"...the greatest gift you can give your family are the roots of responsibility and the wings of independence..." -- Denis Waitley

 I have this shirt (different colors). I bought it for several reasons, not the least of which is to honor the attitude Canada has taken toward the current US administration. Virtually the entire Western World (and much of the rest) now has the same attitude and it's well-earned.

 We lived a short while in British Columbia, absorbing not only the local scenery but also the independence of the residents and their rightful insistence on not wanting to be confused with those from the United States (note I didn't say 'Americans,' since that encompasses an entire hemisphere). This is despite a 250-year history of close cooperation and common goals. It's indeed sad what's happened and I think much of the damage (at least in the feelings of Canadians I know) is irreconcilable.

 But this attitude also has other applications. Of course every family has its own dynamic and I think one term for mine would have to be "fiercely independent." While we're a unit, we're also five individuals who don't always see eye-to-eye. This isn't a negative thing but the elbows can indeed be sharp. Any conflicts are settled by those involved, not by attempted soothing of negativity by pater or materfamilia. Work it out. Or don't, if you can't.

 By the way, there's nothing lately going on (except my seeing this shirt in the drawer) that brings all this up. But our kids, their mom and I have each evolved with the same spirit. In my case, much of it comes from being an adopted, stuttering kid who (despite the best efforts of my wonderful adopted folks) never felt a part of things. Having kids is my first experience with genetics and what's passed on naturally, For different reasons, their mom is the same way and we've both encouraged our kids to stomp out their territory.

 One of the issues discussed in my therapy has been that of setting boundaries. This doesn't mean "my way or the highway." But there's a large gap between a strong request and actually being willing (usually out of self-preservation) to warn of and being entirely willing to impose results. It isn't an issue of pride. It's what has to be done to maintain self.

 Sadly, too many never learn this. It's particularly evident here in the South and in Texas (which is mostly not the South), where Just Getting Along is a valued and never-ending pursuit. When/if someone actually implies or (God help us) imposes response, it's seen as rude or even brutish. Hardly. It's where we said we'd be. It can be harsh, and we talked about it.

 All this can turn a family into what sometimes appears to be a bickering collection of don't-agrees. Frankly, rather that than being steamrolled into unwilling cooperation or (worse) running for protection. Fix it yourself. We've given you the tools and the instruction. It's up to you to use them.

  Nothing makes a parent more proud than to see this in their own kids and watching them pass it along.

"...independence is happiness..." -- Susan B. Anthony

 

"...we've all forgotten how to be original..." -- Peter Jackson

 I hope this guy's okay. Never actually met him, but he's stayed with me. Some folks are like that.

 When we returned from Europe, we spent a coupla months in a marginal apartment on First Street, on the edge of downtown Ft. Worth. It was in a two-story building and our second-floor, 1/1 flat needed, shall we say, some work. The hot water heater was bumped up against the fridge, so you couldn't open the door much past about halfway. The badly thinning carpet appeared to have been laid during the Carter administration. But we figured what the hell -- it's temporary until we could get back in the house and figure out what and where's next.

 Of course this is before our health issues became apparent and attention had to be turned elsewhere and still is. It's also before we had to start discussion of maybe a new living situation because it has become clear the old one won't work anymore. Looking back, I think we should have just remained at Ripped Carpet Arms for a coupla more months. But, well....

 Through it all was a guy who sat out on the front steps of the building, nursing Luckies and sometimes a beer. One afternoon I'd gone for a walk and returned to find his half-pack of smokes on the ground. I put it up on the railing so it wouldn't be stepped on or kicked to the flower bed.

 We never got a chance to talk but it was clear to me I missed a chance to meet An Original. I wrote last week about being yourself, which is certainly important, but it's quite another to be An Original. There are no copies, sequels or successful imitators. Just  Being Yourself can, in some folks, bring a brashness of "I'ma be myself no matter what. It's just Who/What I am baby, so get used to it."

 An Original doesn't need that. He/she is more observer than participant, though actually taking part in something is certainly on the table. It's why there are park benches, trails off a beaten path and other places to otherwise rediberate.

 "Rediberate" is my dad's invented word for ruminating and otherwise reflecting. I'd call his office and ask what's up and he'd say, "Oh, I dunno. Just sitting here rediberating." I own the Facebook page for the word and I need to crank it back up. Too many don't know what to call it when that's exactly what they're doing. Another indication of being An Original.

