“The older I get, the smarter my father seems to get.”
Image: Dave Granlund
Happy Father’s Day 2023!
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In Memoriam – Cormac McCarthy, 1933-2023
“My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That’s heaven. That’s gold, and anything else is just a waste of time.”
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Empty
Recently the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services released a report on a surprising, yet intriguing subject: loneliness. According to various studies and surveys, isolation and a lack of social connectivity has become epidemic. The COVID-19 pandemic may have exacerbated what was already problematic for millions of Americans.
“Our epidemic of loneliness and isolation has been an underappreciated public health crisis that has harmed individual and societal health,” declared U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy. “Our relationships are a source of healing and well-being hiding in plain sight – one that can help us live healthier, more fulfilled, and more productive lives. Given the significant health consequences of loneliness and isolation, we must prioritize building social connection the same way we have prioritized other critical public health issues such as tobacco, obesity, and substance use disorders. Together, we can build a country that’s healthier, more resilient, less lonely, and more connected.”
The physical health consequences of poor or insufficient connections are dire. They include a 29% increased risk of heart disease; a 32% increased risk of stroke; and a 50% increased risk of developing dementia for older adults. Lack of social connections is estimated to increase the risk of premature death by more than 60%.
In addition to our physical health, loneliness and isolation contribute substantially to mental health challenges. In adults, the risk of developing depression among people who report feeling lonely often is more than double that of people who rarely or never feel lonely. Loneliness and social isolation in childhood increase the risk of depression and anxiety both immediately and well into the future. And with an estimated one in five adults living with a mental illness in the U.S., addressing loneliness and isolation has become critical in fully addressing the mental health crisis in America.
For better or worse, the COVID-19 pandemic exposed the loneliness dilemma. It also seems to have amplified it. As businesses either switched to remote work or shut down altogether, people found themselves isolated in the name of good health. I think much of this was foretold by the obsession with social media in the preceding two decades; where people would establish cyber relationships and call each other “friends”.
As an only child and a confirmed introvert, I’ve dealt with loneliness my entire life. Sometimes I really do get lonely; other times I’m just alone. I’ve always been a loner – something my parents never seemed to understand – and I’ve rarely done well in groups. I get bored easily and quickly grow tired of dealing with people’s attitudes and personality quirks. I put up with a lot of people’s disrespectful behavior towards me most of my life, which is the primary reason I don’t consider myself a people person.
But I have to admit I do get lonely sometimes. I’m glad my parents had each other and me (and even my dog, Wolfgang to some extent) as they aged. One of my uncles lives alone in a dingy apartment with a cat. (An older cat died a few months ago, which devastated him.) He can’t drive anymore, so he either takes a bus or has someone transport him somewhere. I’ve taken him to a variety of doctor appointments over the past few years and grocery shopping almost every weekend for months now. His stepdaughter lives closer, but she has her own health problems.
I have an aunt who also lives alone. Her son, like me, is an only child, but he’s married and resides several miles from his mother. She’s fortunate, though, in that a neighbor has access to her house and keeps an eye on her. My aunt frightened me a few years ago, when she recounted how she fell in the bathroom one night and had to drag herself into her bedroom. It took her hours just to get there. But she was able to call her neighbor who contacted the fire department. I stay in touch with my uncle and aunt, as well as other relatives and friends – even if it’s just via text message.
I only know a few of my neighbors and have little contact with most relatives. I’ve never been married and I never had children, so I don’t know how life will be for me if I grow much older. Loneliness will be just one factor in my later life.
Some years ago a friend expressed concern that I was becoming a hermit. “Why should I go out?” I responded. I lived with my parents, so I certainly couldn’t bring anyone home. Then again, I hadn’t brought anyone home who I didn’t know since before the turn of the century.
A close friend keeps urging me to get a dog, as he did a couple of years ago. Aside from two household plants that languish nondescriptly on a kitchen counter, I’m the only living being in this house. (That doesn’t include the occasional insect that invades my quiet abode.) I’d love to get a dog, but I’m just not in the right situation now to get one.
