J Daniel Hess’ Blog

I promised Sirvan I’d take him to a ball game inasmuch as he is unfamiliar with the sport (father is Kurd, mother is Turkish, he lives in Germany).

As we arrived in Indy, “the rains came down, of yes the rains came down …”

I parked the Civic in the mall underground (fearful of another hail storm), then we walked until we had to take cover by buildings.

We eventually got to Victory Field where we checked in via soggy home-printed tickets. I was pleased to show Sirvan a large tarp and to explain in as much detail as minutes afforded about the heating plant in the background.

Rowdie tried hard to please. Even Sirvan was delighted by Rowdie’s signature on his outfielder’s glove (not brought from Germany).

Finally the rain stopped, the groundskeepers came out and the small crowd cheered as though a home run had been hit.

But I admit, I thought all of my pre-game explanations and descriptions to Sirvan were for naught. You might play football and soccer on such a night, but baseball?

Sure enough, they limed the lines, the pitchers warmed up (“in the bullpen” I explained to Sirvan), the umpires emerged, five young women sang the national anthem — “PLAY Ball!”

We sat behind the catcher — see the net — but Sirvan hoped a ball would arc over the net. No luck. Shortly after this sharp hit to right I told Sirvan than before long we all would stand and sing.  He looked at me as though my cold feet had numbed my brain.  Surely enough, at the middle of the seventh inning, we all sang “Take me out to the ball game.”  Sirvan was ready for that altar call.

An exciting ninth inning (the Indians won) had us hooping and hollaring. Then Sirvan was surprised once again when the field was cleared and we were entertained by fireworks.

Sirvan summarized the evening.  ”Oh my god.  It was awesome.”

Our newspaper, once a regional leader, is rather thin these days. Advertisers have moved to the Sunday paper and other media.  Thus The Indy Star concentrates on its priorities.

1. Sports
2. Editorials and columns and letters
3. Police blotter and court news
4. “Newswatch” — investigative reporting
5. Weather

So I was delighted by today’s paper featuring the peregrine falcons that have nested in our tall buildings downtown.

DDT almost drove the peregrine falcons over yonder. According to Ryan Sabalow only 324 pairs of birds lived in the U.S. in 1972.  Today the falcons are thriving, having moved from cliffs to tall buildings.

I’d like to see a falcon plummet at nearly 200 mph to attack its prey.

Indianapolis loves its falcons. The Indianapolis Star blog features a live camera on the nests. The blog received 7.1 million hits last year.

Yes, the local newspaper should make nature, natural resources, flora and fauna a priority.

Indianapolis is a thriving city, beautiful and motivated and accomplished. Thus we grieve our gun violence. Federal agents have had to be called to help reduce the homicides and aggravated assault cases which are increasing sharply.

More than half of the homicides occur within five zip codes. 46218 is just north of us, We drive through 46210 when we go downtown. In other words, we are close.

This morning in Starbucks I was tempted to open a conversation with an officer about gun violence, then decided to keep my thoughts and questions to myself. What do I propose to help ameliorate this ugly situation?

I came up suggestions, each of them potentially helpful, but each of them most difficult to realize.

1. A strong mother
2. A father who is present
3. Supportive siblings
4. Grandparents who care
5. A closely knit immediate community
6. A strong community organization
7. Financial security
8. Local parks and recreation facilities
9. Police protection
10. A fair court system
11. Pre-school for all children
12. Better  schools
13. Smarter and better prepared teachers
14. Jobs
15. Access to social agencies and medical facilities
16. Guided interaction with nature, flora and fauna
17. A positive social unconscious ( zeitgeist)
18. Sensible gun controls
19. Moral instruction
20. Self motivation

Twenty somethings.

The fire is burning nicely in the cauldron on the deck. Rain is not likely for the next three hours, so perhaps you will join me for the evening.

We enjoy a beer, cheese and Lancaster pretzels. The conversation meanders comfortably — hummingbirds, FedEx planes, the rapidly growing grass in this wet spring, oak leaf hydrangeas, Lowe’s water gauges and the Pacers versus the Knicks.

Then at a pause you say, “Dan, I’ve been feeling somewhat depressed lately.” While I would not have anticipated that sentence, I could well suppose that our friendship and this setting would not only allow but also suggest such sharing.

“Dan, I’ve been feeling somewhat depressed lately.”

Good conversation is a give and take, back and forth. Person A and Person B in co-orientation, that is, with a degree of attraction to each other, perhaps very strong, perhaps weak. Nonetheless enough magnetism to propel a conversation.

The conversation between Person A and Person B is about xs. The hummingbirds, for example. Or the FedEx planes overhead.  Each is an x that Person A and Person B are directed to in this conversation.

