It's Like Sex . . .

A couple of years ago I led an investigative reporting workshop in Armenia. As is common in that part of the world, most of the class members were women in their twenties, with just a sprinkling of men in their 50's and 60's – veterans of the Soviet days when journalists were well-educated and well-paid, if constrained politically. 

I opened the workshop by saying the premise of investigative reporting is that journalists, armed only with the sword of truth (and the nuclear warhead of inference) can often convince people who are doing bad things to stop doing them by simply revealing their misdeeds to their families, friends and neighbors. Occasionally the law may step in, but most of the time the real power of investigative reporting is the miscreant's own sense of shame.  

As I talked, a fellow named Hamlet (Shakespeare was apparently big in Armenia about 50 years ago) started shaking his head and grumbling half under his breath, “doesn't work here . . . no doesn't work  . . . no.” He might have been griping to himself had he not been griping in English.  

When I asked what he was grumbling about, he grumbled more loudly in Armenian, then English, that he had tried what I was suggesting and nothing happened, and he started to describe some of his stories at length.  

After a couple of minutes of listening, something occurred to me and I said, “Even if you do everything right, you won't always get results. It's like sex, you don't get a baby every time; but if you do it right, you can still enjoy it.” 

Occasionally insight appears in a blinding flash. Some flashes turns out to be nothing more than a flying bucket of dumbass, but I think this was insight.  

Success is a target. If hitting it was easy, winning would be about as thrilling as hunting milk cows with a shotgun. 

A company named US Hole in One writes insurance policies that cover the kind of promotions that offer $1 million prizes to anyone who can sink a half-court shot during halftime at a basketball game, or make a hole-in-one during a golf tournament. The company charges for coverage based on its calculation that the odds of an amateur scoring a hole-in-one are 1 in 12,500. Every golfer who tees off on a short par three anywhere on the planet tries to put his shot in the cup. Has anyone ever quit the game because they are never the 1 in 12,500 who succeeds in holing out? 

I loved every race I ever ran, even through my victories were as rare as kind-hearted mortgage bankers. I even savor the memory of going three rounds in a dorm-basement boxing match with a freshman linebacker named Art “Doggie” Clayton, though I did flinch every time I heard a  bell ring for days afterwards, 

Legendary sportswriter Grantland Rice was right, the whole point of life is how you play the game. The pounding heartbeat, burning muscles,  the exhilaration of discovery, the exquisite pleasure of realizing a moment of perfection in confronting any challenge, physical or intellectual – remain long after the prize money is gone and the faded ribbons and tarnished trophies start to look sad. 

Try as I might, I've never been able to come up with an apt sports metaphor for either investigative reporting, or the totality of life. The problem with calling life a race is that the closer we get to the end, the more we try to put off crossing the finish line.  

So what's the point? Well, it's like sex . . .  

I want to Go Like Elijah

God, would it be too difficult for you to dust off Elijah's flaming chariot and  have it swing by to pick me up when I'm ready? I will call a few hours before I need it. I promise.

According to the Bible, Elijah was able to pick his time, conjure a whirlwind and, thanks to his sweet ride, he didn't have to deal with the messy business of having his mind and body shut down a piece at a time.
For most people who are not Elijah, death is terribly inconsiderate. My father responded to the news that he would die within a couple of weeks by saying, "But I'm not finished yet." He, like I, have the vague notion that people can attain immorality by never getting to the bottom of their to-do list.

When Dad finally made his peace with the idea that death was imminent, he composed a message to his family and gathered us around the hospital bed that the angels from hospice had installed in the family room. He delivered an inspiring message, which started with, "It has been a great ride . . ." and ended with, "but now my time has come to an end." Incredible as it may seem, as those final words left his lips, his breathing became shallow, his eyes slowly closed, and his head fell forward onto his chest. We were transfixed.

A few seconds later, he opened one eye and glanced around. No heavenly host, just the same rag-tag group of kids and giggling grandchildren checking him out. Even my dad, the old professor, couldn't engineer the perfect exit.