Dr. Murthy has established a six-point plan to help the U.S. deal with its loneliness epidemic:
- Strengthen Social Infrastructure: Connections are not just influenced by individual interactions, but by the physical elements of a community (parks, libraries, playgrounds) and the programs and policies in place. To strengthen social infrastructure, communities must design environments that promote connection, establish and scale community connection programs, and invest in institutions that bring people together.
- Enact Pro-Connection Public Policies: National, state, local, and tribal governments play a role in establishing policies like accessible public transportation or paid family leave that can support and enable more connection among a community or a family.
- Mobilize the Health Sector: Because loneliness and isolation are risk factors for several major health conditions (including heart disease, dementia, depression) as well as for premature death, health care providers are well-positioned to assess patients for risk of loneliness and intervene.
- Reform Digital Environments: We must critically evaluate our relationship with technology and ensure that how we interact digitally does not detract from meaningful and healing connection with others.
- Deepen Our Knowledge: A more robust research agenda, beyond the evidence outlined in the advisory, must be established to further our understanding of the causes and consequences of social disconnection, populations at risk, and the effectiveness of efforts to boost connection.
- Cultivate a Culture of Connection: The informal practices of everyday life (the norms and culture of how we engage one another) significantly influence the relationships we have in our lives. We cannot be successful in the other pillars without a culture of connection.
All of this is easier said than done, and every plan looks good on paper. But I know something has to be done, if the nation’s overall health is to improve. I only have a small collection of friends, but that’s all I personally need. As with most everything else, it’s quality, not quantity, that matters. And quality of life is always important.
Image: Seher Bilgin
Filed under Essays
Josh at 50
Me at age 9 with my new puppy in the summer of 1973
Today, May 31, marks the 50th anniversary of the birth of my first dog, Joshua or Josh. When my parents bought this house in suburban Dallas in 1971, they promised to get me a dog. From the time I was very young, I realized I liked dogs and I wanted one of my own. My folks decided on a German shepherd. My mother had to swallow her phobia of big dogs. Around the age of 6, she and her older sister saw a man in their México City neighborhood be attacked by a Doberman. It was a sight neither of them could ever forget.
In June of 1973, after we got settled into our new house, my mother called a local group that dealt with German shepherds. (I can’t remember the name.) They put her in contact with a nearby breeder. About a month later my father and I visited the home of the family who had German shepherd puppies for sale. They were a relatively young couple who had children about my age. They had five puppies for sale. As we surveyed the litter, one stepped forward towards me.
“This one,” I told my father. And that was it. I had my puppy – or I would in a few weeks, after he’d been fully weaned. He cost $100, and my father gave the man an extra $50 for the kids.
Naming the puppy was a different task. Both my parents were trying to determine what would be the best name for the dog. We had a book entitled “Name Your Baby”, first published in 1963 by Lareina Rule, and after scouring through it, I finally came upon Joshua – an ancient Hebrew name meaning “God of salvation.” And, just as I’d selected the puppy, I had selected his name.
Josh grew quickly. By the end of 1973, he had reached his full adult size. Topping out at roughly 100 pounds, we often didn’t realize how big he was until we brought him inside the house; especially during the hot summer months.
I have too many stories about Josh to recount here, but as with most pets, he became a treasured member of our family. My father would eventually describe him as majestic. Josh developed the perfect markings of a German shepherd: solid black fur with an auburn glaze on his back; triangular ears that seemed to move of their own accord when he heard something; and a bark that could echo through the air. A neighbor said she knew something was different in the area when she heard Josh barking. And he would only bark if something was awry in the neighborhood. Ironically Josh was practically scared of my mother, as she only had to roll up the TV guide for him to drop to the floor. “If he only knew that all he had to do was bark at me, and I’d faint,” she often joked.
In his later years, the hairs around Josh’s face began to gray, and we could tell arthritis was settling into his frame. He was moving slower, and we often brought him inside during cold weather. In March of 1985, Josh’s health began to worsen. His hind legs would periodically collapse, and by April he was pretty much dragging those legs.
On Saturday, April 6, we took him to his local veterinarian. We had doped him up on tranquilizers, and my father and I had to carry him into the office. As we slowly ambled across the parking lot, I noticed a man standing several feet away with a young girl who held a leash attached to a small white dog. I will never forget the look of absolute horror on that girl’s face; her eyes widened, as they locked onto my father and I carrying Josh into the building.
