Jon and I were the same age (15).  A couple of months before I was punched in the face, he and his family moved into the big fancy new house about two blocks from our house.  It was a one-punch fight. Being punched in the face hurts. I deserved it and apologized once I got back on my feet. 

Jon walked past me on the bus wearing a long, flamboyant scarf.  I stood up and pulled the scarf hard. He calmly turned around and punched me in the face.  It was then I realized I was way overmatched. He helped me up, and I apologized. From then on we were not friends but friendly.

Some teenage boys (me, then) can be territorial.  Whether the cause is hormones, or whatever, being punched in the face helped me learn my primal need to defend my territory was not so much needed in today’s world.  I was lucky guns were not involved.

Sometimes violence is narrowly avoided but the underlying issues still need to be addressed.  A couple of years after college, I was a busy Unemployment Claims Representative in the Minneapolis Unemployment office determining eligibility to collect unemployment benefits.

Jim (I do not remember his real name but he had a real name) looked every bit like the unkempt, homeless, 40-year-old, white man he was. Six months earlier he was let go from his job as a part-time dishwasher because his boss’s nephew wanted a summer job.

After reviewing statements from both he and the employer, I determined he was eligible for about  $20 a week for up to thirteen months. At first, he just stared at me for like 30 seconds. Then he reached out and in one motion swept everything (pictures, papers, a pencil holder, box of paper clips, a cup of water and the like) off my desk crashing onto the hard floor.  Then he screamed something like, “I do not want to be homeless anymore” at which time he pulled out a knife and pointed it very threateningly about a foot from my face. He was crying and his hand was shaking.   

We had drills about this sort of situation. A coworker called the police immediately.  My job was to be calm for the several minutes it would take the police to arrive. Deescalate.  Well, all I could think of was to ask why he was so upset with being granted Unemployment benefits.  

Before the police arrived he put the knife down, apologized and sat down defeated.  The gist was he had been homeless since spring and winter was coming fast. There was a shelter he was eligible for if he could show he was not eligible for other benefits. He had spent weeks going from agency to agency getting forms signed saying he was not eligible for benefits and thus eligible to live at the shelter.  

From Jim’s point of view, me signing the form saying he was eligible for even these paltry Unemployment benefits were condemning him to try to survive outside in a Minnesota winter without shelter.   The police escorted him away in handcuffs and that was the last I heard of him. I was never asked to testify or submit any statements. I do not know his fate.

Violence is never the answer but frustration and fear can motivate desperate people to do violent things.  Sometimes when I hear about violence on the news, I am reminded there is almost always more to the story than the act of violence itself.  

My older brother John completed basic training and was home on leave a couple of days after my high school graduation (June 1970).  We were standing in the backyard shooting the breeze when he looked around and lowered his voice making sure nobody else could hear. He then gave me the following advice. 

“When you kick somebody in the head.  Make sure you knock them out. If you do not knock them out, they will get up and likely kill you.”  He was not talking figuratively because I asked. He was very serious. He proceeded to demonstrate how to kick someone in the head and knock them out.  

I sometimes get frustrated but I never was frustrated enough to want to kick someone in the head. Yet, I think there is an underlying truth in my brother’s observation: When an action you take hurts someone, they will be highly motivated to hurt you back.  

Violence causes more problems than it solves. Violence is not acceptable, whether or not it would be effective in resolving an issue.  Yet there are issues that need to be resolved. Violence is usually not a rational response but in the heat of a tense situation, rational is hard to come by. 

My best friend, HP, in high school, was of Japanese descent. We were at a dance in the basement of Har Mar Mall. Some jerk and a couple of his friends threatened HP, saying they did not like foreigners dancing with the girls.  My older brother and a couple of his friends told me and HP to keep dancing. They would handle the problem. We kept dancing and violence happened to the people who harassed us. A non-violent method of resolving the issue would have been better.   

Violence is almost never justified. Violence almost never solves the issue which led up to the violence in the first place. Nevertheless, violence exists.  Condemning violence is easy. Understanding what led up to the violence and how to resolve the issues is very much, not easy.  

 

I was one of several dads featured in an article called “Fathers who are good at mothering” in the May 1982 issue of RedBook Magazine. RedBook had a circulation of about 2.3 million per month back then. 

The issue was published in late April. However, a couple of weeks later on May 13, 1982, when Maria was born, the article was still on the bulletin board in the maternity ward.  Pro tip: When your spouse is in hard labor, focus on her and not the conversation with the nurse about the article. Just saying.

I ended up in RedBook because the family psychologist who was the instructor at a fathering class was contacted by RedBook for a recommendation of someone they should interview. He suggested they contact me. 

When Betsy, Maria’s older sister by two years, was a couple of weeks old, Betsy and I attended a Fathering Class in the big first-floor meeting room in St Joseph’s hospital. We and about 18 other fathers/infant teams met on Saturday mornings for three weeks.  During the third class, the instructor said his kid was getting too old to be considered an infant so he asked for a volunteer to help demonstrate stuff for the next session. I volunteered. Betsy was only about 2-months old and didn’t seem to mind.

