at my state job and drinking beer with Carl.” 

He had her hand again, squeezing to make his point. “Our paths were so different, but even with all the twists and turns, your way and my way both led to this exact time and place. 

“That sounds like what Carl calls ‘becoming.’ He says that everyone, even at our age, is in the process of the becoming something new and different. It may be something good. It may be something bad. But no one can stay the same. For you and me it seems like becoming has brought us right here. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t feel like an accident to me.”

Jack leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Cynthia was not prepared to settle for that. Seconds later he pushed himself back into his seat, rebuckled his seat belt, and paused to wrap his mind around the improbable truth of it. After years of idle daydreams, Cindy Welton was sitting there beside him, looking forward to his company. She was no longer the youthful school girl who had first caught his eye. Like him, she had changed. Yet even with her crooked little smile and halting, jagged words, she had never been more appealing. Indeed, he was unwilling to accept those changes as accidental.

“I think we’d better be going.” He gently elbowed her good left arm. “I believe I’m beginning to feel a little under the weather. In fact, I think I’ll probably be needing a nurse.”

You could say that I’m selling change. You may not agree, but I am willing to believe that more than a little October change happens because a small voice is telling us we must keep striving, and thriving, to become the person we were meant to be.