The news wasn’t good. Spurs had developed beneath the latter half of his spine, which the doctor could dissolve with medication. But Josh’s hips had deteriorated too badly to be saved. We had to put him to sleep.
I stared at him lying on the floor in an exam room, drowsy and sad-looking; a strap around his jaw. Even tranquilized Josh was still able to snap at the staff. One of them, a young woman, escorted out through a side door with moistened eyes. The veterinarian looked as if he was using all his strength to prevent himself from bursting into tears.
Josh in the fall of 1983
That year, 1985, was already turning out badly. Almost from the start, everything went wrong in my life. Josh’s death was just one part of it all, but it was the worst part.
My father was a gardening enthusiast. Buying this house with so much space for flower beds and lawns created a slice of heaven on Earth for him. He almost always wore gloves while digging around in the dirt – and Josh seemed to have a disdain for them. When my father wasn’t looking or wasn’t around, he’d snatch them away and bury them somewhere in the back yard. One Saturday about a year after Josh’s death, my father was busy in the back yard when he suddenly uncovered one of his gloves entrenched in the dirt. He stopped for a moment, he said, and had to compose himself.
Recently I began rummaging through some old documents my father had compiled and came upon batches of photographs we had taken of Josh, starting from the time he was a puppy. I had been through those documents before, so I was surprised I just now found those photos. In the process of scanning them, I’ve had to stop and gather my thoughts. Looking at old pictures always awakens a variety of emotions in people.
That dog meant so much to my parents and me, and losing him was incredibly painful. That’s why, when my last dog, Wolfgang, turned 10 in 2012, I began preparing myself for his inevitable demise. Thus, when he did pass four years later, I was able to handle it better.
Another difference in the deaths of both dogs is that I was able to get Wolfgang’s cremated remains in a small wooden box. In 1985 people just had to leave their deceased pets in the care of the vet who would incinerate and then dispose of them. Either that or you buried the animal in the back yard somewhere, which some people actually did. I kept Josh’s collar and tags, which I still have. And I have these old photos. One of them sits on the fireplace hearth, on the far left, looking towards my parents’ urns – still guarding them in a way.
Happy 50th Birthday, Josh!
Several months after Josh died, my father bought this status of St. Francis of Assisi to place in our back yard. St. Francis of Assisi is the patron saint of animals in the Roman Catholic faith.
Filed under Essays
June 2023 Literary Calendar
Events in the month of June for writers and readers
Audiobook Appreciation Month
Black Lives Matter Month
Celibacy Awareness Month
Children’s Awareness Month
National Adopt a Cat Month
National Candy Month
National Foster a Pet Month
National Men’s Health Month
National Oceans Month
Rainbow Book Month
- June 1 – Dare Day
- June 2 – American Indian Citizenship Day; National Doughnut Day; National Leave the Office Early Day
- June 3 – Love Conquers All Day
- June 4 – Audacity to Hope Day; Hug Your Cat Day; National Cancer Survivors Day; National Cheese Day
- June 4-10 – National Week of the Ocean; Pet Appreciation Week
- June 5 – Thank You Day; World Environment Day
- June 6 – National Yo-Yo Day
- June 7 – Global Running Day; VCR Day; World Caring Day
- June 8 – Best Friends Day; International Day of Action for Elephants in Zoos
- June 9 – National No Apologies Period Day; National Sex Day
- June 10 – Abolition Day; Ball Point Pen Day; Herbs and Spices Day; National Iced Tea Day
- June 11 – National Children’s Day; Race Unity Day
- June 12 – Anne Frank’s Birthday; Democracy Day; National Red Rose Day; Peace Day; World Day Against Child Labor
- June 13 – Sewing Machine Day
- June 14 – Monkey Around Day; World Blood Donor Day
- June 15 – Nature Photography Day; Smile Power Day; World Elder Abuse Awareness Day
- June 16 – International Waterfall Day; Take a Road Trip Day; World Sea Turtle Day
- June 17 – World Day to Combat Desertification and Drought
- June 18 – Father’s Day (U.S.); National Splurge Day; Wear Blue Day
- June 18-24 – National Forgiveness Week (U.S.)
