by Ralph Maltese | Nov 5, 2017 | Uncategorized
Miss Meg
“I Touch the Future…I Teach.”
Christa McAuliffe Teacher/Astronaut
We See What We Think We Know
One of the perks of teaching something new for the first time is that you have to become a student again, learning all you can about a subject. When I was asked to teach a high school humanities class, I began a crash course in art history (a weakness in my collegiate engineering background). One text that made a lasting impression on me was E.F. Gombrich’s Art and Illusion. One of Gombrich’s major tenets involves “schemata,” the preconceived vision of the world that dictates day-to-day operations. In Art and Illusion, Gombrich poses this essential question: “Why is it that different ages and different nations have represented the visible world in such different ways?” Interesting question. ”At the heart of Gombrich’s theory is the notion of ‘schemata,’ that is, the idea that the artist ‘begins not with his visual impression but with his idea or concept’ and that the artist adjusts this idea to fit, as well as it can, the object, landscape, or person before him or her. Gombrich calls this theory ‘making and matching.’” http://www.encyclopedia.com/arts/culture-magazines/art-and-illusion-study-psychology-pictorial-representation
We paint what we know. For example, a famous Japanese painter (as Huck Finn is prone to say, “I disremember his name.”) fell in love with the coastal landscapes of the American Northwest.
In his paintings, which he completed on his return to Japan, he caught the beauty of ocean meeting land except for one detail—the trees were not evergreens but Ginkgos, a Japanese tree. His schemata required he paint “tree” and the most familiar was, well, what he was familiar with. A better example: You just enter your home after an evening at the movies. You walk in your living room and see what you expect to see—your schemata—your living room. Split seconds pass and then your brain begins to distinguish between your schemata and reality: a picture tilted, a chair overturned, muddy tracks on the carpet. “We’ve been robbed!!”
My point is that our schemata saw the room in the first few seconds as we expected to see it. I would enter a classroom and expect to see Harry in the first row, first seat. And that is what I saw until my brain realized it was Mark who usurped Harry in the assigned seat.
Growing up in the Bronx, the only part of the evening news that I paid attention to was the weather forecast by Tex Antoine who, as he predicted the weather, drew Mr. Weatherman on an easel. When he mentioned the probability of “patchy fog,” I heard “Apache fog,” the fog being used as cover as Geronimo and cohorts crawled up to the fort in preparation for an attack. I had a penchant for romance in those days….maybe still. My schemata was shaped by hours spent watching westerns and reading James Fenimore Cooper. I heard what I knew—or thought I knew. I was so disappointed when I learned it was “patchy” fog—so unromantic.
Imagine that a friend tells you, “I am taking you to an exciting amusement park. Ready? Let’s go.” Your mind draws on your schemata of what an amusement park is supposed to be…roller coasters, neon lights, swirling rides, and cotton candy. When you reach your friend’s destination, you find yourself standing in a cemetery. Now your friend may argue that reading the inscriptions on ancient tombstones may be amusing, but the cemetery contradicts your schemata of what an amusement park should be.
Amusement Park?
Confusion sometimes occurs when one person’s schemata does not jive with another person’s schemata. Combine this with the human tendency to hear what we expect to hear and not what was really said, and the potential for embarrassment is exponentially multiplied. Take my eleventh grade high school English assignment. Context is necessary here. I was fortunate to have three excellent and distinctly different high school English teachers (who were my inspiration to choose teaching as a profession). Mr. Murphy taught me the sometimes humorous concept of irony, especially as it applied to literature. Mrs. Farrell honed my organizational and research skills. Miss Megerdichian taught me that behind every true thought there is passion. Young and vivacious and possessing a smile that made you feel as if the world was a glorious place to live in, Miss Meg was the first teacher in my student career who broke the class into groups and assigned a collaborative learning project….an experience that I later incorporated into my own teaching (although I learned to structure the collaborative projects quite differently from Miss Meg). She believed that we could learn from each other because she also had faith that we had something to offer.
To supplement her teaching income Miss Meg worked in a book store in Union City. Several of us would take the bus to go visit her on a Saturday or Sunday. One visit, Miss Meg was alone in the store, and Steve asked her if she was ever lonely working there. She replied as her arm majestically swept the shelves and the books they held. “How can I be alone with all these beautiful soulers surrounding me?”
One day I brought my writing journal, and asked her to read some of my poems. She read my work as if what she was reading was the most important document in the universe. After a while she looked up at me. “Your poems are very personalized and introspective.” I knew that meant my poems were crapola, but it didn’t matter. She taught me how to use very very very very faint praise to encourage students, a lesson that helped me as an instructor. That Monday she lent me some books of poetry and essays from her personal library. “Based on what I read of your poetry, I thought you might enjoy these poets, and in your essays you might work at studying the writing styles of these authors. Examine the figures of speech they use.” Miss Meg told me I should keep reading and writing, and that while I read I should constantly make connections to the world I knew of which was very little. Her courageous break with conventional teaching methods, her inherent and palpable kindness, and her passion for learning inspired us. She called us her “beautiful soulers,” which, in our adolescent penchant for cynicism and self-deprecation, shortened to her “BS’ers.” She made us think expansively and encouraged us to believe we truly had something deep and important to offer the future. She informed the class that a collaborative entreprise was our next assignment.
I had plenty of motivation to perform well on this project. First, like every other male in the class, I had a crush on Ms. Meg. I learned that Miss Megerdichian’s ancestry was Armenian. I wanted to go to Armenia. I wondered if Armenians would love non-Armenians. Second, Melody Ann Appleby was assigned to my group. Melody Ann Appleby was a young lady with lips perpetually pursed, with long blonde hair that draped her cheerleader shoulders and blue eyes that pierced every young lad’s soul and twisted his heart into a spasm of unrelenting yearning.
Asking Melody Ann Appleby to a school dance or social gala was out of the question–she was so totally out of my league in that category, but, if I dazzled her with my academic skills, there was an outside chance (okay, a long shot) that she would accept an invitation to go to a basketball game or movie or bowling at the Broad Avenue Alley….or at least recognize my existence, even if it was by rejecting my invitation to the bowling alley.
Ms. Meg verbally assigned our group the topic of euthanasia. (As a teacher I learned that topics are boring and not very forensic, but questions are interesting and explorable—“Lincoln’s Assassination” is blah, but “What future would our nation have experienced if Lincoln had served out his second term” is ripe for investigation. Most of my assignments as a teacher were framed as questions for my students.) Our group conversation went something like this:
Moe: “Anyone know anything about euthanasia?”
Silence.
Joe: “When’s it due?”
Floe: “Miss Meg said the research was due next Monday, and then we collectively write the paper.”
Moe: “Who wants to do the research?”
Floe: “Miss Meg says we should share the work.”
Joe: “I got basketball practice.” Joe shot Melody Ann Appleby a wink. “Playoffs in two weeks.”
Moe: “I work at the A&P after school. Got no time.”
I stepped up. “I’ll gather the research.” I nodded emphatically in the direction of Melody Ann Appleby.
Melody Ann Appleby sat silent, her posture reflecting the goddess-like composure of a Greek statue, her eyes (and maybe thoughts) focused on the fire drill instructions posted on the bulletin board.
I spent every night for the next week in the public library researching our topic until closing time. And these were the days before Xerox and Cutting and Pasting…..using real books, no less. I had to read the article and take notes, summarizing what I read (a high level thinking activity). And pages, no—reams, of notes I took. It was quite a load what with all my other calculus and social studies and physics homework, but my goal was to impress Miss Meg with my stellar research skills and to augment the possibility of Melody Ann Appleby learning my name.
When the day came for all the groups to reconvene and share the research (in our group I was doing the sharing), I was ready. I plopped a box that had previously held twelve heads of iceberg lettuce from the local Shopwise on our group’s table, proud of the depth and breadth of the acres of research I had gathered on our topic. I couldn’t sit still. I was anxious for Miss Meg to see what I had done, to be the recipient of one of her approving smiles and for Melody Ann Appleby to be dazzled by my academic thoroughness.
Each of my collaborators reached into the box and fetched a piece of research. My eyes were only focused on Melody Ann Appleby who reluctantly retrieved a thick packet of my notes and, fatalistically, fighting the burden of boredom, began to read. I waited. After a minute or so I saw her nose twitch slightly and scrunch up. Maybe it was the smell of decayed lettuce that I had failed to totally eradicate from the box. Melody Ann Appleby looked perplexed.
Suddenly I noticed Miss Meg at my side. “May I look at your research?”
I nodded admiringly.
Miss Meg asked, “Who collected all this?”
Four hands pointed at me. I smiled my “Aw shucks” smile.
Miss Meg looked at the first page of one of my packets. I waited.
Suddenly, and totally unexpectedly, Miss Meg snickered. A real snicker.
Seconds, eons really, passed. I looked up and with some concern noticed Miss Meg was trying to stifle a guffaw. This was puzzling. I could not recall anything funny in the research I had painstakingly gathered over the last seven nights.
Miss Meg stifled another laugh. I looked down and looked up again. This was not the response I anticipated.
Miss Meg put her lovely hand on my shoulder and looked down at me the way a pet owner looks at her small puppy dog about to be put to sleep.
“Ralph,” Miss Meg’s brown eyes glistened. “Your topic was ‘euthanasia,’ not ‘Youth in Asia.’”
What the hell was “euthanasia?” My schemata incorporated “youth” and “Asia,” but “euthanasia?”
Miss Meg gently inserted the needle that would inject the invisible liquid that would inflame my humiliation and dash all hopes of my keeping Melody Ann Appleby out of the gutter in the Broad Avenue Bowling Alley. “Ralph, euthanasia means ‘mercy killing.’”
My face red with embarrassment, the blood coursing through my veins bringing disgrace and degradation to every cell of my body, I thought, “Then why the hell didn’t you say ‘mercy killing?!’”