The x has unexpectedly turned personal, pertaining to emotions, troubled emotions apparently. A somewhat depression.

Come to think of it, Person A was rather courageous to direct Person B’s attention to this X. We don’t often say to another person, even a confidant, “I’ve been feeling somewhat depressed lately.”  Nor do we say things about our low bank account, or the less than satisfactory job evaluation report, or our malfunctioning bladder.

Thus I am called to attention. Person A confides in me. What shall I say in return?

In real conversation we don’t have the privilege of extended time to think through each contribution to a conversation. Often we say things that later we regret. If we had had more time, surely we would have done better.

But here by our fire in this hypothetical conversation, I do have time to think about my response. What comes first to my mind is what I hope I would not say.

I hope I would not say “Ah, get over it.”

I hope I would not say “I’ve been depressed during some parts of my life” and then go on to tell the specifics of anxiety attacks and counseling and medications, etc.

I hope I would not say “I’ll tell you five sure things that will help you get over your depression.”

I hope I would not say “What counselor are you seeing?”

I hope I would not begin to play the role of counselor.

I hope I would not change the subject.

I hope I would not allow the sentence to change my esteem for my friend.

Rather, I hope I would note that the conversation has taken a shift, a turn in the road, or, in the communication model introduced earlier, a leaving of rather small xs to a larger X. I hope I would attend to that X even as I give attention to my friend.

So often in our conversations, we provide a quick “authoritative” answer, or we refuse to engage, or we pass off the declaration as of no consequence. Sometimes Person B responds so inappropriately that Person A decides to change the subject.

You know what I think I would say?  “Tell me about it.”  And I would then become an engaged and empathetic listener. Perhaps I’d restate something he is saying, just so he could hear it and perhaps add to it or amend it. Perhaps I’d nod my head, give some audible sounds, place a question on my face. Perhaps I’d ask a question, only to help him work through his thoughts and feelings.

So very often Person A will come to a decision about his next step, not from a verdict handed from Person B, but from his own clearer understanding of his depression.

Conclusion: they also serve who only sit and listen.

I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a puddle.

The alley just south of us.

Early in April before the rains came, remembering the past summer’s drought I made my wishes known:

I want a lightning thundering rain storm
not a distant sometimes rumble
or a caster’s “chance of rain”
but a trumpet tuba band
up from Memphis …

Soon the rains came throughout the Midwest. Just north of us farms got four inches in a day. White River tried to become the Susquehanna.

Since about the middle of April, rains and cool weather have brought to us a beautiful spring.

The back garden helps to clarify for me what green is. (I am colorblind.)

The rain barrels are becoming hydroholics.

The only thing groaning about the front garden is the lawn mower.

The mulch is like a mountain in the tropics. Perhaps if it has to wait too long, it will erupt like a volcano.

The morning walker probably likes puddles too.

Yet as I celebrate the weather, the men under John Deere caps sit at the farmers’ tables in Montgomery County, speculating whether the weather in August and September will accommodate the very late spring planting.

He picks his teeth with his fingers.  Live and let live.
She still wears a bonnet and long skirts.  Let it go.
He votes Democratic regardless who is running.  Live and let live.
She drives with an uneven foot.  Let it go.
He eats ketchup on everything.  Live and let live.
Her house is crowded with cheap knickknacks. Let it go.
He should have finished college instead of loafing.  Live and let live.
She finishes my sentences.  Let it go.
He spends far too much money on unnecessary shop tools.  Live and let live.
She’s on the computer — Facebook and stuff — much of the day. Let it go.
He goes to church to get high and to speak in tongues.  Live and let live.
I’ve never seen her washing her windows.  Let it go.
He is so-o-o-o hunchbacked.  Let it go.
She’s a busy-body.  Live and let live.
He has a nasty habit of not looking at me when I talk. Let it go.
She always asks how much each of my purchases cost. Let it go.
He said they’re too busy to come to the party.  Let it go.
She wears the pants in that house.  Live and let live.
He sings in a god-awful barbershop quartet.  Let it go.
She always talks educated.  Let it go.
He somehow gets his picture in the paper all the time.  Let it go.
She explains away the Bible.  Let it go.

Live and let live.  Let it go.    LET … IT … GO.

If perchance you didn’t read two previous posts, I’m in Pennsylvania for a 4-Bro convention.  Merv, Hal, Ken and me.  I’m capitulating to Laura with the photo below.

Left to right:  Me, cousin Lester Good, brothers Ken and Hal, cousin Dan Good and brother Merv.  We brothers stopped in to see our cousins who live in Columbia. Absent from the photo are Les and Dan’s two sisters, Anna Lois (New York) and Lorraine (Florida), and our sister Erma who died in 2002.