 We all know people who never seem to find themselves or learn how to work depth into daily life. They do what they're told, follow a prescribed path or otherwise fail to put themselves Out There in one form or another. It's too difficult, too risky or otherwise too scary. Or they become completely inflexible,  convinced their path is the only True Calling. I deal with one daily. But asked what he'd really like to actually do with his middle-aged life, his response would be either "I dunno" or something that would take more work than he's willing to actually do. So he does nothing, and work ethic has nothing to do with it. It's a lack of self-imposed direction.

 I've been fortunate enough to reinvent myself about four times over several careers. Believe me, I'd have a lot more money in the bank had I stuck with just one thing. But I've spent a lot of time sitting on those front steps, smoking (figurative) Luckies and sipping on (for me) a whiskey. There's definitely a price, and in my case these days it's physical but well-earned.

 Sure, I'm myself and comfortable in that skin. I can be as Out There as anyone and sometimes I am.

 But the best days are spent reflecting and rediberating. Find or create your own space to be An Original.

"...I think people are afraid to be original..." -- Orson Bean

"...perspective is everything when you are experiencing the challenges of life..." -- Joni Earekson Tada

 I decided the Meyer lemon tree needed some decoration, so I put these flags (France, Canada, Louisiana) in the pot. Like the tree and its adjacent rosemary, they serve as a collective reminder of why I'm doing what I'm doing.

 These days, what I'm doing is mainly negotiating a return to a more physically healthy era when I could do pretty much anything I want. Sure it might be a bit slower but at least it's there. On the good side, I can do it again. But the flip side is it has everyone else relying on me to Get Shit Done. I have no problem with this when it comes to my partner. It's part of our deal and understanding and, in her case, where I want and need to be. It's very much a two-way street. No problems.

 But I'll resume counseling next week to deal with the rest of it. My return to pretty much full functionality has allowed others to simply stop taking care of even the barest of minimal adulthood and, frankly, that was a challenge beforehand. Aside from our health issues, getting around this has been and apparently will remain An Issue for both my partner and me, at least for now. We just gotta deal daily.

 The lemon tree, its flags and the small rosemary remind me things are transitory, at least ideally. They grow, identify, remind or otherwise serve as markers of where I am and where I want to be. The counseling will be a help maintaining focus on that, because it's easy to fall into the trap of inertia and apathy. I refuse.

 Another help has been a re-recognition of where I live. No, I don't like suburbia. But fact is this is where I live and it's got a lot of nice places to experience and enjoy by just showing the hell up. I had to go over to downtown Carrollton yesterday -- a place I hadn't been in, oh, a good 35 years. It's delightful in the same way as downtown Grapevine, McKinney and other fornerly bypassed spots that have reburnished themselves. I'm enthusiastic about going to experience and find more such places.

 Basically, I've found various routes around the challenges I face. Speaking honestly, I still get angry and resentful from time to time -- not about how I'm being treated but almost daily observation of selfishness that affects others. This is when I turn away and focus on what I can do and where I can be to escape it.

 Lord knows I'm luckier than most in being able to get help and support and having a partner who gets it completely. Damn sure makes things a bit easier.

"...every project is an opportunity to learn, to figure out problems and challenges, to invent and reinvent..." -- David Rockwell

 

"... where we love is home -- home that our feet can leave but not our hearts..." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes

 This is the house where I grew up, in north Dallas. My folks built it in 1956, so I was two. If you look at aerial photos from the day, our brand-new little neighborhood sticks up like a chimney from the surrounding blackland farms. I remember active farming and the pop of shotguns from nearby dove hunters.

 We moved when I was 13, but not far. Same Jr. High and high school. My sister had to change elementary schools but that's about it. We were in a bigger, newer house but all that really did was expand my social world. 

 I bring this up because I was over in the same general area this past weekend, seeing some friends and picking up a lemon tree. It was a quick trip and in the rain. But I make it a point to drive through periodically. The area has held up mostly well and my elementary school is even being rebuilt on the same real estate. I always smile at that.

 I got to thinking about the idea of "home." So many folks have just one, and too often they can't go back. Be it death, a bulldozer or purchase by a different owner, the physical place just isn't there or isn't available anymore. I feel that loss about our farm in Denton County. But home can just as easily be a feeling, an experience, another person or simply a beloved place where something pleasant or important happened.

