Pink cashmere

More freewriting today.

Marilynne Robinson—Housekeeping, p. 199.

“The sky was a strong, plain blue, but the light was cool and indirect and the shadows black and precise.”

I just realized that I am probably not going to die in anyone’s arms. I don’t know who put that crap in my head, and put it in there rather solidly, that belief that the end of a life well lived brought you a deservedly poignant and strangely romantic death. I’ve read too many romantic southern novels I suppose. In my death fantasy I pictured myself, beautiful in my old age, though terribly pale and thin, lying on the sun porch on the chintz chaise lounge, covered with a pink cashmere throw. My grandchildren were playing noisily on the lawn below the veranda. The sky was a strong, plain blue. The children played a game only they understood—a game called the glorious green fish wish. There didn’t seem to be anything glorious or green or fish-like in the game but they hid in the shrubs and giggled and tied my old linen napkins around their heads. And I, though weakening fast, smiled wanly at them and enjoyed the unbridled joy of being a child who had no knowledge of the crazy old grandmother dying in their midst. Well, most of this is a fantasy. The crazy old grandmother is dying but it’s just an annoyance to them. There’s no romance, no knowing smiles about the good old days, no chaise lounge or pink cashmere throw. It’s just me alone, slowly rotting. My family has retreated. I no longer have friends—all of my friends have either died or I have pushed them away. The Jamaican woman who comes to care for me just watches television all day, game shows and soap operas. I can’t hear what she says to me so she stopped trying to have a conversation. She gives me tea and toast for breakfast, soup for lunch, and soup for dinner. I want to drive to the beach and feel the warm sand on my feet. I want to dance in the moonlight. I’m not as crazy as they think. I have a plan. Tonight after the Jamaican woman has gone I’m going to gather my strength and walk into the woods. I’ll sit under the split oak tree by the creek until I fall asleep. And I’ll dream long and deep. I’ll dream the fantasy where I was on the sun porch on the chintz chaise lounge, covered with a pink cashmere throw. My grandchildren were playing noisily on the lawn. The sky was a strong, plain blue, but the light was cool and indirect and the shadows black and precise.

Mr. Fish

Feeling restless and I need to write something, anything. It’s going to be a freewriting day. [Let me explain again what I do. Without looking, I grab a book from my bookshelves, open to a random page, put my finger down, and find a sentence. That sentence becomes the final sentence in whatever piece I write. I don't go back and rewrite, don't do paragraphs, just let something come out. When I start writing I never know how I'm going to get to that sentence.]

John Irving—A Prayer for Owen Meany, p. 183

“Mr. Fish, perhaps to compose himself, was humming the tune to a familiar Christmas carol.”

The most remarkable thing about Orville P. Fish was his ears—huge bulbous ears with earlobes nearly reaching his shoulders, ears far out of proportion to the rest of his body. It seemed that he tried to distract attention from those monstrous ears by letting his hair grow long on the sides. But he was three-quarters bald and the skimpy hair on the sides of his head could never hide those ears. He had the beady eyes of a civet and a pencil-thin mustache just above his upper lip that appeared to have been drawn carefully with a charcoal pencil. He was a short sinewy man who wore the same clothes every day—a white shirt buttoned up to the neck and shiny black trousers belted much too high above his waist. He never smiled, never laughed, barely spoke to anyone in town. One could say that Mr. Fish was not a loveable man. Mama used to tell me that everyone had once been some mother’s angel child and I must try to see the good in everyone. So I tried imagining Mr. Fish as baby and all I could see was those beady eyes and those horrific ears. I wondered if he had the mustache when he was a child. I wondered if his mother dressed him in white shirts and black pants pulled up under his armpits. Even as an imagined baby, he was a fearsome sight. For as long as I could remember, Mr. Fish drove the local Wonder Bread truck, delivering bread to markets and diners all over the Eastern Shore. That’s really the reason that the story came out. Mama’s cousin Billy McEntee moved to the other side of the bay, down near Lusby, and he had a Wonder Bread route too. Billy used to tell us stories about delivering bread to Peaceful Shores, a nudist colony that was part of his route. It was a Saturday morning just after Thanksgiving and Billy was delivering an order of bread to the kitchen at Peaceful Shores. Christmas music was playing in the adjoining dining room and some of the members were putting up a Christmas tree and stringing multi-colored lights around the room. Billy was saying goodbye to the cook when he came out of kitchen door, smack dab into the bare buttocks of a man on a ladder stringing lights. The ladder wobbled a bit and the man stepped down and turned around, chuckled, and said, “Whoops, almost got me there, but I’m okay, I’m just fine, it’s just part of the spirit of Christmas.” There was no white shirt, of course. There were no black trousers pulled up to the armpits. But the beady eyes, the mustache, the hair, and the ears—those one-of-a-kind monstrous ears—were unmistakable. It was Mr. Fish in all his natural glory, wearing what he was wearing when he came into the world as his mama’s angel child. His civet eyes froze when he saw Billy. Billy said not a word and quickly gathered his empty bread trays as Mr. Fish climbed back on the ladder. Mr. Fish, perhaps to compose himself, was humming the tune to a familiar Christmas carol.

