The Gero-Punk Project

To get to the park from my house, this is the most direct path: After passing through the front door and carefully stepping down the three steps of the front stoop, turn left at the edge of the driveway. Then, walk to the end of the street – it comes to a “t” at the cool house where Nicole, Glen and their three boys used to live. Take another left but move across the street at a diagonal (there’s only sidewalk on one side of the street; I want to keep you safe). You’ll see a tall fence.

Walk along the fence and turn right at the corner. You’ll be in front of the house where John used to live before he died; now there’s a family: two parents, two kids, one small dog (for whom the fence was constructed).  I was worried because I hadn’t seen the puppy since late autumn and I’d heard she’d been sick, but yesterday as I was walking home from the park with Happy-the-dog I glanced toward the house and saw her sitting on the back of a couch looking out the window, bouncing up and down, thrilled to see one of her humans arriving home!

At the end of that block, turn right and as you walk onward you will see up ahead and to your left the park.  I’ll leave you to it from here – you can choose your own adventure. But might I suggest that you be sure to pay attention to movement in the casting pond as it might be the multi-generational family of killdeer who live in my park? Also, you’ll probably enjoy seeing the playground – it is quite unique – as well as ambling along the boardwalk. Be sure to look deep into the reeds and grasses as you might discover an interesting feathered creature dwelling there (we’ve seen a variety of winter waterfowl recently).

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Sixteen years ago, I chose this neighborhood as a place for me and my daughter to start over (again). Though actually, as I think about it, the dream to live here began more than twice as long ago when I was a teenager and saw this neighborhood for the first time. (This neighborhood and me, we called to each other!) My daughter, now 23 and living in Paris, grew up here. This summer will be the first time she won’t be coming home to live. The next time she comes here, it will be for a short visit. I wonder, now that she’s making a life in a far-away place, does she still feel the pull of the neighborhood where she spent so much of her life thus far?  Will this place still feel like a home, even as she enters more fully into her adult life?

My mother has dwelled in this neighborhood off-and-on for almost as long as we have.  She lived in various apartment complexes around persons of all ages and stages. A few years ago, she decided to move to a subsidized apartment complex for older adults, just on the other side of the park. As her needs have changed, so too have her dwellings.  She’s chosen to grow old here.

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P. dwells here, too. He grew up in the neighborhood and in his early adulthood returned here to help his aging parents. After they died, he continued to live in the family home for as long as he could. Eventually, for complex reasons I’m only partially privy to, he lost the house. Since that time – twenty years ago? – he’s been houseless. When the weather is favorable, he has been known to pitch a tent (and to plant a garden) in a vacant lot near the park. Sometimes he stays up all night walking the neighborhood because that’s safer than letting his guard down to sleep outside when it is cold and dark. Sometimes a friend lets him “couch surf.”

This is P’s neighborhood. He loves it here and he says only death will make him leave it.

The most recent time I saw P. was on one of the snow days a couple of weeks ago.  I was roaming the neighborhood, out on an adventure.  I walked through the park, over the railroad tracks, all the way to the local botanical garden .80 miles away from my home, only to discover that it was closed because of the snow. I had intended to check on the various winter waterfowl. I know that they know how to handle themselves when the temperatures drop, but I still wanted to make sure they were doing okay. (Though I wonder, what might have I done if I’d discovered that they weren’t doing okay?)

Finding the gates locked, I decided to head home via a slightly different route.  I’m so glad I did, as I came upon P. who was heading the same direction as I was but on the opposite side of the street. We saw each other at the same time and waved. Through gestures he told me to stay on my side of the street and he’d cross over. We greeted each other and confirmed that we were heading in the same direction – to the park. We walked together to and through the park, all the way to the end of my street.

As we walked, we talked about the neighborhood, the weather, our families, things that we were worried about. He reminded me and I agreed that it is a waste of energy to hold regrets or grudges, though it can be challenging to let go.  I asked him how he was doing in the cold, whether he had a safe place to stay.  He assured me he was just fine – he had a friend’s house in an adjacent neighborhood where he could go every couple of days to shower and get coffee; he was sleeping at night in an abandoned car near the park. He said he was a free man, living without burdens, without regrets.