We, Betsy and I, assisted for about six or seven sessions (three classes per session). A couple of weeks after Maria was born, she replaced Betsy as the demonstration baby.  Maria and I did about five sessions of three classes each. 

As I write this post, the “Hop! Hop! Hop!” song we sang at the Fathering Class has been running on a loop in my head. We held the baby facing us, making sure we supported the baby’s head.  We would gently bounce and quietly sing this song in our normal tone:

Hop! hop! hop!

Hop my pony hop.

Though the road is rough and stony

Hop-along my little pony

Nibble as a top

Hop and never stop

I probably sang this to Betsy and Maria hundreds of times and was always rewarded with a smile.  

It was wonderful being present for the birth of both girls. I remember how focused and worried we were about the birth itself.  The delivery is intense, but when it is over, I am their dad for the rest of my life.  

The class was to help dads be more comfortable with their new infant.  Back then, family dynamics were changing. Unlike our parents’ generation, in my generation, both mom and dad often had a job. We dads needed to be much more involved in the day-to-day care of our kids than our fathers were.  This class was there to help us dads learn to be fathers who were good at mothering. 

A primary requirement for the fathering class was that the dads bring their babies to the class by themselves.  The first time I had Betsy alone outside the house was when I took her to that class by myself. It was sort of scary.  But Betsy and I got along pretty well.  

I was shocked when I got to that first class. Most of the moms had accompanied the dad.  The instructor brandished the moms from the room. Then he closed the curtains because the moms were gathered at the windows. These moms had never been separated from their babies. Both mom and dad needed to know, dad could be trusted with the baby. 

By the time Maria was helping in the Fathering Class, most of the dads came to class that first day alone.  Expectations changed. Doctors, nurses, and recent parents with young kids began to encourage new parents to give each other a break by taking care of the infant alone. The parents were learning to trust each other’s ability to care for the baby. 

I don’t remember how it was arranged.  The day after Maria was born, an exhausted me was interviewed in the hospital cafeteria by the author of the article and another lady for about an hour.  As far as I know, the follow-up article was not written. I was also contacted by the producer of one of the local talk shows but there were no dates that worked for me to be on a show. 

Please know, I was not some super dad.  I think I was a good dad but not even in the same class of good that I see many dads are today.  I think my generation bumped up the bar on what it means to be a more nurturing dad. But this current generation has taken being a nurturing dad to a whole new level of good.   

Here are the few paragraphs about me from RedBook Magazine May 1982: 

 ….. ”I can’t imagine how I could have had the same kind of attachment to my child without having changed her diapers or got up for her in the middle of the night.”  says Paul Leegard, 29, of St Paul, Minnesota. He recalls: “I had heard so much about bonding at the moment of birth that I absolutely had to be there. It was a wonderful moment.  I’ve talked to fathers who were in the waiting room while their wives were delivering, and when they went to the nursery they said, “I wonder which one is mine.” When you’re there for their birth, there is no doubt which one is yours.  Our baby was alert and I was elated.”

Paul, a personnel manager for White Farm Equipment Company in St. Paul, is one of the new breed of fathers who attended Lamaze classes and the delivery of his daughter Betsy more than two years ago.  He considers himself an equal parent, although he is quick to admit that his parenting time has been limited by the demands of his full-time job. His wife Linda, 28, who shares a secretarial job with another woman and spends the rest of the time at home with Betsy, by necessity she does more of the housework and child care.

Nevertheless, Paul says he does not shy away from getting up at 3 A.M. when the baby cries.   “Betsy woke up at three the other morning and I couldn’t get her back to sleep till six,” he recalls.  “I was annoyed at the time, but in the long run, sharing responsibility is neat.”

Paul travels around the country recruiting personnel for his company and reports that he hasn’t met a man under 35 who’s not interested in helping with the children.  “I want to say, I helped bring up my child.” Paul says, “If she turns out rotten, I’ll share the blame, but if she turns out good, I’ll share the credit. And I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll share the credit. “

 

The closer you look the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

 

In the fourth or fifth grade, as a geography lesson, we drew flags from the countries of our nationality.  I drew Swedish and Norwegian flags. Mom’s side, Swedish. Dad’s side, Norweigan. Over the years, my guess is I have been asked my nationality hundreds of times.  Maybe thousands of times.  

As an adult, I was often questioned about what nationality the name Leegard was from. I would respond back in the day, there were so many Legaards in Webster, South Dakota that the postal service asked if some would change their name to make it easier to deliver the mail.  So some of the residents, including my grandparents on my dad’s side, added an “e” and removed an “a” to make it easier for the postmaster.  

We all have ancestors and those ancestors all lived somewhere else.  None of us choose our ancestors. It always surprises me when people seem overly interested in the nationality of other people’s ancestors.  I have been asked hundreds of times about my nationality. Most often it seems to be an attempt at getting to know me. However, my best friend in high school was of Japanese descent. Some inquiries about his nationality were not innocent. 