Be still

"Be still and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10)

I’ve written a book entitled Learning to Pray. This blog is called Learning to Pray. Yet am I really learning to pray? Am I still working on it? Am I putting enough effort into growing in faith?

On Sunday Pastor Mark spoke about going from a cognitive understanding of faith to a true heartfelt faith, the concept that in order to get true faith we must first “yearn to yearn” for God. We must want Him; we must want to believe. We must understand the difference between having doctrine and living doctrine.

I was reading a Jewish website (aish.com) where a reader wrote asking the rabbi how to have faith. Here’s part of the response:

A young man, a congregant of our synagogue stood spellbound as he watched my brother-in-law Rabbi Shloime, of blessed memory, totally absorbed in and transported by the experience of prayer. At the conclusion of the services, he approached Rabbi Shloime and asked him how one can access the remarkable level of connection and faith that he had witnessed. Rabbi Shloime replied "with a lot of hard work."

Most of us erroneously assume that the most important things in life such as spirituality, love, creative inspiration, etc., should be spontaneous -- a flash, a gift, a bestowal. We are a culture that is paying dearly for the terribly misguided romantic notion that relationships can be engaged and based on the "love at first sight" premise. We believe that creative endeavor can be successfully negotiated by a mere flash of inspiration, without the requisite input of toil.

I am not surprised by this response. Anyone who wants something badly enough must learn that hard work will be required. Yes, faith is a gift, a blessing bestowed on us through the grace of God. And how do we work toward that kind of true heartfelt faith? We pray. We pray, we read Scripture, and we pray some more. We find stillness and listen for God. How can He deny a struggling soul who truly wants faith and works hard for it?

Copy cat!

The heat index today is something like 120 degrees. I'm exaggerating, but not by much. So what did I decide to do? I cranked up my oven and baked. Sometimes things I do make absolutely no sense.

I was determined to duplicate (or even improve) a date almond sesame scone that I bought from the baker at the local farmer's market. The first one I bought was so delicious that I went back the next week and bought another and asked the baker what was in them. "Dates and almonds," he said with a sly grin. No more details. I could see the sesame seeds so I had at least three ingredients figured out.

So I searched online and found a recipe that calls for 50 grams of treacle. I didn't know what treacle was (sounds like seaweed, but I discovered it's a form of corn syrup) and I had no idea how to measure 50 grams so I totally improvised. They're good, but not quite as good as the baker's scones. I'm going to have to buy one again this week and see if I can figure out his recipe.

Here's what I did.

Date Almond Sesame Scones

2 cups all purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup brown sugar
2/3 cup chopped dates
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
½ cup buttermilk (may need more)
1 large egg
1 teaspoon almond extract
½ cup chopped almonds
2 tablespoons sesame seeds

Mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and brown sugar in large bowl. Stir in chopped dates. Cut in butter with pastry knife. In small bowl, mix buttermilk, egg, and almond extract. Pour into flour mixture then stir in chopped almonds. Flour hands and turn dough onto ungreased cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Pat gently into circle 1½ - 2” high and score into 8 scones with floured knife. Sprinkle top with sesame seeds and lightly pat sesame seeds into the dough. Bake in preheated oven at 375º for 18 – 20 minutes until top is light brown.

Living a better story

I just finished reading Donald Miller’s book, “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years”—highly recommended. He writes about how each of us has an opportunity to compose the story that is our life. The book got me thinking about what I’ve done with my life until now and about what I would do to live a better story for whatever time I have left on this planet.

So far in this lifetime I’ve had successes and failures. I didn’t do so well with the marriage, but I think I had tremendous success being a good mother. Being a mother was my primary career until the children were grown. But the career outside the home faltered. Last year my employer changed my status to “as needed” and I’ve been needed only two weeks in the past 15 months. I realize this is my opportunity to do something else, to find a cause, something that touches my heart, somewhere I really am needed and devote my energy to that new endeavor. Still it scares me.