Tip to new teachers: Always issue written instructions as well as verbal instructions. Make certain you present the verbal instructions before you distribute the written instructions. Otherwise the students will be reading the assignment instead of listening to you.
Miss Meg tried her best to soften the blow. “Ralph, you certainly did a great deal of work here.”
I certainly did. Want to know what was the legal driving age for young people in Cambodia? I had it in my research. Curious about dental diseases specific to kids in Thailand? I had it in my research. Interested in the dietary habits of adolescents in Japan? I had it in my research. Always wonder what the incidence of acne was among teenagers in China? I had it in my research.
Miss Meg’s “praise” did not prevent my noticing the giggling that circulated the classroom. I was more than ready for having mercy killing…euthanasia…administered to me.
Since the earliest primitive man drew on his schemata of where he expected his next meal would be, say a filet of wooly mammoth, there has been the occasional need to change our schemata based on new information. Now, with no grand studies to support my assertion, I believe that that dynamic in American culture has changed.
Growing up we shared the news from three television stations, and this news was basically the same.
At the water cooler we discussed the same shows everyone saw, say the Johnny Carson show when Ed Ames fires that tomahawk and hits the wooden target at a place (the crotch) where Johnny says, “You couldn’t hurt him any more than there.”
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We could argue that we liked Ike or didn’t like Ike, but we were arguing from basically the same database of shared information. No longer.
I think that in our modern culture, people tend to watch “news” or listen to pundits who preach to their schemata—and there are plenty of politicians and talk show hosts who willingly frame a message to appeal to certain schemata. People tune in to what they want to hear. The problem with this is that it curtails dialogue between opposing views. Truth and reality become casualties. We don’t seek the truth. In fact many of us don’t research at all. We simply seek opinions and media that verify our schemata, no matter how wrong what we think we know may be. The “truth” is whatever we want to believe it to be.
Sometimes it is necessary to challenge one’s schemata, to prepare for other possibilities. Early in my teaching career I realized that my schemata of what teaching was…teacher talk, students listen, teacher at the center of the classroom, students sitting in neat little rows—needed rethinking because I did not like the results of that preconception.
The problem with questioning what one thinks he or she knows is that it requires effort. It is so much easier to sail along with the tide. And sail along we do, modern voters only watching the newscasts and talk shows that fit their schemata of the way things are, ignoring any potential contradictions.
Before we can resume real dialogue in our culture, we must be willing to suspend our schemata of the “way things are,” and listen to other possibilities. Otherwise, we only read research that affirms our beliefs which are, after all, beliefs. But, as I tried to teach my students, there are opinions and there are education opinions, and the latter require research, facts, from neutral resources. I can have the opinion tax dollars should be allocated to remove the elephants roaming the New York City subways, but I doubt I would get support for that opinion. Just bellowing a view does not make it valid.
Even though the Great Euthanasia Debacle of 1963 was the culminating embarrassment of a high school career that was replete with humiliating incidents, I am eternally grateful to my English teacher, Ms. Meg who taught me one of the most important lessons in life—to constantly challenge what I thought I knew, to believe that a convention or status quo may have a reason (though not necessarily a moral one) for existing but to have value must continue to be challenged. Ms. Meg also taught me that all true passion is thoughtful, and all thought, to be held with conviction, possesses passion. To this day I thank her for her teaching, her inspiration, and her kindness. She is my Mrs. Calabash (from Jimmy Durante fame.)
Good Night Miss Meg, wherever you are.
by Ralph Maltese | Oct 22, 2017 | Uncategorized
“Plastics, Ben, Plastics”
“Plastics”
“Plastics.”
“Plastics, sir?”
“Plastics.”
“Plastics.”
“Yes, Ben. Plastics.”
This is what I remember from the movie The Graduate. Mr. Robinson is giving young newly-college-graduated Ben advice for Ben’s future in two syllables. “Plastics.”
How our modern culture has taken that “wisdom” to heart!
Plastics are everywhere. One of the major decisions shoppers face every day is “Paper or Plastic?” As with every technological advancement, there is a downside to the invention of a new product. My lifetime struggles with Plastics fall into generally two categories: Feats of Strength and Feats of Patience. The first Feat of Strength I witnessed involved Polley’s lovable and colorful grandfather. Granddaddy was pushing eighty and part of his morning routine involved imbibing about fifteen pills for various ailments. I watched him fail at a Feat of Strength as he tried, unsuccessfully to open his bottle of diabetes medicine. His was squeezing the top of the bottle tightly, his face scrunched up into a grimace, and as he exerted all his strength, he exclaimed, “#@$%&#$ damn childproof caps!!!”
With lots of practice, unfortunately, I have mastered the Feat of Strength involving childproof caps, but I still fail at other similar challenges. We drink a great deal of bottled-zero-calories-flavored water in my home, and twisting that white cap off tests my mettle. Believing in the power of the mind to overcome matter, including Plastics, I imagine I am crawling to the top of a sand dune in the Sahara, my eyes squinting against the oppressive sun, my khaki shirt clinging to my sweat-and-sand encrusted body, my mouth drained of all moisture. At the top of the dune is a bottle of flavored water—-Acai Blueberry Pomegranate—-the sides of the bottle dripping with cool condensation. The Feat of Strength commences as I summon what little strength I have from the farthest limbs of my body as I begin the twisting off of the cap. Eons are swept away on the winds of the Sahara, but I keep at it. My strength begins to fail as the cap refuses to budge…..I start to tire, my age and my Parkinson’s working against me. Occasionally, rarely, I hear the encouraging snap of the cap’s seal. Success! But, most of the time, failing at the Feat of Strength, I hand the bottle to Polley who, without looking, using just her thumb and forefinger, twists off the cap in a nanosecond. It’s emasculating….
Another Feat of Strength includes the administering of a pill one takes daily. Each pill is nestled in its own pod, twelve pods to a cardboard square, and the contest begins when I have to push the pill from its pod through the foil in order to release the pill from the security of the pod. The foil is made of some space age steroid-injected titanium that can resist five million pounds of pressure and was originally designed to coat the bank vault at Fort Knox. Even when I am successful at mastering this Feat of Strength, ejecting the pill from its pod, the result is a launching of the pill as if it was propelled by a Saturn rocket, the pill bouncing on the kitchen floor, and ending up underneath a table or dishwasher overhang or, worst case scenario, the refrigerator.
Feats of Patience are also high on the measuring stick of frustration. These tests of mental endurance go back, for me, to the 1980’s.
“The first commercial compact disc was produced on 17 August 1982. It was a recording from 1979 of Claudio Arrau performing Chopin waltzes (Philips 400 025-2). Arrau was invited to the Langenhagen plant to press the start button. The first popular music CD produced at the new factory was The Visitors (1981) by ABBA.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compact_disc
The compact disc was a wonderful invention. Its packaging was not. My first cd purchase (either Dynamite by the Four Tops or Mantovani Magic) involved a challenge. I tried to pull the cd case open, without success, until I realized it was encapsulated in an almost invisible plastic that was so tightly wrapped no molecules could escape….and no slack was available for my fingers to grasp. Even the tip of my scissors simply slid across the plastic. I thought I might apply the flame of a blowtorch, but wary of consuming the disc in flames, I opted for a razor. This plastic taxes one’s patience because, once removed, it clings insidiously to skin. This kind of sinister plastic seeks revenge for its disturbance by grasping fingers, wrists, arms, and I am careful to keep it away from my face lest I risk suffocation. Plastic wrapper removed I became excited about listening to either Good Lovin’s Aint Easy to Come By or Red Roses for a Blue Lady. To my surprise, the case would still not open. My patience is further tested by a strip of white plastic tape gripping both doors of the case, thus preventing the case from opening. Out comes the razor again. By the time I released the actual cd from its prison, I could have hummed all the songs on the album. Months later, while purchasing another CD, I also bought a “CD Liberator,” basically a razor glued between two pieces of hard plastic. Like many Feats of Patience, opening a cd case involves a certain amount of physical danger, what with scissors and razors. And that thin, near invisible plastic that coats everything, from dvd cases to x-acto knives (I once almost severed a pinky using a dull x-acto knife to slice through the plastic wrapping a package of x-acto knives), to charcoal lighters to batteries. In the fifties a popular game show was Beat the Clock hosted by Budd Collier.
“Okay. Give me 60 seconds on the clock. Unwrap the package of batteries in under sixty seconds and you win a month’s supply of Tide detergent. Ready? Start the clock.” I would lose every time.
I am challenged by another Feat of Patience when I visit the produce section of our local market. Want to buy five Granny Smith apples? I choose the best five from the pile of green apples. Easy enough. Then the test begins. I have to rip off a plastic bag from the plastic bag provider. Then I must pull apart the two sides of the bag so I can deposit the apples. I honestly believe that someone has invented, patented, and manufactured a plastic magnet. The two sides of the bag will not, WILL NOT, pull apart. I turn the bag upside down, sideways, and hold it up to the florescent light, all to no avail. By the time a freak anomaly of the universe occurs and an opening of the bag appears, my apples have soured. I have certainly soured.
Apples are not the only food that recalls the Plastics Syndrome. We invited family members down for a barbeque. My task was to prepare and cook the whole chickens. First I needed to extract the chicken from the tough plastic wrap. On the plastic were directions on opening the package. “Tear Here” followed by two hundred white arrows. This is, obviously, one of those pranks developed by packaging agents. I can see them on the assembling line, wrapping whole chickens in industrial strength plastic, chuckling as they applied the instructions on the label. “Imagine when the buyer tears along the arrows and the package explodes and bloody chicken water sprays the kitchen!!!! Ha! Ha! Ha!” My kitchen scissors are not up to the challenge. I rummage through our garage until I find a pair of clippers designed to cut through barbed wire in World War I trenches. I start the cutting and, well…..three days later I found dried spots of bloody chicken water on the ceiling above the sink.