He complemented the energetic pace with which I walked and remarked that he had been trying to keep up with me.  I told him that I had thought I was trying to keep up with him!  And then we said goodbye until next time.

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When I wake up, I can tell by the milky light behind the window shade that it is snowing (again!). I decide to set out on an early solo trek around my environs. My old friend Happy-the-dog is no longer up for such an adventure (though he’d beg to differ).  I trace my usual route through the park to see who might be out and about. Two humans; three dogs; a few sleepy mallards and geese. I want a longer adventure before diving into the day’s work, so on a whim I decide to walk to the botanical garden.  I expect to find the gates locked tight – it is early, the weather is “inclement”– but the walk to and from the garden is worthwhile on such a snowy day (really, on any day).

Surprise: The gates are open! Hooray!

I notice tracks in the snow. A couple of humans and dogs arrived before me, but I don’t see them now. It is only me and a few birds: coots; widgeons; mallards; and wood ducks (have you ever heard the sweet way they whistle to each other?).  Oh, and geese treading in the water and flying overhead. At the south-east corner of the garden, where the beaver’s dam is, I notice that since my last visit a very old, large tree has fallen across the stream that feeds the pond.  We’ve seen the “secretive and shy” green heron in that spot before but with the shelter of the tree, anyone could be hiding from view.

As I head north through the trees, back to the garden-gate, I look across the biggest pond, toward the West Hills. I see in the near distance the apartment building where my mother lives.

Heading home, I retrace my earlier path through the park. I walk along the boardwalk, checking to see who has awoken.  Blue heron stands hunched on a log, covered in snowflakes.  I see no sign of the little winter birds: green-winged teals; mergansers (hooded and common); pied-billed grebe. The ubiquitous mallards and geese seem impervious to the cold. Silent song sparrows dart between the low bushes and reeds.

Coming toward me is a man and a dog.   The man is tall and on his head is a shock of beautiful white hair.  My heart skips a beat – is that my dear friend Tod? And then I remember that my dear friend Tod died of pancreatic cancer this past December.  His memorial service is this weekend.

The tall man with the shock of beautiful white hair smiles as he gets closer and stops to say hello and allow his little dog (a terrier of some sort?) to hug and kiss me.  The man says:  Not many birds out today.  Who have you seen? Where do you think they go on a day like today? I tell him about my adventure to the botanical garden, who I saw (and didn’t see).  I tell him that up ahead he’ll find a very cold blue heron standing on a log, as well as mallards, geese and sparrows, but none of the small winter waterfowl.  We speculate together about where the teals, mergansers and grebes might shelter from the snow: Under the bushes? In the middle of the tall grasses and reeds? Do they borrow a burrow?

As we leave each other, the man says: We are so lucky to live here and to be a part of all of this.

I say: Yes, we are so lucky.

Happy-dog and I are enjoying our daily neighborhood park walk-about.

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Killdeer (three – one male, two female): “Dee deejee, tyeeeee deeeew, Twewddew!”

Me: “Hello, Killdeer!”

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“Tamaleeeeeeeees! Chicken, cheese, pork! Tamaleeeeeeees!”

I hear Mauricio before I see him. He is over by the playground with his tamale cart. Usually he pushes his cart and sings his Tamaleeeees song throughout the neighborhood. But today is the first day that’s mild and sunny after two weeks of intermittent snow and ice. Everyone seems to be out playing in the park; humans and dogs doing what we do on a sunny afternoon.

“Tamaleeeeeeees!”

I don’t have any money on me, otherwise I would chase down Mauricio.  He and his family make great tamales.

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Midway down the boardwalk, there’s a person peering keenly into the marshy area where the birds like to nap, bathe and forage (and enact elaborate mating rituals!).

Happy and I stop next to them.  I ask them what they are seeing.  They say they think they see a turtle over on one of the felled logs. I remark that I haven’t seen turtles here since the previous summer but that the turtles seem to prefer one particular log that’s in a deeper part of the stream, especially on warm sunny days.