What happens when an old butterfly past her prime leaves the safety of her cocoon? Will her wings fail? Will a sassy young crow swallow her whole? Or will she start fluttering those wings as best she can and create a new life? If she doesn’t take the chance she’ll never know. It’s time for me to take that chance and figure out where I am needed, even though I’m scared. I need to write a better story for this part of my life.

There’s a seminar in Portland, Oregon, in late September called Living a Better Story. (You can get information on the seminar at www.donmilleris.com/conference.) I would love to go to the seminar. Maybe it can help me learn to use those old wings.

Happy Birthday, Sir Mick

Happy birthday, Mick Jagger! The boy can still rock. Happy birthday, Rick Bragg! Happy birthday to everyone who shares this day with me. Yes, it's my birthday too.

I have a theory, yet unproven, about birthdays and the afterlife. It's in the unpublished manuscript that I call my book. I'm feeling lazy today so I'm just going to cut and paste. Here it is.

Birthday Theory

I’ve got a cockamamie theory about birthdays and the afterlife. As with all other theories about the afterlife, it can’t be either proved or disproved, but I see no reason why it can’t turn out like I imagine it. Besides, I have another corollary theory about the afterlife—that you get the heaven you want/deserve. So if your idea of heaven is sitting around for all eternity with Jesus and all of your former pets, while eating jelly donuts, playing backgammon, and listening to klezmer music, then that’s what you’ll get. So there’s no reason to believe that my cockamamie birthday theory won’t materialize.

Here’s my theory: When you die, you get categorized and sent to a section of heaven based on your date of birth. It doesn’t matter what year you were born, just the day and the month. So, if you were born on January 1st, you get put into the first section with everyone throughout all time who was born on January 1st. (Don’t ask me to explain what happens to people born before the Gregorian calendar, or those born BC—it just confuses me. I’m sure God has it figured out.) The sections will roughly end up having equal numbers of people, except of course for the smaller section for February 29th. Those snobs in the February 29th section are going to be intolerable. But I’m not sure how much we’ll interact with other sections anyway.

I would not have developed this theory and steadfastly held onto it if I weren’t planning to be in good company in my little heavenly birthday pod. I was born on July 26th. Here’s a partial list of those who share my birthday:

§ Mick Jagger—Sir Mick is the one who got me started on the theory, the emperor of rock

§ Carl Jung—how cool is that, all that collective unconscious theory and dream interpretation

§ Aldous Huxley—author of Brave New World, should be an interesting conversationalist

§ Rick Bragg—one of my favorite writers, among other things wrote All Over But the Shouting

§ Kevin Spacey, Helen Mirren, and Vivian Vance (Ethel from I Love Lucy)—actors so we can do skits!

§ George Bernard Shaw—he’ll write the skits

§ Jean Shepherd—he wrote A Christmas Story so he can write more skits

§ Hannah Kirkman—a sweet child in my extended family

§ Colleen Reed—an old friend of mine

Those co-birthday celebrants I knew about, but I went online and did a search for other famous people who share my birthday, and thus will spend eternity with me. I thought it was a good idea to be prepared. Sort of like going to a cocktail party and asking for the guest list ahead of time to be able to (1) know how to make small talk, (2) know which guests could be boring, and (3) know to avoid sensitive topics. Some of the others:

§ Gracie Allen—wife of George Burns, “Say goodnight, Gracie”

§ Salvadore Allende—former Chilean dictator

§ George Catlin—painter best known for his work with American Indians

§ Joseph I—one of the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire (I’m anxious to see how he gets along with Mick)

§ Mary Jo Kopechne—the young woman who died in Ted Kennedy’s car at Chappaquiddick (maybe she’ll tell us what really happened)

I’m hoping there are some other fascinating but less famous people who share our birthday. For example, we’re going to need a fabulous pastry chef to make our birthday cake. I’d like some great musicians. I wish Yo-Yo Ma had been born on my birthday, but alas, he was born on October 7th. Trust me—I looked it up and I would lie about it if I could. I also wish Mary Cassatt had been born on July 26th, but no such luck. Still, I’ll be in great company and rumor has it that heaven is a place of perfect bliss, so I won’t miss them.

Reverend

Freewriting exercise

Bob Dylan—Chronicles, p. 276

“I’d think about this later in my dumpy apartment.”