Relatively speaking

1. We four brothers have the same two parents, the same four grandparents, the same eight great grandparent and the same sixteen great, great grandparents. We share genes and many other traits, yet we are markedly different.

2. We span 14 years with Merv having been born in 1935 and Ken in 1949. In those fourteen years a lot of things changed in the world. Merv was born in the Great Depression, Ken in the beginning of the post-war boom. Our family change significantly in those years too. In 1935 our dad worked at a variety of modest-paying jobs to pay the bills. In 1949 we lived on a 120-acre farm.

3. We brothers agree that discipline was most strict with the first-born, with a gradual slackening through the upbringing of the last-born.

4. We each entered adulthood with considerably different opportunities and we each selected different options. Our marriages and families were different. Needless to say our careers took different trajectories. And so we arrived at this 4-Bro moment as  brothers and, to an extent, as strangers.

5. In our time together we explored our childhood geography, retold family stories, reported our respective journeys and ventured to build bridges where years and ideas and habits and memories have left chasms among us. We also encouraged each other to let things go in those circumstances where we no longer can change what we’d like to change.

6. From my personal perspective, I am so grateful to have had this time together with brothers whom I love.

We’ve returned to the inn at 9 PM after our 4-Bro Day that began at 8 AM this morning.

1. After embraces, we went first to Lancaster City Market, shown below …

… where we checked out the beautiful garden stands,

and bought do0ey buns.

We breakfasted for more than two hours at a cafe on Orange Street before setting out on a city/country drive that of course led us by beautiful row houses in Lancaster  …

… and beautful farms in the country.

Of course we drove to the farm where we grew up.

Left to right: Ken, Hal, Merv.

We drove to Columbia to see cousins Lester and Dan Good.

Left to right: Ken, Lester, Hal, Dan, Merv.

It was a reunion and a field trip. Dan and Lester showed us through their trucking service offices and plant. They currently have 39 trucks on the road. Dan tells us of the features in their most recent truck whose monetary value is considerably higher than our house.

Yes, indeed, we went to Chickies Rock which is about a mile from Good Transport Services.

Our drive continued, south on River Road along the Susquehanna to Shenk’s Ferry where the local power company has created a wild flower preserve. From there we went to late dinner in Lancaster.

What these pictures do not portray was the spirit of our day, filled with reports and memories, our sharing of blessings and regrets, jokes, teasing, laughter and tears.  4 Bro Day — I’m grateful.

Hal and I and the Odyssey were rained on from Cincinnati to Lancaster.  We left I 70 in western Pennsylvania to see the mountains on 220.

Hal drove, I gawked. Pennsylvania is beautiful even in the fog.

I remember in grade school that the Appalachian Mountains were dubbed "old and worn down."

In Pennsylvania too, barns should be red.

Here we're across Jack Mountain from Big Valley.

We followed the Juniata River to the grand Susquehanna.

In the restaurant in Hershey I told the waitress we should be given a discount inasmuch as 65 years ago we sold our milk to Hershey Chocolate.  She look at me like “my mother wasn’t born yet.”

I’m posting this blog a bit early … in Cincinnati. In the morning my brother Hal and I  will be on the road for Lancaster, Pennsylvania for a special day on Tuesday — 4-Bro Day.

For the first time ever, we four brothers will spend a day together — no family reunions, no big meals, no gift exchanges, no agenda, no assignments.  Just us.

This photo was taken fifty years ago. Merv, on the left, is now 77. I’m 75. Hal, on the far right, is 70.  Ken in front is 63.

At the time of this photo Merv was a mechanic, owned a garage, and served as a volunteer fire fighter. Later on he would become fire chief. Hal was likely a high school senior and an ace basketball / softball player, wishing he went to public high school instead of a Mennonite high school because of sports.  Ken was perhaps in sixth or seventh grade, perhaps at Sporting Hill Elementary.  I was in graduate school at Syracuse University.

Fifty years have gone by. Daddy died in 1994 at the age of 81. Our sister Erma died in 2002 after years in Sicily with her husband George and then later in Virginia where she excelled as a mother and in office management types of responsibilities. Mother died in 2001, having lived for nearly ten years at Landis Homes. We boys are still alive, despite prostate cancer, bladder cancer, stroke, knee and hip and spine surgeries and all the stupid things we’ve done along the way.

All I know about Tuesday is that we’ll begin in Lancaster City Market where I intend to buy a filled dooey bun (or four of them if the bros have left-over memories of visiting Aunt Katherine in Central Market who’d give coins for a dooey bun).

What we’ll talk about is quite unknown.  Spooky Nook? Yellow Goose? Sporting Hill? Hempfield?  Uncles and Aunts?  Grandpa’s truck?  Digging potatoes?

I’ll try to pay attention and report those parts of the day that are safely public.