 I am lucky enough to have several homes. In no particular order, they are the DFW area, New Orleans, Southern California and the area they call SoGaNoFla. It's the Florida Panhandle, stretching a bit into south Georgia. I don't include Alabama in there. Different vibe. But I include Mobile. Funny how that works. I raised my kids, we sailed and had countless beach days from our base in Tallahassee. Sadly, Florida politics have ruined much it.

 I talk to folks about where they're "from" and either the eyes soften or hackles go up. Not much in between unless they're lucky enough like me to ask, "which one?" So many are, "well, I'm actually from (place they don't like or had no choice like a family move)..." 

 My mom never lived outside Dallas County TX. Born at a facility in Highland Park and raised across Denton Drive from Love Field, she never resided more that five air miles  from her birthplace. While she was curious, well-traveled and had a college degree, I don't think the idea of actually living someplace else ever crossed her mind. My dad, a farm boy from La Grange, was set free by WWII and the GI bill. He was shoved all over the South Pacific during the war and got quite enough time outside Texas, thank you. He came back, got an education, got married, set up a business (he could sell shit to cows) and heeeere we go.

 ...so home is more than just where the hat is, depending on who you are. It's different for each of us, even if we're raised in the same house and neighborhood. Funny sometimes how that works, right? But hell -- we're all still just trying to figure shit out anyway. 

 

"...the ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned..." -- Maya Angelou

"...I'd rather look around me, compose a better song. 'Cause that's the honest measure of my worth..." -- Ian Anderson

 This statue of Johann Strauss is in Vienna's City Park -- a delightful place to stroll, have lunch and just watch people. Been doing a lot of the latter lately.

 The comeback from rehab has been nothing short of spectacular in so many ways. While there's not much I can do some levels, I can do plenty in others. A microcosm was last night, when everyone wanted Chick-Fil-A. I can't stand the place. Politics are one reason but another is it grinds out the most tasteless chicken sandwich ever produced by human hands.

 That said, just out of curiosity and because it'd been awhile, I got a sandwich anyway. It was the same crapola they've been kicking out since I first had one at the old Atlanta/Fulton County Stadium in the mid-1970s. Tasted like this one was a leftover from that era, except now the Braves don't suck as bad. But I slapped on some onion and rolled out some thousand-island dressing and made it at least edible. Kinda what I'm doing on some other levels these days.

 I got notice yesterday of automatic renewal of a prescription for an anti-depressant. The script was written after just one visit with my PCP (who I will see this Tuesday) and a good month before I committed myself to detox and rehab. The list of potential side effects has its own list of potential side effects, so no. I will refuse to pick up this script and have stopped automatic renewal.

 In other words, things have changed dramatically and appear to be working as I fix my own shit like I fixed the sandwich. The focus is on my own personal (physical and mental) space. In short, I'm learning to waltz as Strauss would encourage. It's a simple 1-2-3, working across a sometimes crowded dance floor. You just work around the others.

 The past 18 months or so, dealing with my own health issues and helping a partner deal with hers, has taught me that while there are excellent medical professionals out there, too many focus on just the physical. We can get a script for pretty much anything these days, but what good is it if it only aggravates something else? This one says constipation and possible thoughts of suicide, just as starters. Don't need either of those.

 I agree with a college friend about medical issues we both face, that you reach A Certain Age and you've been doing largely what works for you until you run up against something new. Then you step back to assess medical input before proceeding. Maybe the Younger You was more willing to listen to a professional's advice. Older You says nah man -- I'll deal as much as possible with what I got without relying on the artificial enhancement. Let's give that a chance first.

 Each day is a day less we have here. I'm not saying we always need to be completely clear-headed (though I've learned to really enjoy it). Sometimes it's even best to see things a bit askew. But it needs to come from within, not in a prescription.

 "...what a long, strange trip it's been..." -- Thd Grateful Dead

 

 

"...I ask you to judge me by the enemies I've made..." FDR

 As some of you know, I live on the couch in the den. I won't go into the whys of this, but it's a comfortable couch, I'm glad I have a roof and it's akin to living in a library. All my history books and biographies are in here in the dark paneling. Denise has her novels and fiction and we've both kicked in various how-to collections. The cookbooks are in the kitchen.

 Once a few things are rearranged, I'll be back in my reading chair with a decent lamp and side table. Hopefully soon. It's yet another defense.

 On a shelf, I have plaster busts of Charles deGaulle, Claude Monet and then there's this guy. All are in front of The Harvard Classics, so it's all appropriate. A quality life is, I think, a combination of art, philosophy, practicality and humor. I can reach for Plato, Great American documents, several art history books and Jonathan Swift.