At the time I thought Henry Luce Willston McElroy was the love of my life, but he shouldn’t have been. It was such a waste of precious time and energy, time and energy I wish I could get back. But it was what it was and there ain’t no going back. The Reverend Henry Luce Willston McElroy claimed he was ordained a preacher in the Gospel Church of the Savior when he was a young man. He said the Lord appeared to him and told him what to do and he just followed the Lord’s command. He was pretty convincing. I used to watch him on the TV, screaming and crying and making people fall back under his power. He seemed all humble and Christ-like when he asked viewers to send him money, but when he preached he seemed more like a ferocious angel, barring wretched sinners from heaven. Years later Daddy claimed he didn’t never trust Henry. Daddy said, “He weren’t God, he just played him on TV.” But Mama believed every word he said and she’d save her egg money and put it in an envelope and send it to the reverend. I was only 15 the summer he came to Easton with his Gospel revival tent. Daddy was off for weeks cutting timber and I can guarantee you that what happened would not have happened if Daddy had been at home. Mama got me and the little kids all scrubbed and shined and we went off to the revival meeting. And there was the reverend! His presence in real life was even more powerful than it was on the TV screen. He was a force, a big man with a shock of white hair, wearing a white suit, soaked in sweat, and aflame with the fury of a righteous God. He convinced us that we were going to burn in the fires of hell. And he called us to come up to the altar, confess our sins, and swear to him and the Lord Almighty that we were going to amend our ways and follow the Lord. Mama dragged me, trembling, up to the altar before him. He laid his hands upon me and prayed in tongues. Mama fell on her knees and he said, “Rise up, rise up, woman, for you have been called by the Lord.” Then he whispered in Mama’s ear, told her to bring me to him behind the tent after the revival service, that he had a special message for her. So when the crowd departed the tent, Mama stayed behind and told one of the reverend’s assistants that she had been told to bring me to see him. He was sitting in the dark, his jacket removed, a wet towel around his neck. He told my mama that she was blessed, that he had seen an angel of the Lord hovering over my head, and the angel told him that I was go with him as witness to the power of following the Lord’s will. Mama wept, but took me home, gathered my things and put me on the bus with the reverend and his assistants. I was only 15 and I didn’t know love. Henry told me I was the chosen one, that the Lord himself had chosen me to be with him, that it was written in the stars at the beginning of time. He said his love for me was second only to his love for God and my salvation was tied to his, that we would be together into eternity. He told me that my body was but a tangible manifestation of the love of God. I believed all of it. But then came the dark days, the fear, the wrath of God turned against me. And I got left behind somewhere outside of Phoenix with a suitcase and a $10 bill. I wondered what it all meant. I wondered if there’s really a God who speaks through men like the Reverend Henry Luce Willston McElroy. I was trying to figure it out, but I knew that I’d need to think about this for a while. I’d think about this later in my dumpy apartment.

Competitive closet cleaning

I see that Pioneer Woman is having some sort of contest where she gives away her own beautiful used clothes to lucky readers. Someone will be getting Nanette Lapore silk leopard print blouses and other lovely little designer items. She's a hoot--so creative. (See her giveways at http://thepioneerwoman.com/homeandgarden/2010/07/cleaning-out-my-closet-item-5/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+pioneerwoman-full-rss-feed+%28Pioneer+Woman+FULL+RSS+FEED%29?)

Okay, two can play this game. Now I admit that my clothes are going to be a poor substitute for Pioneeer Woman's glamorous clothes. Just wait until you see the baggy jeans and the hippy things I own that embarrass my daughter. She recently made me take my MC Hammer pants to the Salvation Army. Forget designer blouses. I'll give you the equivalent of a size 8 pair of pink high-t0p Chuck Taylor Converse high t0ps from my collection, but I'm going to make you work for it. Here's a photo of the shoes. Write me a brief essay on why those chucks will be happier with you than with me. Keep in mind that they've been worn for some pretty funky musical performances and they were among the earliest in my collection of Chucks so there might be some social order issues in the shoe closet. And keep in mind there are nine pairs of brothers and sister shoes that might be broken hearted.

Saturday Farm Market

Every Saturday I go to the Falls Church Farmers Market. I love it, love the ambiance, love getting ideas about what I can cook with all the beautiful fresh food. My brother is here for a visit and we had all of tonight's dinner bought at the market today--home-made Santa Fe chicken sausages, cooked on the grill. Roasted white corn, wrapped in foil with butter and Old Bay seasoning, cooked on the grill with the sausages. And a simple salad with multi-colored heirloom tomatoes, Persian cucumbers, and dash of balsamic vinegar. Dessert--fresh melon and peaches.