I do wonder if I have any unique Scandinavian characteristics. Admittedly, I don’t really know what a unique Scandinavian characteristic would look like.  The best I can come up with is the Scandinavian stereotype of blonde, stoic and likes to eat bland food. Before I went grey, I had dark hair and my complexion has always been on the dark side, not pale.  I don’t think of myself as being stoic. I like pizza and tacos.

Legally, ancestry is supposed to be irrelevant.  As an American, discriminating against me for being Swedish or Norwegian is against the law.  I believe it would also be morally wrong to discriminate against me because my relatives were from Sweden, Norway or wherever. Do onto others and all that. 

I don’t introduce myself to others by saying, “Hi, I am a Swedish and Norweigan person named Paul Leegard.  Being Swedish and Norweigan is part of my identity but not so much of how I think of myself. I think of myself as a good looking genius adventurer who is an excellent writer and whose presence makes everyone around me better.  Just kidding, I am not that adventurous.  

All kidding aside, nationality actually refers to the country a person lives in.  I am an American citizen and thus I am American. Full stop. My ancestors maybe lived in Sweden or Norway but no matter where my ancestors are from, since I live here, here is my nationality.  The correct answer to my nationality is I am an American. 

Heritage, unlike nationality, is about traditions handed down or traits inherited.  Heritage also can refer to inheriting things like property. I did not inherit any Swedish or Norweigan property.  My DNA includes DNA from people who once lived in Sweden or Norway.  As for traditions, I attended two Lutheran church basement lutefisk dinners. Lutefisk is bad but I like Swedish meatballs.  

We had no choice in who are our parents or where they lived.  We had no choice in the generations who preceded our parents either.  The only thing we can control is how we handle ourselves today, and how we treat others around us.   

Feeling connected to the past is reassuring.  We feel part of something bigger than ourselves.  When I think about places to which we might want to travel.  Going to Sweden and Norway comes to mind because that is where my relatives were from.  But if I am honest I could justify dozens of other places for equally good reasons.  

We should never treat another person poorly because of the nationality of their ancestors. Sure sometimes it takes me a while to warm up to others.  However even if that was a characteristic of some Scandinavians, it would be wrong to ask me if I am Scandivaian when you first met me and then assume I would not be worth the effort to get to know. 

The world is now far more interconnected than it was in my youth. With each passing generation, Swedes marry Norwegians and their kids marry others from god knows where.  The nationality of our forefathers is often a list, not a single country.

I recently read a very interesting observation.  Almost everyone who has their DNA analyzed to determine their ancestry discovers their ancestors are from multiple regions of the world. More than that, most often they were unaware of at least some of those regions prior to the results. 

I fully understand the curiosity about from whence we came. Being connected to our past is reassuring and important.  However, we need to remember, where someone’s relatives are from should never be a factor in how we treat them. 

My mom said I drew the flags very well.  I doubt she was an objective observer. Just saying.  

 

The closer we look the more we see.

www.scaleandperception.com

 

Let us pretend a kid wants me to play trucks. I probably would politely say no because crawling around in the sand takes a bigger commitment at my age than I am willing to commit to.  I can make engine noises and push a truck with the best of them. However, crawling around in the sand actually would be tough. 

However, I was not asked by a kid to play trucks.  In reality, my 9-year-old granddaughter borrowed my phone and soon started asking “would I rather questions”.  Would I rather go skiing or to a water park? Would I rather be a famous inventor or a famous singer? With each question comes a brief discussion.  We have a fun time and exchanged ideas on lots of topics. I was surprised by some of our answers. It was great fun.

Sure some kids still play trucks but not as much as we used to.  In today’s world is more about apps, electronic games and the like.  As a kid, I played with trucks, kids games are different now. The world has changed 

The games we played 60+ years ago somehow feels less relevant to the world our grandkids are growing up in.  My formative years were spent learning to do stuff relevant to those times. But here we are, the world changed.  Almost every day, someone I know posts something on Facebook about how the world is worse for all the change. I understand their point but that ship has sailed.  The world changed and we, seniors, just like everyone, live in the world as it is now.

As a senior citizen, I use tech but not nearly as well as the kids do.  It is not my fault or their fault. It is just one of the truths about being my age. The world is very different from the world I grew up in. 

Statistically, over 85% of people in the United States of America are younger than I am.  It is a fact. I am older than most people. At 67, I am old enough to be proud I made it this far.  

Many of the people I interact with are close to my age.  Even most of the younger people with whom I interact do not seem to treat me differently because of my age. To me, my age feels like a very normal age to be.  I do not feel special or weird being 67, it is just the age I am. 

Obviously, age is not just a number. I currently have one kidney, dentures, glasses, hearing aids, orthotics in my shoes, thyroid meds, blood pressure meds, allergy meds, and the list goes on.  I can attest to the reality that people my age are somewhat forgetful.  

My balance is good but not as good as it used to be.  My stamina is good but not as good as it used to be. My hair is gray.  My joints are often sore from a lifetime of use and abuse. I never was very flexible but I am less flexible than I used to be.  I think I am as intelligent as I ever. However, I am not as quick-witted as I used to be. It feels like it takes me a beat longer to process than it used to.   