Electronic devices often present the most challenging Feats of Strength and Feats of Patience. I purchased a bonding device to glue together broken pieces of plastic objects that were lined up in my home awaiting repair. I broke a pair of, admittedly cheap, scissors while cutting the tape that sealed the cardboard box which was filled with those plastic peanuts that protect objects from shipping mishaps. Shipping mishaps?! What with the box wrapped tightly with industrial strength masking tape and filled with three thousand plastic foam peanuts, I could place this container at ground zero for the detonation of a megaton thermonuclear device and bet on its being unscathed. After throwing away the plastic foam peanuts (months later one found its way through my sandals and between my toes) I found another box inside the bigger box……inside this second box was a third, smaller box….the modern version of those Russian nesting eggs. Finally, the retail box….tightly wrapped in that sinister invisible plastic. Using one of those x-actor knives that almost cost me a finger, I rip through that plastic, and while it gets its revenge by clinging to my thumbs, I begin to search the box for an opening. I cannot find it. I am inches of frustration away from going back to the store and asking its tech support crew if it can help me unleash my device, but the potential for humiliation is too great. After a decade or so, I discover the devilish trick. There IS a tab sealing the box opening, only the tab is not white or black or blue. It is CLEAR!!!!!! In a fit of rage, mimicking the deranged protagonist of Poe’s “Black Cat,” I slice the tab to shreds, open the box only to find the individual components of my bonder individually wrapped in plastic. I wept. Instead of using the bonder, I should have asked the packaging department to repair my household items that needed gluing.
I imagine that emergency rooms around the nation are maxed out with patients suffering from plastic cuts resulting from struggles with opening various cases, wrapping various objects and eating from various containers, all involving plastic.
Feats of Strength and Feats of Patience are all around us. On a visit to my grandchildren I was asked to distribute one of those fruit juice boxes. They come in packs of six. Again with the clingy plastic. Then I have to summon my strength to pierce the juice box with a plastic straw. QueeQueg, master harpooner on the Pequod, would be stymied by this Feat of Strength. After jabbing at the fruit box a couple of hundred times, my granddaughter takes the box and straw and within seconds is sucking up the apple/mango/acai juice. Humiliated once again, I decide, even though it is 11 AM, to take a nap. My granddaughter looks up at me and smiles. I place my hand on her shoulder and simply say,
“Plastics, Sweetpea. Plastics.”
by Ralph Maltese | Oct 8, 2017 | Uncategorized
A Mile High High
On the Road Part 4
We finally, after thousands upon thousands of white dotted lines have rolled past our Outback, after hundreds upon hundreds of miles have slithered beneath our tires, after hundreds of times Sentimental Journey has been played on Sirius Radio, we cross the border of the Sunflower State to the Centennial State. Funny how eastern Colorado looks just like western Kansas. We will have to drive another hundred miles, still suffering from mileage mania, past Limon, Colorado, until our straining eyes get a glimpse of the shadowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains.
We drop south and spend the night in Canyon City at a motel which has brass-plated labels on the doors of its rooms, the labels identifying the names of celebrities who allegedly slept there. James Caan, James Arness, Goldie Hawn, I am pretty certain that, upon our departure, on our door, there will not be a brass plate with “Ralph Maltese” on it. Canyon City is also home to the Museum of Colorado Prisons. I would like to stop and visit the museum, but there are trout to catch. Next trip….or perhaps on the way home.
It is the next morning when we step outside our motel room that we know we are in Colorado. The sky is the deep entrancing blue like the eyes of a lovely blonde….like Polley. Snow-capped mountains in the distance lure us with the promise of adventure, and the first breath of Colorado air cleanses my lungs and fills my body with a vibrancy that only the unspeckled mountain air can instill. We are happy.
A fly fisherman, I remember pools and the fish I caught in them (or didn’t catch in them which is more the norm) the way other people remember certain meals at fine restaurants. “There is a pool near a campground on the Taylor River where a sixteen inch rainbow trout inhaled an Elk Hair Caddis I tied.” “There is an undercut bank on the Eagle River near Edwards where a Moby Dick-sized brown trout broke off my tippet.” “There is a Colorado cutthroat trout on the Horseshoe Pool on the Gunnison that refused every fly I floated by it.”…..not all memorable meals are good meals.
But despite my penchant for cataloging my memories by fly fishing adventures, almost all our trips are anchored, like geographical waypoints, by the people we meet on our trips.
There is the lady, the wife of a pastor, whom we met while I was fly fishing the Lodgepole Pool on the Taylor River. She and Polley exchanged pleasantries and within minutes she alerted Polley that she was “very conservative.” Polley assured her that that stance was fine since she, Polley, was “very liberal,” and here they were enjoying fishing the same river…..except the pastor’s wife was fishing with worms—a no-no since live bait is not legally permitted on that stretch of the Taylor. Polley politely reminded her of the law, but she dismissed it. “No, fishing with worms is okay here.” I offered to give her some of my flies to use, but she refused. One of those people to whom the law does not apply….well, at least not man’s law, I guess.
On another day, at the same spot, I caught what I seem to catch on every outing—a pine tree. I tie my own flies, so losing a few to tree-fish or rock-fish or log-fish or, even better, fish-fish is no big deal, but then I have to tie on a new fly and between my eyes which suffer from myopia, hyperopia, dystopia and any other opias one could think of and my Parkinson’s, tying on a tiny fly to a thin tippet can be frustrating. Imagine Ray Charles threading a needle while tumbling around in a dryer. So in my efforts to disengage my fly from the evergreen, I found myself, almost in slow motion, sitting down in the Taylor River. The cold wetness of the Taylor River quickly caught my attention. Getting up out of the Taylor River was enormously difficult since I was still holding onto the rod which was connected to my fly, since I was wearing a heavy vest loaded with gadgets and flies for every situation, and since half of the Taylor River was now filling up my waders. I still tried to save the fly along with a second-by-second diminishing dignity. A young man and a young woman who were fishing upstream came to my rescue and helped me stand up. Colorado public school teachers, (ah, public school teachers, my favorite kind of teachers), they were not only newly married but new to fly fishing. I don’t suppose they thought much of the fishing advice given to them by a dripping veteran fly fisherman who was still attached to an evergreen, but they did appreciate the copious number of flies I gave them. I hope they read this blog and, more importantly, know how thankful I am that they helped me up.
The Fly Gobbling Evergreen
There are the three guides who took us on float trips, Eric on the Gunnison, Alex on the Colorado, and Joe on the Eagle. Every guide has his or her own style of guiding which includes tips on fly fishing and what I like to call “corrections” to my fly fishing technique. “Keep your wrist straight when casting!” “Add more power to your back cast!” “Mend your line! BIG mend now!” “Cast to that slack water!!” “Point the rod tip at the fly!” All of these “corrections” are listened to when standing ankle deep in the water next to the guide, or when I am in the boat drifting calmly down a river. Listening to the “corrections” and converting them into useful actions during battle situations is something else.
What are battle situations in fly fishing? I am in a raft, standing in the bow, fly rod in hand, balancing myself between two aluminum bars like the handlebars of a bicycle without the seat….or wheels. See picture below.
Doesn’t this look leisurely?
Now imagine standing in the bow, between the horseshoe bars, casting to prime spots (lies) where hungry trout might be waiting to engulf your fly while you are zipping down the rapids at what seems to be lightning speed. See this picture
“Keep your wrist straight when casting!” “Add more power to your back cast!” “Mend your line! BIG mend now!” “Cast to that slack water!!” “Point the rod tip at the fly!”
Time, for me, has increased exponentially. Standing up, trying to make all the “corrections,” I find myself listening to the Prime Directive reverberating in my brain which dictates I NOT join my quarry at the bottom of the river. “Stay on the raft!!”
“Cast behind that rock!”
Much to the dismay of my guide, my cast is off target, but to me, I am successful due to the fact that I am still in the raft.
“Cast to the Slack Water on the Right!!!”
I am currently facing the port (left) bow. Grasping the right handlebar and turning around while bouncing on this trampoline of a river I turn to my right and I am now well past the slack water to my right.
“Mend your line!!!”
I make a mental promise to mend my soul if I ever get out of this alive.
“Cast to the Slack Water on the Left!!!!”
I am facing right. Imagine standing on a roller coaster hanging onto a handlebar with your left hand and a fly rod raised high in your right hand facing right and holding on for dear life and you are asked to, while the ride is going down a steep slope, to turn around.
By the time I am facing left, whole geological eons have passed, the slack water on the left filled in by sentiment or evaporated.
Amazingly I make an accurate cast and a trout, who obviously received low SAT scores, inhales my fly. Now the adventure begins. The trout wants to stay in its lie, its home, and I would like to stay near his home, play him for a while and then gently release him, but the river stops for no one. I zoom past his home downriver, and now a new set of corrections lash at me.
“Don’t Give Him Slack!!” I release the handlebar which forever has the imprint of my right hand, and I try to reel in some line. The rod is over my head in back of me, I am facing the foamy water in front of me. My whole body is arched like a Russian ballerina only without the grace.
“Keep the Rod Tip High!!!!” The trout wants to return home upriver, all of us, Polley, the guide, the raft, my rod, and I are all going downriver–fast. I am determined to hang onto this fish, and I am also determined to obey the Prime Directive which has been almost violated half a dozen times since I attached myself to this trout. We finally slip into some slack water by the bank.
The guide nets my beautiful rainbow trout, and we take pictures. Lee Wulff, noted fly fisherman, said “A trout is too beautiful to catch only once.” Eric, my guide, slides the trout into the river. He calls it the Trout Relocation Program. We shake hands, catch our breaths, and look around us. I exclaim, “Let’s do it again!”
My other guides on our trip, Alex and Joe, are equally proficient and wise and offer me many corrections. I catch quite a few trout, cruise two other rivers, and slip by some beautiful country.