Last week my mother followed him Home. Most of her mind and her ability to communicate had left us over the past couple of years and finally her body felt it was time to follow. Hospice helped bring her to my sister's home for the last few days of her life, and family members flew in from all over. Sis put up a table holding old pictures and some of Mom's treasured possessions next to her bed.

Twice over the next few days we gathered around Mom's bed and held hands as she tried to leave us. Her son-in-law, a gifted musician, played her favorite hymns - Rock of Ages, The Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace - on an acoustic guitar, and her equally gifted granddaughters sang to her softly and beautifully. We read aloud short pieces of poetry, quotations and Bible verses that Mom had transcribed in her elegant longhand. There were dozens of them on note cards and scraps of paper she had stuck in drawers, books and miscellaneous places where she, and we, would happen upon them from time-to-time.

Twice, Mom's labored breathing calmed and became rhythmic again and her body relaxed as the grandchildren sang, as if she was waiting for an encore. The third time, she succeeded in leaving. By then I was on an airplane, flying back across the country to deal with things that, in time, will seem totally unimportant.

I think Edmund Kean had it backwards when he said, "Dying is easy, comedy is hard." From what I've seen, it can be a terrible struggle to pass through that door.

Though we spend a good portion of our lives in denial, we all know that death will arrive at the time of its choosing, whether we welcome it or put up a fight. Death took my son-in-law's father in an instant as he walked out a store carrying a bottle of wine to have with dinner. His soul was gone before his loved ones could say goodbye. Perhaps the chariot that came for him was running a little ahead of schedule.

If I ever do finish that endless to-do list, it would be nice if God would grant me a graceful, well-timed exit. Though I'm pretty sure I used up my last favor a long time ago.

For all she did for her family and the community, Mom deserved to go like Elijah much more than I ever will. But even if her loved ones couldn't provide a chariot, we are grateful that we had the opportunity to send her on her way with love ... and damn-good traveling music.

Good Times or Good Material?

At my mother-in-law Vina's 90^th birthday party, an old family friend recalled that a little over two decades earlier he and his wife returned to the states for a furlough from teaching in a mission school, and Vina and husband, Art, traveled to Pakistan to fill in for them.

"We swapped houses," the family friend said. "We got a lovely three bedroom-two bath house in Northeast Portland, and they got a bungalow with a spitting cobra under the bed."

Who got the better deal? Show of hands, who would prefer to hear about a nice relaxing year in a middle-class home in Portland?

Fiction writers know that the story doesn't begin until something goes wrong: The new lovable puppy nearly destroys the house, mommy and daddy accidentally leave their 10-year-old behind while they go on vacation, a teenage girl discovers that her boyfriend is a vampire and the hunky guy who has a crush on her turns out to be a werewolf sworn to kill vampires (what are the odds?).

People who play it safe and have stable, uneventful lives may be happy, but I've generally found that they don't have a lot of great stories to tell. A great story has conflict, emotion and often physical danger. People listen instinctively because it teaches survival skills.

I've been lucky enough to have some gloriously bad experiences in my life. I can tell stories about being tear-gassed at a political convention, being dragged out of the Miss Missouri pageant by a hairy-knuckled thug, and - even worse - having Dick Cheney's wife go ballistic at a reception when I referred to President Reagan as "Ron."

During 25 years in TV news, I produced dozens of political debates. Would you rather hear about some of the ones that went off without a hitch or the one that was such a disaster that, when the lights finally went down, I walked out of the control room and collapsed on the restroom floor, praying for the energy to vomit?

My wife and daughter and I had a lovely cross-country car trip a few years ago - lots of wonderful times. So which of the following stories does my daughter tell more often? 1) How we stood in wonder and watched Old Faithful erupt right on schedule or 2) About the time when I was driving through a late-night rainstorm and she asked if I would like to hear more Sting, or perhaps a Beck CD and I shouted back over a thunderclap, "A little silence would be good!"

Last week, I attended a dinner party with a fellow who had recently returned from a trip to Vietnam and Cambodia. He traveled first class, stayed at four-star hotels and could not say enough about the quality of the service provided by the waiters, valets, bell hops and concierges in that part of the world: "Top drawer! First rate!"