What I did not realize about getting older is that getting older is not about what I am unable to do.  No matter what I am unable to do, there is always more to do than there is time in the day. Which is not to say I try to cram all of the activities possible into every waking hour.  Sometimes the activity I choose to do is take an afternoon nap. 

Yes, I know I am a person of a certain age. I am not old because I am too old to do certain things.  No matter our age there are always things we are unable to do. I am old because most other people are younger. 

I think now that I reached a certain age, I finally understand what being a person of a certain age actually means.  I think it means my formative years were spent prior to the proliferation of tech in the world. I try to learn tech.  I embrace the use of tech. However, my formative years were not spent playing tech games and the like. When I was a kid I played trucks in the sand.  

I do my best to adapt to this new world but I understand those who grow up in this new age are of this age.  I will always be from a different, older age. I sincerely appreciate all of you younger people who tolerate and help those of us who really did grow up in a different time. 

The good old days are a nice place to visit once in a while however today is where I live.  I was fortunate enough to be born at a time when it was possible to grow up in the industrial age and then be present for the start of the information age. That makes me old, I guess, but I can say for certain that a 67-year-old grandpa is very capable of enjoying today’s kids’ games with their granddaughter.  

I would choose the water park because it is warmer and more relaxing than skiing. Also because there is less chance I would get hurt.   Being a famous singer would be cool but a famous Inventor might invent something which could change the course of the world.

 

The closer you look the more you see

www.Scaleandperception.com

About a month ago, mid-November 2019, my Urologist called saying I likely had early-stage kidney cancer. Since then appointments, Christmas shopping, and surgery. My right kidney, along with a cancerous tumor was removed.  

Bullet dodged.  I am a little sick of sleeping in a recliner but I am, in fact, thankful and well on the way to recovery. 

The “early stage” in early-stage kidney cancer means cancer has not spread to any other organs.  Early-stage kidney cancer has no symptoms. I had no symptoms. There is no routine test to screen for early-stage kidney cancer.  Mine was discovered by a CT Scan. The chain of events leading to the CT Scan will forever be viewed by me as a life-saving miracle. 

Once cut out, early-stage kidney cancer, rarely recurs. However, if kidney cancer spreads to other organs, it is tough to battle. Kidney cancer is resistant to many of the standard treatments.  Mine was early-stage kidney cancer. As my Urologist said, if you have to have cancer, early-stage kidney cancer is a good one to have.  

About two weeks post-surgery, I am doing well but still in recovery mode.  A couple of days ago it dawned on me, a cancer survivor is now part of who I am.  Fortunately, I am a cancer survivor whose prognosis is looking good. At the very least, I will not die from cancer in my right kidney. The right kidney is gone. 

I am age 67 now. Over the last couple of years, it feels like every couple of months, someone posts an obituary of a former high school classmate.  Every time I see one, it gives me pause. I know and accept we all will die of some cause at some point. I, for one, want to live as long as practical. At least for now, I do not want to focus on my death. 

I will be a cancer survivor until I am not.  In the meantime, my life continues. I hereby choose to not to put an asterisk related to kidney cancer on any future plans.  I have no plans to ride a bull in a rodeo or parachute out of an airplane just because I survived cancer. Why tempt the fates.   

So that is that. We move on. 

Here is a bit of the “how” my cancer was discovered and what the past month or so has been like.  Remember, I had no symptoms of kidney cancer, Nobody suspected I had kidney cancer. Also, for the record, robotic-assisted surgery is kind of cool. 

About 6 years ago I had a pain in my side. After a CT Scan and an MRI, It turned out to be a blood-filled cyst one on each kidney. It was so rare, I signed a release so a radiologist could publish the details.  I have no idea if the details were actually published. So for 30 months, every six months I would get a follow-up ultrasound which confirmed the blood in the cysts was being absorbed by my body. The Urologist wanted me to have one last scan six months hence.  I don’t remember why but three years ago, I canceled the final ultrasound scan and did not reschedule it. 

Jump ahead about 3 years or so to early October 2019.  During my annual physical, I get all the standard tests including a prostate exam.  The doctor said the prostate felt fine. A couple of days later I log into the Allina MyChart and there is the following note from my doctor.  The note says my:

 “PSA level is still within normal limits, but we get a little more concerned when the PSA level increases by more than 0.7 from one year to the next.” … I think that it would be a good idea for you to check back in with a Urology specialist again regarding your prostate gland.”

So, there I am waiting in my Urologist’s exam room. He walks in not looking pleased.  He says he just reviewed my case file. He noted that I did not get the last ultrasound scan.   He emphasized how important it is for me to have these scans. He indicated he was reluctant to treat me unless I agree to get an ultrasound of my kidneys.  I agree, of course. He exams my prostate and says my prostate is good. 

The ultrasound scan is six days later.  A couple of days later, the urologist office calls stating the radiologist would like me to get a CT scan just to be safe.  