 I've mentioned before that I usually don't touch politics in my writing and I won't today. While Roosevelt was one the nation's great politicians of the last century, he was as flawed a human as any and much deeper than The New Deal and Yalta. His personality (there were several, depending on the situation) was shaped not so much by war as by his associates, his wife and circumstance. Add Roosevelt family history that included another president, and it's a pretty deep dive.

 Suggested reading: The Man He Became, by James Tobin, and Franklin and Winston, by Jon Meacham. Both reach hard into personal struggle, the vital requirement for good friends and recognizing the need for both. When I look at this little statue, those are what I'm thinking about and wish I could sit and talk with FDR for just an hour without discussing the war.

 The first book deals, of course, with Roosevelt's battle with polio (or whatever it was -- there is some argument) after he became a grownass adult. The sudden loss of even the most basic physical functions plays with your head. While I won't pretend to compare my recent struggles with his, he was able to recover enough function to continue an effective career and use his situation to become someone far different from the Hyde Park playboy he likely would have been.

 Side note: a visit to the Little White House in Warm Springs GA is well worth it. The place is not only where Roosevelt died but also where he fit into the local community and provided untold help to the fellow disabled (especially children) in the era before there was a polio vaccine.

 The second book is a close look at the relationship between Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. Thrown together by war when Britain was on the verge of surrender, the book outlines how the two men became fast and tight friends despite periodic differences (usually created by the political realities each faced at home). To say their personal relationship was deep and enduring sells it short.

 This is why sometimes I just sit the den (excuse me, MY ROOM 😉) and look at this little bobblehead and wonder what he'd think and say about things in general, given his history. We know how he'd be politically, but I mean otherwise. Similar statues are available for all the presidents and I'd like a coupla more (Madison, TRoosevelt, Obama). I also commiserate with deGaulle and Monet, depending on what's up. Never hurts to get the views of an exiled political leader and an artist.

 I mean, all of us have to be able to put ourselves in Another World for awhile, right? Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to deal with the real one.

"...there are many ways of going forward, but only one way of standing still..." -- FDR

 

"...you can't stop the waves, but you can learn to surf..." -- Jon Kabat-Zinn

 

  So far I'm on target about how things are now that I'm back at the house --unchanged. It's why I'm insisting therapy continues.

 The photo was taken inside my tabac in Montmerency, a suburb of Paris. We lived there a coupla months and they were among the most relaxed in my life. I'd stop in every morning for an espresso, conversation and an occasional smoke on the walk to the morning croissant.

 I can't think of a US equivalent to a tabac -- part espresso bar, part tobacco/lottery store, part rumor mill, part idle conversation.

 Definitely the best kinda therapy.

 It's mostly a male hangout but women are welcome. They just usually don't have the time to listen to Gallic male bullshit they hear enough of elsewhere.

 Thinking on it, I guess the closest vibe to a tabac in the US are Cafe DuMonde and Morning Call in New Orleans. Except they don't let you smoke.

 I have a friend in New Orleans whose wife and cat recently died within a few days of each other. Talk about needing counseling. He's always been an independent sort, so he's not prone to opening himself. But several of us are strongly encouraging.

 Since getting out of rehab last Friday and assessing the (unchanged) situation here at the house, I've lowered my head and focused on getting my private space set up, doing some cooking and generally trying to change how I deal with things. In other words, establishing a different set of boundaries. Far as I can tell, this will mean more Alone Time in my tiny sanctuary or locating a social environment someplace else. One of the good things about rehab was its daily time with the same folks -- something I hadn't had in awhile for health reasons. I'm still moving slow and stamina is taking some time, but the old enthusiasm is back and I've learned that if I stop trying to do something, I'll never do it.

 The more I can talk this out, the better. I'm thrilled to be resuming regular therapy this week. Hopefully it will be a great help moving forward and in keeping me focused on those boundaries and doing what's best for me. I'm half the monthly income in this house and without it nothing works. I have the income to live on my own if need be in about 30-45 days. I can open a new account at Wells Fargo for $25 and they'd love to welcome back an old customer, so don't back me into a corner.

 Understand my partner isn't the one creating the situation. But some decisions will have to be made. Life's simply too precious to be marionetted.

"...treat a man like a monkey and the man's gonna monkey around..." -- Delbert McClinton