- June 19 – Juneteenth (U.S.); National Watch Day; World Sauntering Day
- June 19-25 – Animal Rights Awareness Week (U.S.); Learning Disability Week; Universal Father’s Week
- June 21 – Andean New Year; Indigenous People’s Day (Canada); International Yoga Day; Summer Solstice (Northern Hemisphere); Winter Solstice (Southern Hemisphere); World Giraffe Day; World Humanist Day; World Music Day
- June 22 – Octavia Butler’s Birthday; National Kissing Day; World Rainforest Day
- June 23 – Let It Go Day; National Food Truck Day; National Pink Day; National Typewriter Day
- June 24 – Farmer Day; International Fairy Day
- June 25 – Eric Carle’s Birthday
- June 26 – International Day Against Drug Abuse and Illicit Trafficking
- June 27 – Sun Glasses Day
- June 28 – Paul Bunyan Day
- June 29 – Fisherman’s Day; Hug Holiday; International Day of the Tropics; Waffle Iron Day
- June 30 – International Asteroid Day; National Safer Workplace Day
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Memorial Day 2023
“This is the day we pay homage to all those who didn’t come home. This is not Veteran’s Day; it’s not a celebration; it is a day of solemn contemplation over the cost of freedom.”
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No Replacements
The outrage has been palpable. A recent advertisement by Adidas featuring a man modeling a women’s swimsuit has sparked more controversy than a drag show being staged outside a pre-school. It’s the latest volley in the ongoing and very contentious debate regarding transgender issues. In the Adidas ad it’s almost too obvious that the model is a man – squared shoulders, a prominent bulge in the groin and a smattering of chest hair. I don’t know what idiot thought this would be a good idea, but they need to find another career. Advertising isn’t working for them.
Women across social and political spectrums are understandably upset. In an editorial last year, New York Times columnist Pamela Paul wrote: “The noble intent behind omitting the word ‘women’ is to make room for the relatively tiny number of transgender men and people identifying as nonbinary who retain aspects of female biological function and can conceive, give birth or breastfeed. But despite a spirit of inclusion, the result has been to shove women to the side.”
Also last year actress/singer Bette Midler made headlines when she tweeted: “WOMEN OF THE WORLD! We are being stripped of our rights over our bodies, our lives and even of our name! They don’t call us ‘women’ anymore; they call us ‘birthing people’ or ‘menstruators’, and even ‘people with vaginas’! Don’t let them erase you! Every human on earth owes you!”
Gillian Branstetter, a communications strategist at the ACLU, noted, “The notion that you can’t say the word ‘women’ strikes me as the notion that you can’t say ‘Merry Christmas.’ It’s a panic that is very absent from reality and attempts to position a growing, changing society as a threat.”
I agree with them. That we are discussing what is female and male is the epitome of ludicrous. There wouldn’t be an argument if the transgender crowd hadn’t become so vocal and vociferous in recent years. I don’t understand the transgender matter and I’m not certain I want to understand it. I do realize that some people may suffer from gender dysphoria. But I don’t know at what point this matter goes from a medical discussion to a social dispute.
Yet, as the transgender debate ensues, I almost want to laugh. For years, I’ve heard some women say emphatically that they do not need men; which is overtly cavalier because they need to know that men don’t necessarily need – or want – them. And I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard women say they don’t even need men to procreate because they have sperm banks – which is like saying we don’t need farms because we have grocery stores. I’ve also heard others – including some “enlightened” men – declare that males of the species overall are becoming irrelevant; that our Y chromosome has been shrinking over the past several millennia and will eventually vanish into the morass of human refuse.
All-female societies look great in sex videos, but the reality is starkly different.
As far as I can determine now, we can’t replace men and we can’t replace women – no matter how much hardcore feminists and delusional trans activists try. The transgender movement has become unhinged in its efforts to become relevant and valued. The anxiety over gender and “appropriate” roles for males and females is manufactured. Humanity has made it this far without the restrictions bestowed by politically correct culture warriors who – like book censors – think they know what’s right for everyone else.
I don’t know if crap like the Adidas ad is an experiment in shock value; an attempt by media cretins to assert themselves into popular culture. Despite their best efforts of the trans crowd and their sympathizers, gender is not subjective.