A couple of days after the CT Scan my Urologist, himself, calls to tell me  I have a semi-solid cancerous tumor on my right kidney based on the report from the radiologist.   A week later, my Urologist is taking Linda and me on a 3-dimensional tour of my insides. We see the cyst and the cancerous growth next to it.  

In the post-surgery appointment I learn just how lucky I was.  The radiologist interpreting my ultrasound compared it to my last ultrasound 3 years earlier and noticed a slightly darker spot next to the now, not blood-filled cyst.  Probably nothing but just in case we better order a CT Scan.  

So my General Practitioner says it is probably is nothing but go to the Urologist just be safe.

The Urologist confirms it was nothing but because of my past, insists I get one last scan just to be safe.

The radiologist looking at the “one last scan” says it is probably nothing but just to be safe let us do the CT scan. 

Well, in my view, that is a miracle. I am now a cancer survivor. 

Officially I had a robotic-assisted laparoscopic radical nephrectomy performed by a highly skilled and experienced surgeon.  The post-surgery pathology report confirmed the 5 X 4 X 3.5 cm tumor on my kidney was clear cell renal cell carcinoma. The margins were not involved by the carcinoma which is to say the cancer was contained within the tumor and had not spread. 

I am thankful beyond words to all of the professionals who worked together on my behalf and for the support from family, friends, neighbors and even strangers.  Support makes a real difference. 

I am not sure the doctor understood the look on my face when I promised I would get scans for the next ten years.  I was thinking to myself, wow that is cool, he has confidence that I will be alive for the next 10 years.  

 

What you see depends on how close your look.  Scale and Perception.com

In a little restaurant just up the road from the University of Denver, the server nodded indicating it was my turn to decide.  I pretended in my head to myself I was choosing between the pancakes with scrambled eggs or seafood eggs benedict special. I always go for the pancakes with scrambled eggs. Besides eggs benedict had runny yolks.  I was about to respond with two pancakes and scrambled eggs, please. But then in a life-changing moment, I decided to seriously consider ordering the egg special instead of my usual scrambled eggs.

With my best inquisitive look, I asked the server: pancakes with scrambled eggs or egg special?   Am I allergic to seafood? No, I love seafood. Pick the special. Poached eggs over a toasted English muffin topped with good-sized chunks of shrimp and crab meat covered by a delicious creamy hollandaise sauce.  Boy golly, it was good.  

Picking the usual is what made me the person I am.  Why should I change? I almost never go wrong with the usual. The usual is almost never bad. Even to this day, most often, I plod along choosing the option that I usually choose, doing what I usually do.  I wear what I usually wear. I eat what I usually eat. Linda is far more likely to pick a more interesting option than I am. 

However, I am a bit changed. Once in a while, I intentionally try a different option than my norm.   Even though I never had eggs benedict before, why not give them a try. The odds of me starving to death is low.  I might even enjoy them.  

It is not about just restaurant options.  It is also about what I watch on TV, or the book I choose to read, or the podcast I listen to or the way I drive home or any one of hundreds of things where I have an option.  Most of the time I choose my usual but once in a while I choose a different option.  

The power of choosing other options is more than just enjoying something different.  Certainly once in a while, I regret choosing the new thing I chose. It really is not about the option I choose or about whether it is better than my usual.  Choosing a different option is about expanding my view of the world.

Maybe this will explain it better. 

When winter comes to Minnesota and the ground is covered in new snow.  When you cross a field you leave behind a path. If you continue day after day to follow that same path, the path gets worn down and safer.  Even if it snows again, continuing to follow the same path over and over again is safer. However, by continuing to follow that path, as a practical matter, all other options for crossing that field become less of a real option.  It is just so much easier to walk the beaten path than to trudge through high snow banks and deep old snow to head for a different option.  

Always following your same old options is being in the same old rut. The longer you use the same path the deeper the rut becomes and the harder it is to follow other paths.  Making a different decision once in a while keeps multiple paths open. 

Certainly, other paths might not lead to better places.  Salted caramel ice cream is pretty good, why would someone choose another option.  However, it was choosing a different option which led me to like salted caramel ice cream in the first place.  I still also enjoy mint chocolate chip. I also like a hot fudge sundae with a good vanilla ice cream. 

By choosing other options once in a while I better understood the goal is not always to find the best.  Making an occasional different choice helps me appreciate the nuance of life. I might prefer one flavor of ice cream over another but I like most flavors of ice cream. Most of the time, a different choice does not lead to a bad outcome.  Usually, it leads to the discovery that there is a broad range of reasonable options. In a small way, it made my life more interesting. 

When we stay in a rut, our view of the world never changes.  Getting out of the rut, expanding your view of the world, even in small ways, of course, changes your view of the world.  Go to a place you haven’t been to before. Talk to someone you don’t normally talk to, tell them you like the rainbow colors in their hair.  Walk a different path. Drive the long way home. Eat at that place you wondered about. There are lots of ways to get out of the rut.  