And now I'm inspired to do a ratatouille next week to take advantage of the beautiful variety of eggplants. And I'm bound to reproduce the baker's yummy date/sesame/almond scones.

Had to post a photo I took of a charming little girl who was at the market. Wearing a tutu and crocs, and boldy eating an entire raw zucchini with all the delight usually reserved for an ice cream cone. Love this kid!

Peaches

If you don't like peaches, don't even speak to me. I mean it. There has to be something inherently wrong, like psychiatric diagnostic code kind of wrong with a person who doesn't like peaches. It's a great peach season here in Northern Virginia and I'm using them every chance I get. Sliced on cereal, mountain peach pie, or eaten unadorned with juice running down my arms. You should see me trying to lick the juice off my elbows.

I posted this a couple of months ago but it's worth repeating now that peaches are in season. I developed this recipe using fresh peaches in a tossed salad. You may not have thought of using peaches this way--I was inspired by my daughter-in-law Rachel who is a great foodie. If you like, you can even add cut-up grilled chicken for a perfect cold summer meal.

Salad With Curried Dressing and Peaches

¼ cup good quality olive oil
2 tablespoons orange champagne vinegar
1 tablespoon chutney
1 teaspoon garam masala (can substitute sweet curry powder)
1 ripe peach, unpeeled, chopped coarsely
1 small Persian cucumber, sliced thin
¼ cup dried cranberries
½ cup dried sliced bananas
2 tablespoons roasted pistachios
1 head lettuce—tender lettuce like butterhead or green oak
Handful of pea shoots

In mini food processor, mix olive oil, vinegar, chutney, and curry. Blend thoroughly.

In large bowl, gently toss lettuce and pea shoots with peaches, cranberries, cucumber, and bananas. Pour oil/vinegar mix over lettuce/fruit mix and toss. Top with pistachios.

Serves 4.

Flush!

No, I can’t believe I’m writing about this . . .

I was cleaning toilets today (everyone should clean a toilet from time to time for a dose of humility) and I thought about the time a visitor to my house neglected to flush the toilet and it went days undetected. I’m not referring to an “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” water conservation situation but an “if it’s brown, baby, it should go down” situation. I should have called the county health department for an emergency intervention. If you were a visitor at my house recently do not fear—it wasn’t you. Trust me.

Things like this can cause a lifetime of hard feelings. Take, for example, our family story about my grandfather. He was visiting a cousin somewhere near Pittsburgh in the 1950s. Apparently my grandfather was in the house alone, used the bathroom, and left the house without flushing. The cousin presumed that my grandfather left the toilet unflushed as a silent message of scorn. My grandfather claimed it was just an oversight. The cousin refused to believe him and they never spoke again. The Hatfields and the McCoys have been feuding for decades over less than an unflushed toilet.

Remember to flush.

Sleep-in for peace

Hell, no. I won’t go!

I’m feeling 60s. Not 60s like my age, but 60s as in 1960s. Yes, I participated in protests back in the 60s, but that was a lifetime ago and in recent years I’ve become soft. It’s high time for me to make a difference, to step up and be counted, to organize my own personal peace protest. (Organize may be too strong a term.) Perhaps I’ll reach back into classic protest history in honor of the 1969 John Lennon-Yoko Ono Sleep-In. Do you think I can get some press coverage if I spend a week or so in bed in pursuit of world peace?

I’ll allow a few select individuals to visit me. They can bring lattes and almond croissants and peaches. The peach harvest is fabulous this year. That can be a sub-theme—peaches for peace. They can bring me trashy magazines and DVDs. I could use a manicure and a pedicure since I’ll spend a lot of time just staring at my feet so a manicurist must be summoned, hopefully early in the week.

No, I’m not lazy—I have a cause. Give peace a chance.

Pain

Pain is such an all-consuming experience. I went to physical therapy today for my shoulder. The pain was so bad I couldn't speak. Tears were running down my face. The therapist asked me something--I can't even remember what--and I just muttered some one-word answer. I was trying meditation, trying to just be in the moment and accept it, to analyze how intense it was. I don't know anything effective for dealing with it. I know that I had a vacant stare on my face.