They say Oh! I didn’t know there were still turtles here! I hoped there were.  I’m an old timer, I grew up in this neighborhood. When I was a kid we used to swim in the “turtle holes,” that’s what we kids called them. But I’ve never seen a turtle in all my life until today!

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Hummingbird (male Anna’s): “Zrrr jika jika jika jika!”

Me: “Hello, hummingbird!”

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 “Hello!” (Says the person I see every day, walking with their bull terrier around the park. The person is always gazing down, listening to music or sports or the news on their phone, moving purposefully. After passing by each other so many times, and saying hello to them, this is the first time I’ve received their acknowledgement and greeting.)

“Hi!” (I say in response. I’m glad our acquaintance has finally progressed to the mutual greeting stage!)

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Two kids careening toward the park.

Kid one: Can I have the anti-gravity helmet first?

Kid two: Yes, you can have the anti-gravity helmet first, if I can be in command.

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My mom, Susie:

I  was taking a walk through the park…enjoying much needed sunshine on my face.

As I turned from the park and headed west into the neighborhood I noticed a very large orange cat.

All at once, I realized that the cat was about to pounce on a chickadee!

I just couldn’t let the big cat kill the tiny bird!

I chased away the cat and with my purple-gloved hand picked up the chickadee and cuddled it. It looked as if its wing had been hurt!  I talked to the bird and petted its little body. It never struggled…it had the tiniest black beads for eyes.

I decided to check near where the little one fell and as I approached a flowering bush the chickadee flapped its wings and perched on a limb!

I have never held a tiny bird. I have always wanted to.

For a moment, I imagined making a little nest and adopting the chickadee.

I will cherish this experience.

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Black capped Chickadee (one, heard not seen): “Chickadee-dee-dee!”

Me (one, seen and heard): “Bye, until next time!”

For the past few weeks, I’ve been haunted by a paragraph from Florida Scott-Maxwell’s The Measure of My Days*. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I’ve been haunted by Florida Scott-Maxwell herself, and not just for the past few weeks but for the past twenty-five years! (Was it my Gramma Jewell who gave me The Measure of My Days? Seems like something she’d have read and shared with me.)

I’ve also been haunted by Ursula K. Le Guin, but that’s a tale to be taken up some other time.

Here’s the passage from Scott-Maxwell which has possessed me:

Age puzzles me.  I thought it was a quiet time.  My seventies were interesting, and fairly serene, but my eighties are passionate.  I grow more intense as I age.  To my own surprise I burst out with hot conviction.  Only a few years ago I enjoyed my tranquility; now I am so disturbed by the outer world and by human quality in general that I want to put things right, as though I still owed a debt to life.  I must calm down.  I am far too frail to indulge in moral fervor. (p. 14)

There are two things you need to know about this passage: First, it comes from a book (based on Scott-Maxwell’s personal journals) first published in 1968 – 50 years ago! Second, don’t let this passage fool you into thinking that in her old age Scott-Maxwell calmed down or stopped indulging in “moral fervor” about the state of the world. Read her book and you’ll see for yourself.

Her every word is a call to action. Her every sentence opens space for engaging in the life-long work of knowing one’s self, loving other people, and living a life “of fierce energy” especially when we are at our most frail, uncertain, or diminished.

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Here in Portland we had a snow day (Hooray!).

Happy-the-dog and I headed to the park shortly after breakfast.  The playground was full of kids and dogs and grown-ups.  I watched as two toddlers slid down a (very) little hill of snow in (very) little plastic sleds.  Their grown-up stood at the sidelines shouting encouragement and congratulations for their bravery: “Hooray!” and “Good job!” and “Wow, that was fast!”

I remembered snow days enjoyed with my own toddler – now twenty years ago! Ah, the wonderment of being awoken by odd snow-light reflecting off the bedroom walls, knowing that we’d get to play together all day (and make snow slushies, off course). I’ll give you one major holiday and a long vacation in exchange for a few snow days. Deal?