Coincidentally, another guest at that party has a daughter who is a young attorney also recently returned from Cambodia. She lived for several months on a meager stipend, stayed in a stifling, insect-friendly apartment, and often had to be accompanied by a body guard while she assisted in the genocide prosecution of members of the Khmer Rouge. Even told second-hand, her stories are riveting. The four-star travelogue? It was a little short on drama.

For those of you who would like to hear more about the stories based on events that were more pleasant at the time, I hope you will have the courtesy to sit at another table at our next dinner party.

As we Boomers start to face up to our mortality, I'm hearing a lot of convoluted ideas about what constitutes a successful life. My idea is simple: The person who goes to the grave with the best material, wins.

I'd like to think that when my time comes, my granddaughter will be sitting by my death bed, begging me to please tell just one more story.

Learning to Squint

This is the first column I've ever written on the subject of "being over 55." It's not a stretch, as I have six years experience in the age range; but as an over-55 boomer living in a world of over-55 boomers, I feel a little like a fish asked to do 750 words on water, or a brontosaurus asked to knock out a short piece on extinction.

Age, of course, is a lot different than how old we are.  A couple of years ago I was conducting a journalism workshop in a town in Armenia where most of the trainees were in their early 20's. During a break I mentioned to my translator that I would soon be 60. She protested that I must be kidding and then brought the class to attention to ask if anyone believed I was that old. The consensus was that I must be exaggerating because I barely even looked 50 years old maybe 45.

To put my age into perspective, the 60-year-olds these kids knew had lived through collapse of the USSR which destroyed their economy, left them surrounded by unfriendly countries, cut off their supplies of  gas and heating oil for three frigid years. During that time the people came close to deforesting Armenia to provide fire wood. Then just when it looked like things couldn't get worse, an earthquake killed tens of thousands of people and destroyed nearly one out of six housing units in the entire nation then assassins invaded the Armenian parliament and killed the Prime Minister and several other reform leaders.

Given the wear and tear the average Armenian sexagenarian has endured, the average American 60-year-old is a low-mileage model in like-new condition.

But none of us is totally immune to the decay that comes with each passing year. A couple of decades ago I attended the 50th birthday party of a TV news anchor I worked with. As a career journalist I knew full well that, contrary to popular belief, there are such things as stupid questions, so I swung for the fence and asked him, "How does it feel to turn 50?"

He locked his thoughtful gaze on me, leaned so close that I could feel the pull of his gravitas, and he said, "You don't turn fifty. Fifty grabs you by the ears, kicks you in the groin and throws you on the ground."

I know people my age who are wizened husks who haven't had an original thought in decades, while others, just as old chronologically are still out running marathons and shifting paradigms. This weekend I visited a 66-year-old friend who is leaving the security of a senior position with a billion dollar foundation in Chicago to open a new business. A 70-year-old friend of my wife's here on San Juan Island announced recently that she was selling her house and moving to the mainland because she had "done every unmarried guy on the island" and wanted a larger pool of social partners.

I put myself somewhere in the middle of the age versus aging scale. Sometimes I feel like I'm still a kid and sometimes I'm ready to believe that every time I have a sore joint or aching back,  it's destined to be with me for the rest of my life. Later, when it dawns on me that the pain has gone away, I go out and jog a little, shoot a few baskets, then check the mirror to make sure my youthful spirit isn't being followed around by an old man's butt. I find it helps if you squint.

Ask a fish what he thinks about water and it would probably say, "It's freakin' water, what's to think about?"
 Ask me what it's like being over 55 years old and I'd have to say, "It's just freakin' like yesterday and the day before and the day before that, all the way back to when I was eighteen and couldn't muster the courage to ask Gina Bilyeu to go to the prom until it was too late."

When she told me she had just, moments earlier, agreed to go with someone else, it dawned on me that I would never, ever in this life have another opportunity to ask her to go to a prom with me. That was the day when I started to understand the nature not of growing older but of growing old.