Getting out of the rut periodically does not make you a different person. It adds perspective and depth to the person you already are. It is about taking different paths across that snowy field. None of the paths are as safe as the one you usually take, however there it is, you discover most often they are quite safe enough.  

Who knew I liked eggs benedict.  I always avoided a runny yolk. Choices need to be made, once in a while make a different choice than you normally do.  It will expand your horizons.  

 

The closer you look the more you see.

Scaleandperception.com

 

Going back to college as a retiree was all good until it was sorta not.  I was hanging out with the cool kids, Wow look at me, the old person in a class of 20ish-year-olds.  I am riding the bus, studying, reading, writing papers, joining in class discussions. It kinda made me feel special.  

Being the novelty act was cool at first.  However, being cool was not the reason I was back at college. I was there to build a better base of knowledge about communications so could I get better at this blog.  

All I needed to do is get a C or higher for 34 credits of various Communications Studies classes and I would be awarded a second major from the 35th highest ranked University in the world. Easy peasy.   

The 34 credits at $10 a credit would only cost $340. Plus $50 to $125 per class for books.   Compare that to the current official estimated cost of $28,822 per year for an in-state ($48,620 for non-resident) full-time U of MN student.   It is a great deal for me. I was risking $340 for a degree, the other students were paying $28,000 / $48,000 per year for four years to get their degree.  The other students were polite and nice but they had a lot more at stake than I did.

Being a senior citizen college student is no longer a theoretical thing for me.  To date, I have completed nine of the thirty-four required credits. I got an A for two of the classes and an A- for the other.  I could cross the finish line with only about 8 more classes.  

Here is what it feels like.  First off, in reality, studying, reading, working in small groups, writing papers, joining in out of class discussions took about 8 – 10 hours a week.  Add to that the actual three-hour class each week plus the time to get there and home. It takes a lot of time to be a student at the U of MN.  

Reading college-level textbooks is less fun than reading Harry Potter books.  Taking tests is every bit as nerve-wracking as it was when I was younger. I am older than the professors so they are no longer as intimidating.  However, as it was 45 years ago, professors still have weird and annoying idiosyncrasies. They talk about themselves a lot. 

Most students in my classes were in school for the expressed purpose of getting a degree so they can get ahead in life.  At least a dozen times I was called on by the professor to give real-world examples of where the lesson being taught would be helpful to get ahead in the workplace.  At first, it was flattering. After awhile I wondered where were the examples of how this knowledge or these skills would help me in my future.  

So, yes it was a bigger time commitment than I thought it would be.  Yes, I had life experiences that already taught me much of what was being taught.  However, to be fair, most of the time, I was being taught stuff I did not know previously. 

Linda and my friends were very supportive.  However, I didn’t know anyone close to my age who was also taking college courses.  Knowing someone in the same boat as I was; who would understand, relate to and discuss the experiences and feelings I was going through, would have been nice. 

Not knowing other college students my age sometimes made me feel isolated.   I kept reminding myself to suck it up, a sense of isolation is probably inevitable.   Choosing an activity different from what your friends choose means you are not sharing the same experiences they are experiencing. That feels like isolation.  

I have no regrets but I am taking time off from college for now.  Not sure I will go back. I no longer plan to complete my Communication Studies major.  More likely I will attend a few lectures here or there. I may take an online MasterClass.  Several people have suggested I join the Writers Guild or another similar writing group. 

My actual goal was to improve my blog by learning more about communications. I learned much from the classes, but mostly I learned from my fellow students.  The communication studies students are masters at using connected tech. They know how to research quickly and well. They know the technical side of editing, words, sounds, videos, and pictures. They have an arsenal of apps and know how to use them.  Posting on social media takes them seconds and that includes resizing the image appropriately and making a witty comment.   

I had to learn connected tech as an adult.  Twenty-year-olds never knew a pre-connected tech world.  Connected tech is second nature to them. I doubt I could ever catch up to their skill level.

I am proud that I was able to hold my own with them.  Sure, I was able to give them a little information/advice about the working world but that same advice is probably also found with a simple search.  

The number one thing they taught me:  No matter what you heard or read and no matter who said it, do a quick search to check if it is legit and what other relevant factors are involved.  Then be technically prepared to present what you found in an easily understood, meaningful, way. I’ve seen them create a simple graphic in minutes that explains more than a long essay possibly could.  

In the end, it sort of came down to Do I want to spend multiple years getting this second major (one class a semester, eight classes needed = four years of classes) or would it be more fun to do other interesting things.  Choices need to be made: road trips or classes. It is hard to do both.    

 

What you perceive depends on how close you look;  Scaleandperception.com

When I was about 9 or 10 years old, my next-door neighbor called to me through the break in the bushes between our houses, asking if I ever looked for rocks.  He pointed to three rocks each the size of an adult’s fist laying on his freshly mowed lawn. He encouraged me to pick them up and take a good look. Then he suggested we figure out what kinds of rocks these were.

He alternated between asking me what I saw and pointing out what he saw.  He would ask leading questions like: Pointing at a dark, smooth rock – Do you think the lighter streaks on this rock looks like the grain in a piece of wood?  