There are other people, other waypoints that anchor the memories of our trip west. There are Cindy and Rick, Polley’s cousin and cousin-in-law, retired National Park Rangers who are always wonderously hospitable and who offer great insight into the workings of nature, great conversation and great wine. They suggest we visit the Arches National Park in nearby Utah. Next trip…..or perhaps on the way home. Wait!!! We are leaving Cindy and Rick and going home! It is time. All the should-haves, all the places we should have detoured to, pose no challenge, no deliberation. It is time to go home.
On the trip home we again stop in Hays, Kansas, at a fast food hamburger eatery. There a young lady in a wheelchair rolls up to our table, asks us if we are enjoying our burgers, and takes our trays. She is an excellent hostess for the establishment. She returns and asks us how we enjoyed our meal. We reply in the affirmative, enthusiastically, and she tells us the vanilla custard is to die for. We order the vanilla custard. The young lady in the wheelchair is also an expert salesperson.
So the memories of our vacations are anchored by the people we encounter—-even the people we don’t encounter like James Caan, James Arness, and Goldie Hawn.
But there is something else, something perhaps belonging to a primordial instinct, something indistinct and palpable. Ironic that, as a young boy, a boy from the Bronx, New York, I felt more comfortable in the forest than anywhere else. My best sleep ever was on an aromatic spread of spruce leaves on a snow-covered slab of rock while hunting with my Dad. I have spent joyous hours in the woods contemplating the mystery of a tree. I have stared at stones and wondered what they have experienced. I sit in my small backyard and ponder the same mysteries, but it is so much easier to slide into that river of contemplation when surrounded by wide blue skies and purple mountain majesties.
I am not referring to “using” nature, although I suppose that is part of it. I am trying to explain the connection I feel…..a connection to all there is. I belong to the trees, the streams, the stones. I become the trees the streams, the stones.
Standing in the blue water of a mountain stream, listening to its voices, I travel far, much farther than any man-made vehicle can take me, my thoughts and soul searching the bottom of the stream I am fishing, my thoughts and soul caressing the distant snow covered mountains, my thoughts and soul exploring the outer recesses of the universe, and the realization returns to me….no, not the realization but the sensation, the feeling, envelops me that I am significant and insignificant at the same time. What we know of the universe, like our knowledge of a supreme being, is a construct of the brain, a perception of the mind. While the mass of its stars and the distances between them are measurable, the being of the universe remains, like any supreme being, unfathomable. Despite that truth, or perhaps because of that truth, I feel the universe is both within and without me. John Muir, naturalist, said, “Salvation can be found in immersion in the natural world.” As usual upon my return from any outdoor experience, I feel saved.
On the drive home we follow the Arkansas River and round a bend where the water snuggles up against a flower festooned bank, a green meadow dotted by purple and yellow, and white flowers. The meadows hosts a copse of Aspen. I would love to fish there. I would love to stand in that water casting toward the meadow, toward the flowers, toward the Aspen. I would love to be in the middle of all that….to be one with all that. Next trip.
Safe journey…….
by Ralph Maltese | Sep 24, 2017 | Uncategorized
Dorothy, We’re Still in Kansas
On the Road Part 3
The eastern part of Kansas is hilly, so much so that one believes one can stand on the roof of the car and see clear across the state. We buckle in, adjust the rear view mirror, pray that the radio or disc player works, floor the pedal, and hunker down to daydreaming driving. Daydreaming driving begins after a hundred miles or so; cruising along at 85 mph with seemingly nothing to hit, the mind wanders. With the Parkinson’s I have to concentrate even harder, making certain I do not wander from lane to lane, but the mind is hypnotized by the monotony of the landscape. Even the billboards are few and far between. And the one we enjoyed the most, the large wooden screen that encouraged us to exit I-70 to see the World’s Largest Prairie Dog, is, alas, gone, Prairie Dog Town closing in 2014.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot
During daydreaming driving, we measure our lives in waypoints on I-70, cities that roll on by providing the daydreaming driver with mini-goals. Topeka, there that’s done, Junction City, there, that’s done, Fort Riley (Home of the Big Red One Infantry Division), there, that’s done, and so it rolls on, measuring our lives by distance traveled, distance still to go, and cities yet to be traveled by, the dotted line dividing the lanes ticking off our progress like the rolling credits at the end of a never-ending movie, a rolling along into asphalt infinity…. And the dotted line dividing lanes slides like ocean waves by our car. Manhattan, Abilene, Salina, Ellsworth, Russell (which provided us with two Senators, Arlen Specter and Bob Dole.)… Near Wakeeney we are tempted to drop south on 283 and visit Dodge City, the Dodge City that filled our tv screens when we were growing up. I guess we hoped to catch a glimpse of Matt Dillion.
Driving vast distances changes one’s perspective on time and distance, both being compressed as the odometer increases. “Hey, Dodge City is only one hundred fifty miles south of us. What’s that? Two or at most three hours? What’s that compared to the six billion miles and five light years we have already driven?” But Matt Dillon and Doc and Miss Kitty will have to wait. Next trip…. or perhaps on the way home.
We stop at one rest area just east of Hays. We peeled ourselves off the seats of our Outback, and a wave of very warm prairie wind slaps our faces as we enter the stone building, the only structure presiding over the land around us.
On the rest area building is a plague commemorating a battle between settlers and the Kiowa. Hard to believe that anyone would shed blood over this landscape.
But I realize that my perspective on Kansas is narrow. Growing up in New Jersey, I was always hurt by people who only associated my state with the New Jersey Turnpike and what punctuated the land around it—oil refineries, factories, and pig farms. The Garden State? Really? They did not know the Jersey I knew, the rolling rustic hills of the western part of the state, the acres of woods I hunted and fished and the bucolic forested settings I still drive through on 287.
On our family trip to Yellowstone, we got off the interstate near Ogallala, Nebraska to see the wagon wheel ruts that were still there, ruts made by the travelers along the Oregon Trail. The topography changed dramatically from plains to almost a hard rock moonscape, clear blue lakes dotting a rugged topography. It became a fascinating diversion. So who am I to judge Kansas by what I see only from I-70? Hey, the state helps feed us all. That’s what those huge grain elevators are for.
We stop in Hays for a bite to eat. The efficient and friendly middle-aged waitress begins a conversation when she learns we are from Philadelphia.
“Wow, Philadelphia. You folks have come a long way.”
We nodded and sipped our coffee which was really good.
“I lived on a farm most of my life, just a ways east of here. My husband and I, after the kids grew up and moved off, decided to move to the big city, so here we are in Hays. It took a little gettin’ used to, ya know, urban life and all, but we like it. More coffee?”
After we depart the big city of Hays, we can almost smell Colorado. Goodland is on the border and we press on the accelerator. The sun begins to dip ahead of us as we leave Kansas, leave the acres and acres of tall and mighty Windmills that stand like sentries over the Sunflower State, leave the massive white grain elevators which seem to grow from the soil and dominate the landscape, leave the prairie. Farewell, Kansas. “Rock Chalk Jayhawks!!!” (Kansas University basketball yell) What that means, I have no idea…..Jumping Jayhawks!
by Ralph Maltese | Sep 10, 2017 | Uncategorized
Rocky Mountain High
On the Road, Part 2
We wake up in Terra Haute at a time to coincide with the earliest serving of complementary breakfast at the motel. We fuel up for the relatively short journey to St. Louis. Almost every summer in our early years of marriage we made the pilgrimage to the Gateway to the West to visit Polley’s family, and almost every summer the line which delineated Eastern Time from Central Time changed. During our student days we entered Central Time by driving NORTH in Indiana toward Chicago. Funny how that demarcation zig zags.
We adjust our seat belts, put the visors back up, and brace ourselves for the trek across Illinois. Illinois….Land of Lincoln, Springfield, and that city of broad shoulders, Chicago. But where I-70 crosses the state, the highway is flanked by low fields sprouting spinach or soybeans or cauliflower. The flatness of our journey begins in Illinois, and the landmarks are few. The huge cross in Effingham is one of them, and, like all symbols, this one is subject to interpretation.
Another landmark which always intrigues me is the Cahokia mounds, a Native American site near the border of Illinois and Missouri that provides a stark contrast to the flat lands around them.
’”Although there is some evidence of occupation during the Late Archaic period (approximately 1200 BCE) in and around the site,[6] Cahokia as it is now defined was settled around 600 CE during the Late Woodland period. Mound building at this location began with the emergent Mississippian cultural period, about the 9th century CE.[7] The inhabitants left no written records beyond symbols on pottery, shell, copper, wood and stone, but the elaborately planned community, woodhenge, mounds and burials reveal a complex and sophisticated society.[8] The city’s original name is unknown.
The Mounds were later named after the Cahokia tribe, an historic Illiniwek people living in the area when the first French explorers arrived in the 17th century. As this was centuries after Cahokia was abandoned by its original inhabitants, the Cahokia tribe was not necessarily descendants of the original Mississippian-era people. Most likely multiple indigenous ethnic groups settled in the Cahokia area.[9][10] Though widely debated, some archaeologists connect Dhegihan Siouan-speaking tribes to Cahokia. They include the Osage, Kaw, Omaha, Ponca, and Quapaw. These peoples are generally believed to have migrated from the east of the Ohio Valley. Many Native American tribes migrated over the centuries in response to local conditions and intertribal warfare. Those living in territories at the time of the European encounter were often not the descendants of peoples who had lived there centuries before and built the mounds.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cahokia
I am always tempted to stop by Cahokia, explore the area and step back in time, perhaps pay homage to the peoples who dwelled there. Next trip….perhaps on the way home.
A broad smile brightens Polley’s face as the top of the St. Louis Arch first appears on the horizon. This is her home of the past, a past filled with summer vacations at the Lake of the Ozarks, warm stays with her grandparents in Jefferson City, a quaint capital if there ever was one, and growing up in the shadow of the Gateway to the West. I smile, too. St. Louis is the home of the FeatherCraft fly fishing store, and there is some shopping to do before I wade the streams of Colorado.