I am male and I’m proud of it. I have no qualms and make no apologies for it. Neither should anyone else.
Filed under Essays
In Memoriam – Tina Turner, 1939-2023
“Sometimes you’ve got to let everything go – purge yourself. If you are unhappy with anything… whatever is bringing you down, get rid of it. Because you’ll find that when you’re free, your true creativity, your true self comes out.”
I have a personal – albeit tenuous – connection to Tina Turner. My father worked for a printing shop in downtown Dallas for most of his adult life. In the early 1960s, before I was born, he met Turner and her then husband, Ike, when they came to town ahead of a series of shows they had scheduled. The couple was just getting started in their career together, and the shop where my father worked landed the contract to print up tickets and various promotional materials for the Turners. My father had never heard of them, but recounted they were polite and professional, arriving in business attire as was customary at the time. Ike, he said, did most of the talking. He never saved any of the stuff he printed for them, so he had only his recollection of the meeting to relay in the following years.
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Spent
Last November, for my 59th birthday, I met a long-time friend, Preston*, at my gym. For years I made it a habit to visit my gym on my birthday. Even though I’ve changed gyms over the years, I hadn’t been to a gym on my birthday since 2019. So this was a refreshing change. Preston had turned 55 the previous July and – as we conversed about life and related topics – the subject of retirement arose. Like me (and millions of others across the globe), Preston has worked most of his adult life. He did what’s expected of so many people – especially men – in our society: he attended college, found a good job, got married and had kids. His wife went on maternity leave shortly before giving birth to their daughter some two decades ago and never returned to work. Thus, Preston – like millions of men – continued working.
Prior to meeting at my gym last November he’d said something that surprised me, yet to which I could relate. “I’m tired of working so hard.”
It was ironic because the same feelings had been rumbling around in my mind over the previous months. An uncle told me he’d retired in 2002 at the age of 62 simply because he was tired of working. Even though he didn’t get the most out of his Social Security, he simply had become weary of the labor grind and therefore, was willing to take the risk of living a more modest life.
My father had essentially been forced to retire at 62 in 1995, but my mother managed to retire at 70 in 2003. My folks managed to make the most of their golden years – my father dived full-time into genealogical research, and my mother spent hours reading and doing crossword puzzles. They didn’t travel or go out dancing; they didn’t join any clubs to make a bevy of new friends. They spent their remaining time on Earth living simply and quietly.
Whenever it’s my turn to retire, I’m certain I’ll spend my time doing what I love to do: reading and writing. I’d love to travel, but that’s still a dream.
Right now I’m trying desperately to find a job within my chosen profession – technical writing – but I’m not having much luck. Since the first of this year I have literally applied to more than 100 jobs. If I actually receive a response, it’s usually a no or the position has been closed. And even those are rare. In the state of Texas, the unemployment rate is roughly 4%, lower than most anywhere else in the country. I’m starting to get the impression my age is a factor. A friend tells me I’m just being paranoid, but I know age discrimination – though illegal – is a reality in the American work force.
But right now the U.S. government is mired in an impasse over the debt limit. As usual it’s a battle between political ideologies, and neither side seems willing to concede. And, as usual, average Americans like The Chief are caught in the mud fight.
I don’t need a palatial beachfront estate with a 6-car garage to be happy. I don’t need billions in stock or hard cash to feel content. I just need to make a basic and decent living. My freelance writing fell flat after the COVID-19 pandemic and hasn’t recovered. A friend suggested I try to be an Uber driver, but I don’t have a 4-door vehicle and I’m bad at directions. I think I’m too old for porn, so I won’t even try – again. Yet I’m not too proud to work and don’t like being idle anyway.
Yet I have to concede I’m tired. Decades ago I recall my father saying he no longer really cared for being praised for his work; he wanted to be rewarded monetarily. The bank where I used to work often gave out perfect attendance awards and various other accolades that ultimately weren’t worth the paper on which they were printed. Now I know what my father meant.
*Name changed.
Filed under Essays
Happy Mother’s Day 2023!
“Giving birth is like taking your lower lip and pulling it up over your head.”
Image: Morgan Johnson
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Chief Writing Wolf 