Another rock was very rough and jagged.   It looked a bit rusty. My hands got a bit dirty handling it.  He said something like, Does this rock look like it was a chip off the surface of another rock or does it look like a chunk out of the middle of bigger rocks?

The third rock was sandy with multiple layers each a different shade of blush pink.  I could rub off a bit of the sand with my fingers. He asked something like: Why do you think this rock was not as heavy as the other rocks?

Then we brought the rocks into his garage.  He got a nail so we could see if it would leave a mark if we scraped the rock with the point of the nail.  The nail did not leave a mark in the smooth rock. It made a slight scratch in the jagged rock. It made a gouge in the sandy rock.

He had me guess the kinds of rocks they were.  My dad was a stonemason so I knew that the sandstone was a sandstone.  Even with several hints, I did not guess the smooth rock was petrified wood.  He gave me a clue that the reason the nail scratched the rusty rock was it was sort of the same as the steel nail. It was a chunk of iron ore and he said I came close with: steel rock. 

He then gave me a mini-lecture about the rocks. I don’t remember what he said but I just looked up the characteristics of these type rocks.   I bet what I looked up was pretty much the same as he told me. Petrified wood is actually the fossil of a tree buried in sediment with no oxygen to decay it.  The iron ore had actually been mined from a formation and so the iron ore was the result of the bigger chunks being crushed into smaller chunks.  He probably also described how sandstone was formed. 

He had a doctorate in geology but he told me to call him Don.  Not only was he a Ph.D. level geologist, but he was also the head of the Geology Department at the University of Minnesota.  Until I was older I did not know to be impressed. He was just my nice neighbor.

Once a year he would invite a bunch of grad students to a backyard get-together.  They would mill around Don’s back yard, holding a beer, talking to each other about whatever grad students talk about.  I remember at least three of those years, Don spotted me in our backyard and called me over.  

He would introduce me to a couple of the grad students then raise his voice and announce to any who would listen: “My job was to get you educated, your job is to educate the next generation like Paul here.”  I was then pretty much pushed back toward my yard.  

Don was a very nice guy, however other than the interactions above, while I was his neighbor, most of my interactions with him were a nod or a short hello.  I had moved away from home by the time I was old enough to understand that a University Department Head was a very busy person. I was very lucky to get a lesson in geology from him.  

I never had more than a minor interest in geology.  It never occurred to me that I might have had an inside track if I did.  I got my degree in psychology.

Once I was an adult and Don was retired, I would occasionally talk to him and his wife at Target or the funeral of a person from the neighborhood etc.   Don passed at age 91 in 2009.  We attended his funeral.  His wife is still alive and we exchange Christmas cards with her every year.  

I got to keep the rocks.  The piece of petrified wood is now part of a stone fireplace in the cabin our family used to own. My dad put it there, at my request, when he built the fireplace. I have no idea where the other two rocks ended up.

 

The closer you look the more you see

www.scaleandperception.com

I found some shade and set my chair down at the picnic get-together.    The guy sitting next to me is several years older than me, well educated and very nice.  Well into the conversation, he said he was confirmed as a Catholic but was now an atheist. It was my turn to speak, this is pretty much what I said.

As a kid, most of my friends were Catholic.  I was confirmed at Falcon Heights Congregational Church. The chapel was relatively new, not huge, brick structure. I remember it had small stained glass windows in the front but long, narrow stained glass windows on the left side. The Sunday school wing had about five or six block-wall classrooms. 

I went to Sunday school until the middle of 5th grade when I was kicked out.  Apparently they had enough of my questions and comments. I made numerous and repeated statements like: nobody could be swallowed by a whale and live to tell the story.  After he slayed the giant, were there other giants? You get the idea. I was an inquisitive kid with a mind of my own.  

Mom got a call saying it was best for me to be in the church rather than Sunday school.  So from then until I was confirmed, mom and I sat about two-thirds of the way back, next to the wall, on the left side of the sanctuary.  I actually liked church. 

Once I was in seventh grade, I attended Wednesday night confirmation lessons.  All of the confirmands were required to attend church. I was no longer different than the other kids. My first real kiss was with a girl named LuAnne at a church camp, confirmation New Year’s Eve overnight party.    

About a week from confirmation.  Each confirmand, including me, was scheduled to meet individually with the pastor for 15 minutes. The pastor was in his late 50’s, Yale-educated, a little full of himself, a little straight-laced, but caring and generally kind.  

He asked if I believed in God.  I said I was on the fence. We discussed it.  For the next 45 minutes, I held my own as we discussed whether there was a God and my suitability to join the church.  I pointed out some of his sermons were inconsistent with what he said in other sermons. He got defensive. I sensed it and pointed out, obviously, he was also confused. You get the idea.  

He called my mom saying unless I answer the question, “Do you believe in God?” with a simple, “Yes”, he would not sign off on me being confirmed.  