Our stay with Meredith and Ronak is, as always, a joyous one. They are expecting an addition to the home they have shaped in Tower Grove. Visiting one’s children is not only a happy occasion, it is an affirmation of life. A few days later we made a short ride to Columbia, Missouri, home of the Mizzou Tigers, to visit Polley’s sister Martha and her children. Good food, good drink, good conversation. Ahhh…family.
We were both tempted to drop south and visit the Lake. The Lake, to Missourians, is like The Shore to Philadelphians. Polley is nostalgic about swimming off the dock and water skiing on the Lake. I inwardly smile as I remember slinging hula poppers at waiting bass along the shoreline, fishing with Polley’s grandfather. Nothing is as good as family. Next trip….perhaps on the way home.
One of my thrills on this trip was to play with Jasper, Martha’s grandchild. For me it was not always that way with my in-laws. Of course, big mouth moi started off on the wrong foot. Upon first meeting my future mother-in-law, I said something like, “It is nice to be here in Missouri.” My pronunciation of the state name pronounced the second “I” as an “ee” as in banshee. My mother-in-law-to-be corrected her daughter’s fiancé. “It is Missouri.” The last “I” is pronounced like the “a” in “aw.” I scratched my head. Any intelligent person would have let that conversation lapse into the annals of the history of East meets West. Any intelligent person. Before I knew it, my New York City dagger of a tongue was out of its sheath, “I am curious. How do you say the state of Mississippi? Missassappa?”
We left Martha’s early because, if we were to keep to our timetable, we would have to put some big miles on the odometer this day. In western Missouri I-70 crosses the Mighty Mo and leaves the distinctive bluffs for less hilly ground. Billboards suddenly sprout on both sides of the road, most of the advertisements seem to fall into two categories. Highway signs which promote attendance at church and prayer, warning about the Almighty’s wrath should we stray off the road. These biblical admonishments are interspersed with billboards promoting attendance at “Gentlemen’s Clubs,” while others advertise the assets to be found at adult stores. God, apparently, does not mind sharing advertising space with those who promise more carnal virtues.
The hills begin to flatten as we drive past Royals Stadium and Kansas City Missouri into Kansas City Kansas. Kansas. The Sunflower State…..miles and miles of the Sunflower State. Kansas deserves its own blog.
by Ralph Maltese | Aug 27, 2017 | Uncategorized
Westward Ho! On the Road Part 1
Travelogue to Colorado
Polley and I enjoy visiting Colorado. Montana and Wyoming and North Dakota are also beautiful, but the state that spawned John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High has become our favorite. Colorado has the advantage of being wild without being desolate. In Montana if one river or stream is not productive for fly fishing, I have to drive 200 miles to the next river or stream. In Colorado the choices, prime fly fishing venues, along with supermarkets, restaurants, and liquor stores are closer together. Drive up a remote mountain pass as we did through Kebler’s Pass outside of Crested Butte and you are likely to stumble upon a very populated resort like Lake Irwin, an alpine waterway with paddle surfers and water skiiers. It looked so inviting that, were we not lost in Kebler’s Pass due to less than ideal signage and a jogger who nefariously gave us incorrect information, I considered spending a day at Lake Irwin. Next trip….perhaps on the way home.
People are surprised that we drive to the West. Flying would be faster, but airlines charge for extra bags. Fly fishing waders, wading staff, fly rod, boots, tackle, and twenty reserve fly boxes (carrying flies to meet every possible hatch situation; Polley has the same attitude toward packing clothes, anticipating every possible weather situation and social event, including the remote chance that we would join the Queen of England for tea), along with a rental car, makes flying a less attractive option.. The major reason why we choose to drive is that it allows us to visit our daughter Meredith and her husband Ronak in St. Louis, as well as Polley’s sister Martha in Columbia, Missouri and her children. Add in an uncle and friends in Kansas City and a cousin in Colorado and we have not only a fly fishing trip but a family pilgrimage.
Another major factor in committing at least six days of our lives to cruising along Interstate 70 is Polley’s love of driving. She is from St. Louis, and Midwesterners view distance differently from us easterners. Iowa basketball fans are known for driving in the middle of winter one hundred miles to a high school game. In the East, driving one hundred miles could take one through four states. More on that later.
Preparing for a long trip is itself a project. Mail and newspaper subscriptions must be halted, neighbors alerted. My responsibility includes getting the car ready. Since it was against my father’s self-honed religion to buy a new car, as a kid it was my job to anticipate the inevitable breakdown we would suffer on our camping and fishing trips. I retain that mindset. I buy a new car at about the same interval as Haley’s Comet visits the earth. In 1980, we planned a family trip to Yellowstone, and I had just 3 months earlier purchased a brand new, white Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser station wagon. Remember station wagons? The new car smell still permeated that Olds with the fake wood paneling. The day before our embarkation, I made a speech to my four children, a la General Patton only without the profanity and riding crop although the tone was the same. “We [meaning me] want to keep this new car as clean as possible, so, kids, there will be NO eating in this car. We will stop along the road for lunch and snacks. NO, I repeat, NO eating!!” My children were expert travelers, and we loved taking them places, but they were children. By the time we were a little ways past Harrisburg I was throwing Cheetos over my shoulder into the back seat. On that trip I believe the Prime Movers of the Universe punished me for my automobile arrogance and ignorance. I-70 was not completed around Columbus, Ohio, and I had to concentrate on the traffic, which was heavy, and on the detour signs. My children chose this moment to initiate a fight in the “backest,” (our back seat and the farther back luggage area—seat belts?).
Repeated admonitions by Polley and me resulted in short term peace treaties. I finally lost it. “If you kids don’t stop fighting, I am going to pull over and stop the car!!!!” Polley looked at me as if I had undergone a frontal lobotomy. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw my children collectively shrug. What kind of a threat was that? If we don’t go anywhere, then you don’t go anywhere either. Of course, my threat rose from the deep recesses of my childhood, and the words were those of my farther. My ultimate punishment on that trip was imposed thirty miles from St. Louis, thirty miles from family and rest and thirty miles from a cold Budweiser on the last stretch of I-70 in Illinois. Orange Construction Sign (the dreaded bane of any road warrior):“Fresh tar laid on road. Drive slowly.”
I spent the next three days in my inlaws’ driveway trying to remove specks of black tar from my brand new Cutlass Cruiser.
On our latest trip to Colorado, we rose early as we usually do. On the way west the sun is at your back in the early part of the day, and in your face in the afternoon when you begin to tire of driving. In less than two hours we are past Harrisburg, heading for the mountain tunnels on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Pennsylvanians, including me, forget how scenic and just plain beautiful their state is. I was told that in western PA, the turnpike follows a railroad line, curvy and twisting. You have to be careful. Humming along at 65 or 70 miles per hour in the left lane you can round a turn and almost kiss a slow passing truck if you are not careful. At New Stanton we leave the turnkpike and continue on 70 through Washington, PA. These fifty miles slow us down, the narrow lanes and heavy traffic and little or no shoulders make the turnpike look like a speedway. Six hours after waking up at 6 AM we hit our neighboring state, West Virginia where our big decision is whether or not to take the 470 Bypass around wheeling. We usually do, although taking regular 70 through the city does not seem to take more time.
“Wild and wonderful” West Virginia is traversed in the blink of an eye. As most people know, in 1861 the residents of the western counties of Virginia, led by Francis Pierpont, set up a separate government (which they called the “restored government”) and broke away from their fellow Virginians who advocated slavery and states’ rights over the preservation of the Union. West Virginia became a state in 1863. Who would have thunk the difference one hundred and fifty years made?
Upon entering Ohio, for us, the Midwest commences. I know that western Pennsylvanians and West Virginians often identify themselves culturally as Midwesterners, but, in truth, they are almost-Midwesterners, influenced by their western neighbors but still retaining one foot in an eastern perspective. Ohio is all Midwest.
We cross 220 miles of the state seemingly quickly. St. Clairsville, Columbus, Dayton fly by. Rufus Pitman led some pioneers to establish Marietta, Ohio as the first permanent settlement in the Northwest Territory in 1788. I imagine they took a great deal longer than we did. Since we are, and will be, on the road for a long time, it should be noted that Cleveland, Ohio sported the first traffic light in 1914. Sometimes I think it might be nice to make a slight diversion and see that historic traffic light. Next trip…..perhaps on the way home.
Polley and I smile broadly as we enter Indiana. Our inner happiness is augmented by memory. We met in graduate school in Indiana University, fifty miles south of Nap Town (Indianapolis). Bloomington, Indiana will always recall in our combined memories those days of our youth when every inhaled breath filled our bodies with energy and our souls with promise.
We also know that the day of driving is almost ended, and we must decide whether to find a motel in Richmond, one on the other side of Indianapolis or an inn in Terra Haute on the border of Illinois. We choose Terra Haute for two reasons: the more distance we travel on the first day, the less mileage we have to cover the second day which means more time in St. Louis with Meredith. So we push ourselves. The second reason is that Terra Haute has a really good Steak and Shake.
As we drive through Indy we notice highway 37 South toward Bloomington, and we are tempted to make a diversion and visit old haunts and recapture those youthful feelings, but we want to see our daughter. Next trip….perhaps on the way home.