Walking on along the path beside the almost-frozen stream, one of my favorite birds, the awesome kingfisher, barreled toward me, loudly proclaiming his sovereignty. Two school-age kids and their grown-up were standing at the edge of the stream observing a domesticated duck someone had abandoned in the park.  I saw their attention rivet to kingfisher as he flew by. I asked if they knew who he was, and the grown-up said, “You mean the bird that just flew by with hair that looks like a blue jay?” I confess to you, reader: I knew who kingfisher was, and I wanted to be able to experience the thrill of seeing him with others; basically, I set them up. I proceeded to let them know all about kingfisher – he prefers solitude, but he also enjoys displaying himself; for such a small creature he’s a sassy loudmouth; he has the best blue mohawk ever (and look, he’s about to dive into the stream to catch a fish!). They seemed glad to know about kingfisher, though their reactions were mild in the face of such splendor. Hopefully they’ll never again mistake kingfisher for a blue jay! I can’t imagine either bird would be too terribly happy to be mistook.)

On we walked.  By the time we reached the bridge on the North end of the park, kingfisher was making his way back down the stream toward us. Right before he reached us he landed in a tree.  I took a quick look around to make sure there weren’t any witnesses and then I did what I often do when I see kingfisher. I shouted, “Kingfisher, hello!”  He rattled back. And then I realized I wasn’t the only human there!  A person who looked to be in their teenage-stage walked up and asked if they could talk to Happy-dog. (Phew—I thought they were going to ask me why I was talking to kingfisher!)  I let them know that Happy sometimes grows concerned around new people and then I gently held Happy’s head while the person stroked his nose.  I told them Happy’s name, and they remarked that Happy looked sad and then laughed.  I said that I didn’t think so, that probably Happy was just a bit confused about what was happening, but otherwise he loved taking a walk in the snow.  They said, yeah that makes sense; Happy seems sweet.  I said, yup he’s the sweetest creature ever.

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Elsewhere today other things were happening.  In Florida, school buses took loads of young activists to the state capital to demand gun reform.  Many young comrades around the country staged protests in solidarity.  They are begging, demanding that the “grown-ups” listen. And do something.

I feel inspired by their conviction that, to quote Scott-Maxwell, they want to “put things right.”  At the early stages of their travels through the life-course they already feel they owe “a debt to life.”

I feel ashamed that the grown-ups – I include myself here – who are supposed to protect them, to ensure that they have safe and vibrant spaces in which to learn and grow, have failed them so consequentially and miserably.

I don’t know those young activists, those soon-to-be grown-ups (who only a handful of years ago were themselves toddlers).  And I’m not really sure how best to help as I stand on the sidelines. God, I remember how I felt when I was a young activist protesting against nuclear bombs. I remember how I felt to not be listened to, to realize that none of the grown-ups could or would protect me. Now the kids in Florida and across the country know for certain that grown-ups can’t promise them that all is well and that they are safe.  But some of us are listening to them, some of us believe what they are saying about what they need in order to feel safe enough to engage life as fully as they can.

If there’s an opportunity here for intergenerational solidarity, perhaps it starts by we grown-ups apologizing and making amends. And making amends begins with listening.

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How does my “moral fervor” manifest? What is my “debt to life” as I dwell here in the long middle of my life-course?

(As I write this essay, I am painfully aware of the fact that I live in a time, place, and space where I have the luxury of assuming that as a 51-year-old I am somewhere in the middle of my travels through the life-course, that I may perhaps live to see many more days.)

We are creating legacy as we live our lives.  Legacy goes in all directions.  Young activists are creating a real-time legacy, not only for themselves, but for all of us (and for persons who haven’t even arrived on the planet yet!).  And the grown-ups who aren’t listening to the suffering of our young people are creating a tragic legacy.

I don’t want my legacy to be that I didn’t listen. I want my legacy to be that I asked questions, I listened, and I did something.

I don’t want to calm down.

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I started with Scott-Maxwell and it seems fitting to end with her:

“When I am with other people I try to find them or try to find a point in myself from which to make a bridge to them, or I walk on the egg-shells of affection trying not to hurt or misjudge.  All this is very tiring,  but love at any age takes everything you’ve got.” (p. 15)

Yup. Love at any age takes everything you’ve got.

*Scott-Maxwell, F.  (1968).  The measure of my days.  New York: Penguin Books.