Occupy America. Or- The Ideological Ruminations of a “Jinglebrained Ninnyhammer”

By nature I am not a political animal.

However, in response to a challenge by my good friend, Patricia Volonakis Davis, I wrote an article for Harlot's Sauce Magazine (A non-partisan Internet publication), which can be read HERE.

I'd appreciate hearing your views.

rg

The Elder

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 Dream Chasers Media Group

It was a beautiful morning in Las Vegas, and I was sitting inside St. Arbuck’s—the reasoning for being inside now escapes me given the pleasant temperature—reading the morning paper and savoring each sip of my medium coffee with room for cream.

Sinatra was belting out, “All Of Me” on the in-store sound system; people all around me were engaged in collegial conversation; and everyone’s mood seemed a bit lighter due to the fact that all of us had survived yet another summer.

Hey...it’s a big deal here in Vegas!

If you’ve never spent a summer here (which, for the record, begins in May and lasts well into October) then you probably don’t know what I’m talking about; but if you have...then can I get an, “Oy!”

The young man seemed nervous.

Not nervous in the sense of being concerned, but more like an anxious anticipation.

By the looks of him, he was in his early twenties; well dressed in that funky, hipster style where the clothing looks as if it came from a thrift store, but actually cost a bundle.

He stood there staring through the windows at the parking lot and frequently, almost obsessively checking his cell phone.

That he was awaiting the arrival of someone important was obvious.

As to who that someone was...I automatically assumed it was a woman.

I mean a young, handsome guy like him...it made sense.

A car drove slowly into the lot, pulling into a handicapped space right by the front door.

I’m thinking, Well, good for him. He’s got some substance to him if he’s dating a girl with disabilities.

His face broke into a wide smile of recognition and he quickly exited the store to stand on the sidewalk in front of the car.

What happened next surprised me, for it was not a young beauty who emerged, but a white-haired elder who was likely somewhere north of eighty.

The brightness of his smile matched that of the young man as they engaged in a warm and affectionate embrace, the old man patting the young man’s back and kissing him on each smooth cheek.

He stepped back, held the young man at arm’s length and mouthed something like, “You look good” before they turned to make their way inside.

Once through the door the elderly gentleman immediately spied a young father sitting at a table with a boy of about two.

He obviously knew the man, for a similar scene was played out with the hug, the backslapping and cheek kissing.

Added to that was the old man pretending to steal part of the child’s pastry, which produced loud protest accompanied by gales of laughter from the little boy.

After several minutes of, “How’ve you been? You okay? You making it alright since the divorce?” and other questions of concern directed at the young father, he said, “Call me when you need to. You know you can call me, right?” All of which was spoken with a thick Long Island accent in a voice that brought to mind tones of deep, burnished mahogany.

Eventually he and his young friend collected their coffees and found a table in close proximity to mine.

Not only had I been wrong in my original assumption of who that young man had been waiting for, I soon realized that my second guess was wrong as well...for this was not his grandfather, but a cherished elder.

Elders. They are in short supply in our society.

We seem to have many mentors...but so few true “elders.”

And this man was a true elder.

A father.

As I observed their interaction, the level of respect and honor shown to this ancient by that youngster was nearly startling to behold within the context of what I have come to expect in our culture.

Were you to only cast a casual glance in the young man’s direction, you would see the clothes, the ragged hair, the extensive tattooing and be tempted to surmise that he, like others of his peer group, have no time for one such as this older man.

And yet, there they were—the young man hanging on his every word.

The old man caught my eye, smiled and said, “And how are you doing this morning, young fella?” (Which actually came out, “’N how-a you doon dis moah-ning, young fella?”)

Young fella. I immediately liked this guy. “I’m doing just fine, sir. Enjoying the friendship you two share.”

He chuckled, slapped the young man on the shoulder and said, “This here is my boy. His grandfather—my best friend—passed on a couple of years back, and ever since me and him have been great friends. Isn’t that right, Scotty?”

Scotty turned partly in his chair. “That’s right. Old Joe here is responsible for keeping me straight—keeping me headed toward my dreams.” His accent was every bit as thick as Joe’s.

I smiled, and said, “Nice to meet you both,” and went back to what I had been doing when they walked in, which wasn’t much of anything at all.

The line stuck in my head, though: Headed toward my dreams. And it made me wonder how many of us have people in our lives who are dedicated to keeping us moving in the direction of our dreams.

Probably not many.

But that’s what elders are supposed to do—create an environment where their ceiling is our floor. And I could tell that that was exactly what Old Joe was doing for Scotty.

When I finally left sometime later, there they were, still hunched over the table engaging in life transference.

It made me glad to be the age I am—glad I have a few “Scotty’s” who see me as that elder in their lives.

As I got into my car it occurred to me that I had never felt so young. 

Saturday Morning Musings

The direction of your feet determines the end of your journey.

It's something I've found myself pondering frequently over the past couple of weeks.

Not sure why.

Probably because of all the people in my world who are experiencing less than satisfying circumstances.

But circumstances should never determine your outcome.

Nor should they dictate your direction in life.

As great as the temptation is to just give up and be swept along by the flood, how about starting your own flood?

A flood of positive declaration that you WILL NOT be denied!

Someone once said that if you can't be killed, and you can't be bought...you can't be stopped.

Don't let life kill your dreams, and refuse to buy in to the lie that the outcome is predetermined.

Set your face like flint into the wind and go forward with confidence.