Mom and I had a chat.  Not so much about religion, more about embarrassment and learning to go with the flow. We came to an agreement.  If I said, “Yes, I believed in God without reservation, ” she would not insist I go to church thereafter. Seemed fair.  In my head, I would say “yes”, outloud, in unison with a group of about 20 other eighth-graders, eat a wafer, drink a little grape juice and walk out the door never to look back. 

A week later, the ceremony started and almost immediately I was individually called up to the front of the church and baptized.  I was not told beforehand that I had not been previously baptized nor that I was about to be, at age 12, baptized in front of a church load of people.  I was embarrassed.

Mom said, “Sorry, I thought you knew”.  I would have negotiated a private baptism. 

So here we are 55 years later.  Linda and I had the kids baptized when they were infants. We brought them to Sunday school. They got confirmed.  In short, we did the family at church thing. I even did a stint on the church council. 

I am still on the fence about God.  Since then I came to realize my reality is more about what I believe and less about verifiable proof.  It is my choice as to what I believe. I choose to be on the fence.  

As for the church.  For me, churches are social organizations.  They are like a club. Like-minded people join and socialize with each other.  Humans are social beings and churches filled the need to belong, for some of us. 

As time has passed my faith has deepened.  I deeply believe we should all work to make tomorrow better than today because I have faith that tomorrow can be better.  I believe strongly that even when the odds are stacked against us, to our last breath, we should all have faith and hope for the future.

As I matured I realized virtually all religions and all non-religious people pretty much agree, it is morally best to do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  Treating others as we wish to be treated is not just a religion thing. 

So, I had an emotional reaction when recalling the story of my confirmation.  That was a long time ago. My reaction surprised me.  

I cannot help but wonder. Church attendance worldwide is decreasing.  One explanation, people are finding more, non-church, ways to feel they belong.  Maybe another explanation is the church is paying the price for rejecting those who are unsure of what they believe.

 

The closer you look the more you see

www.scaleandperception.com

We drove 3,400 miles over 11 days from St Paul MN to where the Mississippi River dumps into the Gulf of Mexico and back again.  The Great River Road route is a designated zig-zag of mostly two-lane state or county roads going through rural mid-America.  Very little freeway. Some town roads. Thirteen miles was a very narrow, harrowing one-lane gravel road.  

This trip was about the journey, not the destination.  We saw some cool destinations, the World War II Museum in New Orleans is awesome.  The National Military Park in Vicksburg Mississippi is great. Mostly we discovered that rural life outside of the big city and off of the is freeway sad and lacking in hope or good news.

Maybe I will post more some other time but I wanted to share one story now.

Day three, the two-plus hour drive through St Louis Missouri was frustrating and took much longer than it should.  Saw the Arch but the area around it was under construction. So we stopped, looked up, and then drove on.  

About 60 miles south of St. Louis we needed to use the facilities.  As we approached the small town we were no longer surprised how rundown many small towns looked.  The bigger cities we had driven through were growing and busy. However, most of the small towns were in various stages of disrepair.  Most small towns we had driven through looked years into hard times.

In a bigger city, we would never have stopped at this rundown convenience store/gas station to use the restroom.  But we were not in a bigger city. We knew by then this was likely as good as we will see. Half of the store was empty/dark and the rest was only marginally stocked.  The very friendly clerk greeted us with a Hi y’all. She pointed us to the restrooms with a smile on her face.

At these stops, we made it a practice to purchase, at least something for providing for our needs.  It just seems fair. As the clerk rang up my bottle of soda, I asked her about the town. She responded that she had only been in town less than a week so she did not know much about the town. 

Linda responded with something like, “Oh really, less than a week”.  The clerk then explained, less than a week earlier she decided that living in St Louis was too dangerous.  So she grabbed her two kids and drove away. She added, be careful who you make friends with. Making friends can be dangerous. Very dangerous.

She said she did not know where to go, she just headed south.   She stopped here for some gas. As she walked in to pay for the gas, the previous clerk was screaming at the owner and quit.  So she told the owner she needed a job. He hired her on the spot.

She said she found a room and the next day, enrolled the two kids in school.  She said she was ready for a new life. She said she “ain’t never going back. This time I ain’t going to get to know anybody.  The kids are the only people I need to know. If I don’t know anybody, ain’t nobody going to cause us problems.”  

We wished her luck and we were on our way.  

On the front door of the store was two small clear plastic zip-lock bags filled with water and tied onto the door handle. One on each of the two doors.  Curiosity got the best of me. I turned to ask her about them. Her response was, “There are two pennies in each one. Everyone says they keep the flies away from the doors.”  All I could say was. “Really”. She just nodded reassuringly like you would to a young kid who was not sure if you were teasing. 

As we drove away, it was several minutes before either Linda or I had digested enough of what we just heard to even speak.  We lived in a different world from this young lady. I hope things turned out well for her.  

Everyone we interacted with on the whole trip was nice.  It is just that some of those people had a very different life than ours.

Pennies In Bags of Water Make Flies Flee

 

What we perceive often depends on how close we look.

Scaleandperception.com