Sated by Steak and Shake’s burgers and fries, we collapse in the motel in Terra Haute, 12 hours of driving and 750 miles under our belt. We drift off dreaming of new adventures…..like enduring Illinois.
by Ralph Maltese | Aug 13, 2017 | Uncategorized
Leave It To Beaver, Redux
Last month, on our trip to Colorado, I bought myself another hat—-It has a picture of a leaping rainbow trout and the logo “Willow Fly Anglers.” When we got home, I tossed it on my pile of hats accumulated down through the ages. Apparently the Willow Fly Anglers hat was the last straw—-the pile came tumbling down. As I rebuilt the mountain of hats, memories of their acquisitions and associations returned. There were the assistant soccer coaches’ hats I wore when my children played the sport, various chapeaus from fly fishing venues, including New Zealand. There is the dressy black hat I purchased in Sicily. Putting it on reminds me of the Frosty the Snowman song: “There must have been some magic in that old black hat they found, for when they placed it on his head, he began to dance around.” When I put the Sicily hat on, I feel like when I walk down the block, I own the block.” There are the two caps recognizing Villanova’s basketball championships in 1985 and 2016…..just thought I would drop that in. There is my broad brimmed hat modeled on the one worn by Indiana Jones which I only wear when I go on adventures.
What I don’t have is a beaver hat.
I have been reading a great deal of British history lately, and the King’s armies seemed to be fitted with beaver hats. Why beaver?
“From fur pelts three primary materials used in clothing production can be derived: the full pelt (fur and skin), leather or suede (the skin with all furremoved, and felts (removing the fur from the pelt, and processing it with heat and pressure to form a piece of pliable material). Due to the strength and malleable quality of felts, they were used extensively in hat making. The physical structure of beaver fur predisposes it to the felting process, making it a highly desirable fur for felt production.”
http://cwh.ucsc.edu/feinstein/A%20brief%20history%20of%20the%20beaver%20trade.html
That should satisfy your curiosity about fur pelts and fur felts.
In Europe the major supplier of beaver fur was Russia. By the late 1700’s, even Russia was over beavered. Filling the void was the soon-to-be United States and Canada, both of which became optimal suppliers of beavers….dead beavers, that is. This economic enterprise sprouted the Mountain Men like Kit Carson and Jedidiah Smith and John Colter (of Lewis and Clark fame) and Jim Bridger.
Head apparel is one of those trendy fashion things. Growing up in the fifties, I noticed that all men, including my father, wore hats, those floppy crowns sported by Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton in the Honeymooners. 
“Beaver felts were used to make beaver hats. Hats, like other forms of dress, played a large role in reflecting one’s social identity. The shape and style of one’s hat indicated to a passerby one’s profession, wealth, and social rank and position. Color, shape, and material all carried specific meaning. In Ecclesiastical heraldry, for example, a red, wide-brimmed hat clearly indicated that its wearer was a cardinal, and interactions required a specific social protocol. In seventeenth century England, the shape and style of one’s hat reflected political and religious affiliation. Due to the expense of a beaver hat, being able to purchase one made a visual statement about one’s wealth and social status.” 
(photo courtesy of http://dappledphotos.blogspot.com/2005/11/capelli-e-galeri.html )
http://cwh.ucsc.edu/feinstein/A%20brief%20history%20of%20the%20beaver%20trade.html
Alas, all good things must come to an end. Just as over trapping in Russia resulted in a scarcity of European beaver, over trapping in North America caused the fur trade to dry up. There were other factors.
“The fur trade started to decline in the Eastern United States by the late 1700’s. The decline resulted chiefly from the clearing of large areas for settlement. As more and more land was cleared, fur-bearing animals became increasingly scarce. Over trapping of fur-bearing animals hurt the fur trade in the Western United States and Western Canada. In addition, the value of beaver fur dropped sharply in the 1830’s, when European hat manufacturers began to use silk instead of felt. By 1870, most fur-trading activity had ended.” http://www.montanatrappers.org/history/fur-trade.htm
So what happened to the Mountain Men? To Kit Carson and Jedidiah Smith and John Colter, and Jim Bridger? I did some research and nowhere did I discover that any of the Mountain Men petitioned the presidential candidates, Ulysses S; Grant or Horace Greeley to bring back beaver trapping. I did learn that on “March 1, 1872, President Grant played his role, in signing the “Act of Dedication” into law. It established the Yellowstone region as the nation’s first national park,.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presidency_of_Ulysses_S._Grant#Yellowstone.2C_buffalo.2C_and_conservation an act which would have protected beavers rather than make them fair game. And neither Grant nor Greeley campaigned to “Bring back beaver trapping!!!”
The Mountain Men knew their ways of making a living were means discarded on the dustbins of history. As the fur trade declined, mountain man Robert Newell told Jim Bridger: “[W]e are done with this life in the mountains—done with wading in beaver dams, and freezing or starving alternately—done with Indian trading and Indian fighting. The fur trade is dead in the Rocky Mountains, and it is no place for us now, if ever it was.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mountain_man
So what happened to the Mountain Men? Kit Carson became a guide for western explorers and for the U.S. Army fighting Native Americans….hey, it was a living. John Colter became a farmer, Jedidiah Smith a cartographer. Jim Bridger?
“I have established a small store, with a Black Smith Shop, and a supply of Iron on the road of the Emigrants on Black’s fork Green River, which promises fairly, they in coming out are generally well supplied with money, but by the time they get there are in want of all kinds of supplies. Horses, Provisions, Smith work &c brings ready Cash from them and should I receive the goods hereby ordered will do a considerable business in that way with them. The same establishment trades with the Indians in the neighborhood, who have mostly a good number of Beaver amongst them.” Jim Bridger http://xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/hns/mtmen/jimbrid.html
The Mountain Men adapted.
Today I find a touch of irony in the conservatives who advocate smaller government doling out less help to those who need it until they themselves need bigger government to provide more help to rescue them, begging presidents and congressmen to bring back jobs that have gone the way of the whaling industry and beaver trapping. Recent history provides two examples: car manufacturers who whine about government interference and regulations yet who screamed successfully for a bail out; and, in 2008, the banks. Same thing.
As a former teacher, I believe that education is at the heart of every issue. Instead of schools preparing students for the 1950’s, focusing on the low level skills like memorization (cramming for a test and forgetting all content within two days or less according to research) and preparing students for jobs which may or may not exist in the near future, (the job a student preps for his freshman year of college will mostly likely change by the time he graduates), schools should rethink the problem. The emphasis should be, in all subjects, the development of high level thinking skills such as analysis, synthesis, making connections, and creative problem solving. Throw in critical thinking skills and we begin to help students adapt to change. Alvin Toffler in his 1970’s book Future Shock cautioned that the average high school student then would wear several hats during a career involving six or seven jobs. Students, to survive, would have to learn, unlearn, and learn again.
Admittedly if a candidate trying to win my vote told me the truth and said, “It will be challenging…you will have to work hard to adapt and change professions as the economic and geopolitical climates change.” I would not like that message. Of far greater appeal would be the candidate who promises unreality: “We’re gonna bring back beaver trapping!” Unlike the mountain men and their ability to adapt and persevere, we have localalized mini cultures which eschew the lessons of history and fight changing realities. A portion of this population is basing its hopes that beaver trapping will return, that beaver hats will return as fashion. As we all do at times, this mini culture is basing its hopes on fantasy instead of taking charge of its future.
“Wisdom is knowing what to accept.” Wallace Stegner
Those of us who don’t fall for those false hopes, who have studied history and are not daunted by the new realities, can only don their Indiana Jones’ hats and plow forward against the prevailing wind.
A beaver should not give its life so I can cover my receded (more accurately, what is the past plu-perfect participle of receded?) hairline. Nor should I expect that beaver hats will once again become the rage. My Villanova 2016 National Basketball Champions fits just fine, thank you.
by Ralph Maltese | Jul 30, 2017 | Uncategorized
The Beard
Last week I shaved off my beard. It was time. During my winter stay in the hospital, I was too weak to raise my arm, let alone put razor to chin. As an incentive to use my energy to recover my health, I promised myself I would shave when I returned to relative healthiness. So I let the hairs on my face grow, which, unfortunately, seemed to grow faster than the hairs on my scalp. Over the ensuing months, the white growth made me look more like Father Christmas than Ernest Hemingway. And not a day went by during that hairy time that I did not think of Joseph Palmer.
Joseph Palmer (1791-1873) was a “reformist” from NoTown, Massachusetts. A veteran of the War of 1812, Palmer settled in as a New England farmer, a successful one, and there his story would have ended, historical references to him evaporated, this blog unrealized except for one thing—his beard. The fashion of the day dictated that men go beardless. The townspeople continuously ridiculed him for his appearance. Even the minister cautioned Joseph Palmer that the beard resembled the devil’s demeanor. Palmer replied that he never saw a picture of the devil wearing a beard, but he did see pictures of Jesus sporting one.
His neighbors thought the wearing of a beard so unconventional that one day several of them tried to forcefully shave it off. Joseph Palmer fought them off, inflicting a wound on one of them with his penknife, an injury which landed the bearded farmer in jail (basically for defending himself) where he was brutally beaten and severely mistreated for months. Eventually his lengthy incarceration became an embarrassment to the authorities who begged him to pay the relatively small fine. Like Socrates who refused to admit his guilt, Joseph Palmer stood his ethical ground. After more than a year in jail, he was released. He hobnobbed with the transcendentalists like Emerson and Alcott, and he became an advocate for prison reform. More on Joseph Palmer later.
After the big Shave Off, Polley wondered how long it would be before our friends of many years noticed that the beard was gone. As it turned out, they never did seem to notice until Polley pointed it out. The ensuing discussion made sense. For almost forty years they knew me without any additional hairs on my face, so when they saw me, they saw what they expected to see—the old Ralph. I thought about this for a long time.
We see and hear what we expect to see and hear, our actions dictated by our perceptions and our perceptions formed by whatever culture envelops us. I learned this important lesson as a teacher (see blog entry Am I Who They Think I Am? September, 2016 achives)
Consider how much effort is made to convince others to see us the way we want to be seen. Cosmetics is a multi-billion dollar industry.
