It's Funny How Life Turns Out

I wonder how many of us aging baby boomers accurately imagined how our life would unfold?  How many of our dreams were realized or how many of us view our lives as successes?  As I write this, a cat sits purring next to the keyboard.  Waiting, I assume, for me to give it some affection or more likely a treat.  The overhead fan moves the air and there are noises from the house as a roll-top desk is uncovered.  This gives me time to contemplate such things.

We each have two faces.  The one we show the world, and the one we see when we look into the mirror.   I can only assume there are a few people that are lucky enough to show and see precisely the same thing, but I believe those people are indeed rare.  As I grow older the two are coming closer together but I still see differences.

I have been blessed in this life, although I am not sure I would have said so as a 12 year old when, in the middle of the night, I was fighting with my father, drunk and abusive to my mother.  I have been able to find my way, when others around me were less fortunate.  I wonder why that is?  I do know that as a result of those formative years I am by nature aloof and an observer of life.  At a party I am far more comfortable sitting back and watching, than having to put on a happy face and be the center of attention.

As a child, my Grandmother and Grandfather favored me and I spent a lot of time with them.  I think perhaps far more then my sisters and brother, and my cousins.  They offered me a safe refuge when the strife of home built up.  In the summers they would camp in the Catskills and Adirondacks and I remember fondly the times at North Lake, Lake George, and Lake Champlain. 

It was during those times I remember being truly free.  I was running through woods, hiking the trails, swimming and exploring.  It was what summers were supposed to be like.  At North Lake I remember searching for Rip Van Winkle and looking for the site where he and the Kaatskill kegers played 9 pin.  At Lake George I was fascinated by Fort William Henry and its role in James Fenimore Cooper’s “Last of the Mohicans.”  At Fort Ticonderoga I could see myself as a “Green Mountain Boy” with Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold as we took the Fort from a small British garrison.  I can remember standing in front of the statue of French priests on Lake Champlain and seeing their missing fingers from torture by the Indians.  It is funny how your mind works.  The song that summer was “yellow polka-dot bikini.”

Cooperstown is a wonderful place for a boy.  It is full of the stuff you build your memories around.  There is the Farmers museum where you can see what life was like in the 19^th Century, the James Fenimore Cooper House, and of course the Baseball Hall of Fame.  I’m sure this current version is wonderful for todays fans, but I’ve been there as an adult and its not the same as the old brick building with dark wood floors and musky locker rooms I remember as a kid.  Seeing "the Babe's” uniform hanging there, the balls and bats of the game.  No high tech presentations, but the artifacts that brought our nation together.

On Facebook today someone commented on a class picture I had posted.  It brought me back to this point….

I hope each who read these thoughts today, take time and enjoy their lives.  Don’t let the stresses of the moment cloud the joy that hides in each new discovery.