I've been told that I need to get through it, that ultimately it is the cure for my almost frozen shoulder. But in the course of four sessions of physical therapy, the pain has become increasingly worse, and considerably worse than it was when I began.

Now, hours after the treatment, the pain is still intense. I've taken prescription and non-prescription pain relievers. I used ice packs alternately with heat. I've paced the floors because I couldn't sit still with it. The pain has migrated now to include my shoulder, my entire right arm, my neck, and occasionally my other previously painless shoulder. And I have a splitting headache.

And whom do I trust? Do I trust the orthopedic surgeon who saw me three times, handed me a sheet of exercises that he never explained and said come back if I want to? Do I trust the chiropractor/physical therapist who says just to stick with it and bear the pain because if I don't I'll be in much worse condition?

I think I'm going to trust myself and stop getting treatment. I'll stretch, do yoga, just do what feels right and keep it moving. I hope I'm not wrong.

Maylene

Freewriting exercise today . . .

Galway Kinnell, “A New Selected Poems,” (poem entitled The Last Hiding Places of Snow) page 103.

“I know there are regrets we can never be rid of, that fade but never leave: permanent remorse.”

My name is Maylene Myrna Johnston and I’ve lived much longer than anyone expected. I’ve probably lived much longer than I should have lived. But still, I’m here. My twin sister Mureen Myrna Johnston and I were born in 1921, in the second floor bedroom during the worst heat wave ever recorded in Mt. Rainier, Maryland. I’m living alone now in that house where I was born, but long ago I locked that bedroom door and threw away the key. Back then Papa made his living selling ice and coal and he tells the story of how he set up electric fans and blocks of ice to try to make the birthing room cooler for my mother. He said the midwife wrapped ice in linen towels and rubbed the ice all over her. The heat was unrelenting and the labor was long. My mother was a tiny woman whose belly seemed unusually large for her first pregnancy, yet no one knew there were twins coming. I was born first, bright pink, entering life with a loud screeching wail. Maybe I’ll soon leave this life with a loud screeching wail. The midwife quickly became aware that there was a second baby to be birthed. Mureen was born second, blue and gasping for breath. She faded from life soon after birth and my mother followed her. All this long life of mine I have felt like half of a whole, like the price of my life was the loss of two others. Papa took care of me as best he could and then I took care of him as best I could. I did get some schooling but most of what I learned came from books. I never associated much with neighbors or other children because I always felt they were talking behind my back, saying, “She’s the girl who killed her mother and her twin sister.” It’s a burden to live a long life of solitude, to feel the presence of ghosts. I know there are regrets we can never be rid of, that fade but never leave: permanent remorse.

Rotation

Since I’m much too old to marry Stephen Strasburg, I’m going to adopt him. I hope his parents don’t mind. In case you’ve been in outer space for the past couple of months, let me bring you up to date—Stephen Strasburg is the rookie ace pitcher for the Washington Nationals. He throws fastballs faster than the speed of light and he seems to be a charming young man, modest and delighted with his own success.

I’m feeling some kinship with big league pitchers in general ever since my doctor told me I have the shoulders of a big league pitcher. That’s not a good thing in this context. I said, “Doc, am I ever going to pitch again?” He chuckled as he moved my right arm around and I heard the crunching of my shoulder joint. I told him that once upon a time I was the arm wrestling champion of my high school. It’s true but I’m not sure he believed me. Oh, the glory days!

I’ve been from family doctor to chiropractor to orthopedic surgeon to physical therapist. The diagnosis ranged from bursitis to frozen shoulder to impingement of the shoulder. Whatever they call it, it’s a problem in my rotator cuff that has left the upper right side of my body weak and hurting. All a result of shoveling too much snow and I suppose not helped by playing too much banjo.

So today I had my second physical therapy session. Physical therapy hurts. They get me to do exercises to increase range of motion and regain strength. They put me on an electrical stimulation machine for 10 minutes allegedly to relax the muscles. But the pièce de résistance is when the physical therapist beats on my shoulder with a tire iron. It’s not really a tire iron but it might as well be. It’s the medical equivalent of a tire iron—a smooth piece of stainless steel that looks like a small boomerang—that the therapist uses to break up the adhesions in my shoulder muscles. No pain no gain? If that’s the case then I must be making some serious gains.

If one more person quotes to me the aphorism, “growing old is not for sissies,” I think I’ll vomit. Think about it. The saying implies that it is somehow brave or perhaps even noble to grow old and put up with aches and pains and the decline of the body. Do I have a choice?