“Skincare, hair care, make-up, perfumes, toiletries deodorants, and oral cosmetics are the main product categories of the cosmetic market. Since the early twentieth century, the production of cosmetics and beauty products has been controlled by a handful of multi-national corporations– L’Oréal, Unilever, Procter & Gamble Co., The Estee Lauder Companies, Shiseido Company, to name a few. Led by the U.S., North America made up 24.7 percent of the global cosmetic market. In 2015, the U.S. was considered the most valuable beauty and personal care market in the world. That year, the American beauty and personal care business reached a market value of 80 billion U.S. dollars….
Within the cosmetic category in the U.S., foundation was the most profitable segment. In 2016, about 985 million U.S. dollars were generated from sales of foundations in the U.S.. Mascara was the second most profitable segment, with sales revenue of 941.1 million U.S. dollars. Mascara was also the leading segment of the eye cosmetic industry in the U.S.. The segment also included eye liners, eye shadows, eye brow makeup and eye combo. Together, these segments generated more than 2.1 billion U.S. dollars in sales revenue in 2016. Besides foundation and mascara, lipstick was also a profitable segment within the cosmetic industry in the U.S., generating 630 million U.S. dollars in revenue for the lip cosmetics category in 2016.” Statistics and Facts on the Cosmetic and Makeup Industry https://www.statista.com/topics/1008/cosmetics-industry/
I contributed my share to the industry by recently changing aftershave lotions, no longer able to squeeze out any drops of English Leather left over from my college days. And, aside from those in the entertainment industry, who spends the most energy (and money) on making people see the image they want to see than our politicians? Consider the recent special election in Georgia which pitted Karen Handel against Jon Ossoff. A total of 50 million dollars was spent to shape voter thinking, to make the people see the candidates how the candidates wanted to be seen. As if the voters had not already invested in the candidates what they wanted to invest. 50 million! Could the disabled or unemployed or handicapped residents of that state used any of that 50 million? Could any patients with debilitating diseases used any of that 50 million? Could the infrastructure of Georgia’s highways and byways used any of that 50 million? Could any of Geogia’s school children benefitted from that 50 million? As a society, how much do we spend on image building?
I used to be smug about people living in the Middle Ages. How could they believe that a person’s “evil eye” was the sign of a witch? And based on that belief burn the individual at the stake? How could they spend fortunes on warring with their neighbors or on far away crusades? How could they spend years arguing over how many angels could fit on the head of a pin. Looking at our 21st century priorities I am smug no longer. One of my favorite lines in literature is expressed by the Stage Manager in Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town. “Wherever you come near the human race, there are layers and layers of nonsense.”
If I had a time machine, I would visit Joseph Palmer in the late 1860’s post American Civil War period, and I would love to ask him, after all he went through simply because he chose to sport a beard, what he thought about hirsute trends in post bellum America. An amateur student of the Civil War, I could not find any photographs of generals or politicians who were NOT wearing a beard. And our dear President Lincoln followed the fashion himself. Poor Joseph Palmer—-wrong place, wrong time. Apparently Joseph Palmer was, by all accounts, a thoughtful man. I imagine he would say something like, despite all our flaunting of societal progress (which is usually predicated on the things we develop), far too many of us still suffer from the inability to accept people who do not look like us. Our perceptions, based on what we expect of stereotypes, still rule our behavior rather than basing our judgements on a person’s actions.
So I am still the same person without my beard, although as my hairline continues to recede I notice I have more of my face to shave. My friends did not seem to care whether I had a hairy face or not. Maybe that is why they are my friends.
by Ralph Maltese | Jul 2, 2017 | Uncategorized
Survival to the Fullest
I can’t help it. I’m addicted to reality shows involving survival in the wild. Not the competing survival shows where teams subliminate their essential humanities and sabotage each other to win the grand prize of a trip to Hawaii or whatever. I am referring to those shows where people choose a simpler life living, as Lennie in Of Mice and Men says, ”Off the fat of the land.” Except in most of these “struggling against the elements shows” there is not a lot of fat. Many of these programs are set in Alaska or above the Arctic Circle or other rough terrains. I’m partially drawn to these reality shows because of my fond remembrance of my dad and I roughing it in the Adirondacks. But after our fishing and hunting trips we returned to an urban, and later suburban, lifestyle. Not so the people in the shows. They are stuck in the mountainous terrain of northern Georgia, or the frozen tundra above the Arctic Circle, or the grizzly-inhabited forests of the Alaskan hinterlands.
In our more hectic moments of our daily lives, it is normal to seek simplicity in a rose-colored past. The nomadic caveman, having secured his daily meal, was free to lie on his back and make constellations out of the stars. Some of us even support a nostalgic return to our evolutionary roots by adopting a Paleolithic diet, feasting on grubs, and nettles, and wild grass—all so we can supposedly live to the caveman’s ripe old age of 28.
I enjoy watching the ingenuity of these hearty livers in, and lovers of, the wild. In one episode I watched, while eating my tuna salad lunch, a coonskin capped man, alone in a Georgia swamp, spend half a day whittling a tool to spear his opossum meat and forest-mushroom dinner. “The food tastes even better knowing you trapped it yourself and eat it with a tool you made.” I looked at the chunk of tuna impaled on my metal fork and wondered if this were true….if I was missing out on a taste sensation because I was devouring a foodstuff I purchased from a store and consumed it with a device we received as a wedding gift eons ago. I plopped it in my mouth and savored the morsel. Nope. I don’t think I was missing anything. On the other hand, I doubt my friend in the swamp in Georgia would ever enjoy a chunk of tuna.
And so it goes. The gentleman living alone in the wilds of Alaska spends three icy cold November days chopping enough wood to stoke his homemade furnace so he does not freeze for two days. The episode was so chilling I went to my thermostat and kicked up the heat for a degree or two. Then there is the woman living above the Arctic Circle who walks two miles to cut a hole in the river ice so she could procure drinking water and bathing water. This took several trips—her sled tipped over once. Watching her struggle to obtain one of life’s basics made me thirsty, so I went to my filtered water in the refrigerator and drank a tall glass, then showered.
Then there is the couple in Montana who spent weeks planting and cultivating a potato patch only to have it ravaged by raccoons. I felt their anguish. One year I planted two rows of green beans and just before harvest rabbits devoured my produce. After my disappointment, I went to my backup plan—Acme.
I get it. There is a distinct pleasure and sense of pride that comes with roughing it. I enjoyed starting and maintaining campfires which provided not only heat for cooking and warmth, but a social center. I enjoyed breathing in the forest air, filling my lungs with the vitality of life, studying the signs of the woods, learning the lore that nature offers to us. I get it. What I find to be offensive is the comments by the survivalists impugning my choice not to live alone in a harsh environment. As one father tells his children sitting on the cold arctic ground, “Isn’t this better than going to a store to buy food? The people back in the city have no idea where their food comes from.” The children nod in agreement as they sip their tundra-grass soup.
One of the best lunches in my life occurred during a hunting trip to the Catskills with my Dad. The temperature was just above zero, the wind was blowing hard making it difficult to hear deer approaching, and snow covered the ground. My father built a small fire behind a sugar maple, brought out a can of mushroom soup and two day old Italian bread, opened the can and placed it on the fire. Within minutes we were dipping the bread in the soup and devouring it between icy cloud bursts of breath. Delicious. Here is a reality: when exercising outdoors, climbing mountains while hunting, paddling canoes all day while fishing, or simply chopping wood, everything tastes great. In the wild things taste better because we are so incredibly hungry the bark of a birch tree looks like an enticing hors d’oevre.
Whatever life style one chooses is absolutely fine by me. My problem is the smugness several of these survivalists exhibit when they imply my life style (which includes running water, indoor plumbing, and a varied diet) is inferior to theirs on some moral plane. If the people in these shows are happy combing the ice from their beards and slurping the marrow from squirrel bones, I am happy. (line from the movie Christmas Vacation while Chevy Chase is trying to rid his holiday home of the terrorist squirrel—“Where is Eddie? Doesn’t he eat squirrels?” “No, Clark. He gave them up when he heard they were high in choresterol.”) They provide hours of entertainment for me as I put another log in the fireplace and sip my port. After all, we all only truly need three things: food, water, and shelter. The difference between those rugged folk and me is that my three requirements need less time to obtain thus freeing me to do other things like read books, sit in my backyard and watch the birds, and, yes, write blogs. In the wild those three necessities fill most days. Henry David Thoreau, one of my heroes because he backed up his beliefs by acting on them, went into the woods to “suck out the marrow of life,” to learn what nature has to teach us. Most people know this about the transcendentalist. They should also remember that Thoreau wrote a subsequent essay, “Why I Left the Woods,” explaining that, having learned nature’s lessons, he returned to society to see how they applied to “civilization.”
Humans are, by nature, gregarious creatures. We define ourselves in the company of others of our species, and sometimes this survival is the most difficult challenge of all. Negotiation and compromise test our skills on an almost daily basis, and our escapist fantasies are usually filled with notions of being alone in the wild with our only decision being “what’s for dinner?” Surviving in the wild or struggling in the wilderness of humanity? Who is to say which is more difficult or more rewarding?
by Ralph Maltese | Jun 18, 2017 | Uncategorized
Parkinson’s and Exercise and Ay Morena
In 1987 Polley pressured me to start exercising. She knew my family cardiac history. She had to pressure me because I was reluctant. Teaching for me was not only a profession, but a passion, and I did not see how amongst the preparation and the grading of student work from five high school classes I was ever going to find two hours, three times a week to work my body into shape—a seemingly monumental task. And there was another responsibility—I was the father of four children, and play time was built into my schedule. Where was I going to get those six or more hours?
As it turned out, I found time, just like I found time to brush my teeth two or three times a day. Actually, we don’t “find” time in the modern age. We have to make time for things that are important—child rearing, reflection, and exercise. So three days a week after school I opened a locker at the Fitness Center, changed into some gym clothes, and mounted the stationary bike and the treadmill and the ube and the rower……all machines designed to strengthen my aerobic system. Good thing, too, because two years later, I had these unusual pains in my left eye and below my right ribs. Just allergies, everyone assured me. My cardiologist was not so sure. After the catherization I was rushed to by-pass surgery to correct four serious blockages in my heart. Had I not noticed the pains during my exercise routine, my first notification of those blockages might have been death. Scary stuff. So I credit the exercise and Polley with prolonging my life.
So it has been since 1987, visiting the Fitness Center three times a week, exceptions made for overly long faculty meetings, family emergencies, and vacations to far away places….like Connecticut. One Valentine’s Day I gave Polley a gift certificate for membership at the Fitness Center—–showing my love by my concern for her heart (heart-Valentine…yeah, it’s lame, but I also got her a nice card). So now we both go. But we approach it somewhat differently. After ten years of treading water on the treadmill and cramping calves on the stationary bike, I knew the names of, perhaps, three fellow exercisers. After one week of attendance, Polley knew the life histories of, and was on a first name basis with, at least twenty people. Some people see the time spent at the Fitness Center as a social activity as well as an investment in health.
I see it as maintenance…like brushing my teeth. Necessary but not the thrill of the day. At the Fitness Center, people exercise on machines in front of three giant televisions. Two of them are tuned to a All News All Day station and the other to some morning talk show. The sounds on both are turned off since most of us elderly exercisers like to sweat to the beat of the Beatles or Elvis or the occasional Perry Como….we are not training to climb Mt. Everest. And, as my doctor advises, endurance is more important than speed. I hope so because my treadmill speed is set to “Tortoise.” With the All News All Day television, script runs along the bottom of the screen so I have some idea of topic of discussion, but on the Talk Show television the captions are so small I resort to reading lips. In my head I make up the dialogue which, I believe, is usually more interesting than the televised discussion. When I get bored with that mental construct, I simply keep pumping my legs and soak in the vista that encompasses the Fitness Center parking lot. Amazing how many near fender-benders occur in a two hour span.
We actually drive extra miles to the Fitness Center, eschewing the workout facilities closest to our home for the simple reason that we like the staff, in particular Nurse, Manager, and All-Around Good Human Being, Karen, in whom we have supreme trust, and who is the heart (no pun intended) of the Fitness Center. Ask the fellow Fitness Centurions for the number one reason why they choose this workout facility and Karen and her staff top the list. So I have to drive the extra mile, endure the vista, and read lips on tv. The quality of the staff members and their willingness to answer my dumb questions as well as my trust in their skills and essential humanity more than compensates for the other less than pizzazy features of the facility.
On the stationary bike I can read my book, but on the treadmill no such luck. My body is moving this way and that, and it takes too much effort to keep my eyes from jiggling off the pages. Besides, during one workout back in the eighties, I was traumatized by a comment dripping with scorn from a fellow denizen of the Fitness Center. There are different cultures at different times at the Fitness Center. In the early morning many of the people like Polley and me are retirees. With nothing to prove and secure in our world views, this is a nice crowd sharing books, recipes, and histories. The after-work culture, on the other hand, often brought with it the day’s anxieties and stresses from the workplace. After a draining day of teaching, I would work the treadmill and ube and bike hard, attempting to sweat off the frustration. One afternoon after a school day, which involved the breaking up of two fights, I had the treadmill moving fast and on a steep incline. I tried to dissolve the school events by opening a novel and losing myself in its pages. Within minutes Benton appeared on the treadmill next to me. Benton was at least a half decade younger than most of us after-work Fitness Centurions. While most of us were working at decreasing the love handles, Benton possessed a chiseled physique, masked thinly by a tight t-shirt and short shorts. As we plugged along at 3 miles an hour on a level surface, breathing hard at every step, Benton tooled along at 7 miles an hour while on the Mount Kilimanjaro incline, his body and his movement the stuff ancient Greek Olympians would envy. We all hated him.
I turned my eyes back to my novel when I heard Benton’s voice. “Ya know, if you can read while you are on the treadmill, you ain’t exercising right. You might as well be sittin’ and reading.”
I twisted slightly to face him as a drop of sweat skied down my nose. I shrugged.
Benton ended his judgement with “If you’re gonna exercise right, you gotta focus on the exercising.” Then Benton turned toward the view of the Fitness Center parking lot, obviously bored with his critique of my treadmill work.
So I do not even try to read on the treadmill. I sometimes listen to the music the Fitness Center attendants play on the loud speakers. They are kind and tailor the selections (which are not the kinds of songs the young attendants would personally choose) to the crowd.
In the nineties Fitness Centurions would often bring in their own tapes and ask the attendants to play them. I think the Fitness Center eliminated that practice because of Bradley. Bradley was a very tall, thin member of the after work crew of exercisers although he had been retired for many years. He always came in a few minutes after I did, and I would sigh because I knew for the next two hours what was in store for my ears. Bradley insisted that the attendants play his tape. It didn’t matter if I or some other Fitness Centurion had a tape playing (I usually brought in some tape of classical music—want to get the heart pumping? Try Corelli’s Dance of the Furies). Whatever music was playing would be replaced by Bradley’s selections and his selected genre was always the same—Cha Cha.
Neighbors on the stationary bike, while Chilly Cha Cha was blaring through the Fitness Center speaker system, Bradley struck up a conversation with me…in medias res. “So this guy comes up to me and asks, ‘Hey, Bradley, what Cha Cha music should I listen to?’ Can you believe it? How can I answer that question? So I tells him, there are over fifty kinds of Cha Cha. How am I supposed to know what kind you want? Imagine?!”
“No, I can’t imagine.”
“And then you have to make sure you don’t confuse Cha Cha with Salsa or Bachata or Merengue. What was this guy thinking?!”
I shook my head in shared sympathy. “I have no idea.”
So most of decade of the nineties I sweated to Dimelo and Ay Morena and El Diablo Anda Sueto. Twenty years later, a remnant of one of those Cha Cha selections will pop into my consciousness.
There are times on the treadmill when I wonder, “Why am I doing this?” It seems like I stay in shape so I can perform on the machines which allow me to stay in shape. I am working out so I can stay in shape to work out. But I know there are other reasons:
From PDResources: Exercise can
1) Prevent cognitive decline. It’s unpleasant, but it’s true—as we get older, our brains get a little…hazy. As aging and degenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s kill off brain cells, the noggin actually shrinks, losing many important brain functions in the process. While exercise and a healthy diet can’t “cure” Alzheimer’s, they can help shore up the brain against cognitive decline that begins after age 45. Working out, especially between age 25 and 45, boosts the chemicals in the brain that support and prevent degeneration of the hippocampus, an important part of the brain for memory and learning.
- Alleviate anxiety.Quick Q&A: Which is better at relieving anxiety—a warm bubble bath or a 20-minute jog? You might be surprised at the answer. The warm and fuzzy chemicals that are released during and after exercise can help people with anxiety disorders calm down. Hopping on the track or treadmill for some moderate-to-high intensity aerobic exercise (intervals, anyone?) can reduce anxiety sensitivity. And we thought intervals were just a good way to burn calories!
- Boost brainpower.Those buff lab rats might be smarter than we think. Various studies on mice and men have shown that cardiovascular exercise can create new brain cells (aka neurogenesis) and improve overall brain performance. Ready to apply for a Nobel Prize? Studies suggest that a tough workout increases levels of a brain-derived protein (known as BDNF) in the body, believed to help with decision making, higher thinking, and learning. Smarty (spandex) pants, indeed.
- Sharpen memory.Get ready to win big at Go Fish. Regular physical activity boosts memory and ability to learn new things. Getting sweaty increases production of cells in hippocampus responsible for memory and learning. For this reason, research has linked children’s brain development with level of physical fitness (take that, recess haters!). But exercise-based brainpower isn’t just for kids. Even if it’s not as fun as a game of Red Rover, working out can boost memory among grown-ups, too. A study showed that running sprints improved vocabulary retention among healthy adults.
http://www.pdresources.org/blog_data/top-mental-health-benefits-of-exercise/?gclid=CjwKEAjwgZrJBRDS38GH1Kv_vGYSJAD8j4Dfbv_2VM-tO5_JI7haSTtkpvNsA8zyYO_9M8MhvsZZkhoCl-bw_wcB#.WSrT-mgrKUn
I have added to my aerobic routine exercises to help cope with the Parkinson’s. During my home stay due to the Renal Failure Fiasco, the therapists taught me exercises that I could incorporate into my Fitness Center visits. Articles seem to appear each week showcasing activities that help Parkinson’ patients, including classes in boxing and dancing. I nixed the idea of the dancing classes. Even in the sixties my moves on the dance floor resembled an upright brown bear pawing at the ceiling lights while stumbling to the Stones’ “Hey You Get Off My Cloud!” Besides, at the age of seventy, I have a difficult enough time climbing into my shorts let alone trying to slip into a tutu.
The boxing classes for Parkinson’s intrigue me. Growing up on Burnside Avenue in the Bronx provided daily opportunities for bare knuckled bouts of boxing. By the time I reached adolescence, I had had my full of fighting. But now, far removed from that distant unpleasant experience, I fantasize about entering the ring as a senior citizen, the ringmaster’s baritone voice announcing my entrance. “In this corner, wearing beige Bahama shorts with a white Velcro belt and white loafers with Velcro laces, from the Bronx, New York, Palooka Parkinson!”
The reporters gather round me. “Hey, Champ, any predictions about this fight?”
“Gonna float like a Butterball, Sting like a Manatee. We’ll both go down in the first thirty seconds of the first round.”
Fantasies aside, I face the realities of the Fitness Center three times a week. How much the exercise helps me is unknown, and, like everything else in life, there are no guarantees. But I constantly repeat to myself my neurologist’s advice which ends every visit to his office. “Just keep moving.”
Cha Cha Cha!!!
