Fellow Boomer Frank Bascombe Returns in Richard Ford’s New Book

If you’re a Boomer, then Frank Bascombe is one of us, and it’s nice to have him back and once more pondering the past, fretting about the future and coping with an unsettled present. His creator, Richard Ford, has somewhat begrudgingly returned Frank to us in Let Me Be Frank With You, continuing a life started nearly 30 years ago in The Sportswriter (1986), picked up again in the Pulitzer-winning Independence Day (1995) and seemingly wound down in The Lay of the Land (2006). But there always seemed something a little too easy about the outcome of the last novel, something left dangling in a tangled life marked by sorrow, loss, moments of joy, hopes, longings, failure and success.

And so now Ford returns to his everyman in response, he admits, to requests from readers, but also a desire to touch on “the consequences of a hurricane that the media wouldn’t pay attention to.” In other words, the human debris left behind to be dealt with long after the storm — in this case, Hurricane Sandy and its disorienting aftermath that causes Frank to realize nothing is here to stay.

He’s now 68, still living in New Jersey, contentedly married, retired from selling real estate, and aware of and troubled by both the liberations and challenges of creeping age. In four interconnected novellas, Frank deals with his “new normal,” awakens to the need to savor the little moments, even accepts that less is more as he jettisons even friends. He’s not always lovable, sometimes not even likable in his comments and actions, but that’s what makes him believable on the page.

Memory is a Tricky Tease

Time moves in one direction, memory in another — William Gibson

We all know memory is a tricky thing, sometimes teasing, sometimes torturing as we grasp at the past, often during attempts to deal with the present and plan for the future. As we learn more and more about the human brain and its miraculous functions, we also come to understand that memories are not exact, finite things. There is no portion of the human brain that functions as a “filing cabinet” from which memories are extracted whole and presented for retrospection. Instead, a “memory” is formed through input from various sections of the brain, with data collected and assimilated into a reconstruction of something or someone past. This means a “memory” is not an exact thing, but a re-creation.

I was considering this recently after reading a column by a friend with whom I attended school from our first day through high school. His well-crafted piece, featured in the hometown newspaper, was his recollection of beginning school with that fearful walk into the first grade classroom (no kindergarten in those days in our little town). Having shared that experience – we were in the same class – it was interesting to compare my memories, admittedly dim, with his, and allow his to cause me to examine things forgotten.

One thing I agreed with was the slanted perception of that time and place and situation. For me, it reinforces the notion that memories are recreations, perceptions fed through

Thanks, Woody, For The Perfect Thanksgiving Film

At some point during the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, I will again honor a long-standing tradition and steal a couple of hours away from the rituals of family, food and football to wallow in the pleasures of Woody Allen’s Hannah and Her Sisters. It is, in my mind, the perfect film for Thanksgiving, with a surprising sweetness and warmth protruding from beneath the multiple layers of angst, anxiety and cynicism that are the director’s staples.

“Hannah and Her Sisters long ago became my Thanksgiving addition to the films that must be enjoyed annually during the November-December holiday season. My personal list always includes Miracle On 34th Street (the 1947 original, of course, with Edmund Gwenn forever embodying Kris Kringle), two well-aged musicals in White Christmas and Holiday Inn, and the lesser known, but delightful All I Want For Christmas, which features a very young Thora Birch and the forever young Lauren Bacall.

You’ll note my line-up doesn’t include It’s A Wonderful Life, which I only catch sporadically since I’ve always found it a bit manipulative. But if it warms the cockles of your heart during the holidays, add it to the stack.

However, for Thanksgiving, there is only Hannah and Her Sisters, a film in which Allen skillfully mines his favorite themes: love, sex, relationships, infidelity, mortality, religion, culture and the meaning of life. Yet, this one also has a creamy center since, beneath it all, this is a true romantic comedy, with a heart and soul that fit precisely into that certain longing that infects most of us around the holidays. And in today’s world, its warmth, escape and comic relief are needed more than ever.

A New Year’s Reflection

Each year as the holidays roll around, I find myself thinking about a friend who, just before Christmas, marks the anniversary of his teenage son’s death in an auto accident. I remember with great clarity sitting in his office one afternoon while he told me the entire story. I hadn’t asked for the details, had only again told him that I hoped he was doing well. But, without introduction, he began, and I listened in that uncomfortable way that enfolds you when faced with someone’s intense grief and pain.

His son and his best friend had spent the night at the home of another family. They left in their cars at the same time in the morning, traveling together until one turned left and the other turned right. Shortly after turning, his son lost control of his car, ran off the road, hit a tree and was killed instantly. Moments later, the best friend also wrecked, was knocked unconscious and trapped in his overturned truck, which began to burn. However, when others arrived on the scene, he was found away from the truck, still unconscious and critically injured. But he was alive, and survived. He doesn’t know how he got out of the truck, and emergency personnel couldn’t explain how he could have escaped due to his injuries.

This still grieving father is convinced that his son, who had died just an instant before, saved his friend as a final act of compassion. He believes this deeply and takes comfort in this fact. And I have no reason to dispute him because I have come to believe there are things in this world that defy rational explanation.

As I rose to leave, he came from behind his desk and hugged me, which was surprising since we had only known each other a short time and mainly in a business setting. He told me the most important thing he had learned from his son’s death is that there is nothing certain in this life, and that each day we should hug the people close to us and tell them that we love them. Because, as he learned in the most horrible way possible, the day may come when you cannot do it.

The Forgotten Force of Moderation

Those of us who count ourselves among the Boomer Generation probably recall that once upon a time in American politics there was a thing called a “moderate.” These were elected representatives, both Democratic and Republican, who gravitated toward the middle of the political spectrum, who could be counted upon to consider all sides of a situation and then serve as the “moderating” force that resulted in bills being debated, adjusted and ultimately passed. All this was done in the spirit intended by the founding fathers of elected officials representing the best interests of their constituents while coming together collectively for the good of all.

Today, this seems like ancient history, even myth—those long-ago days when the majority and minority leaders of the House and Senate sat down together, with allies and aides, and hammered out legislation, with compromise often the necessary ingredient for progress. In those mythical times, it wasn’t about winning politically—or not losing—but about responding to the will of the electorate, and doing what was best for constituents and the country. Now, however, moderation has been replaced by polarization that has the system frozen.

Coming to Terms with “Someday”

The other day, for no apparent reason, I was struck by the concept encompassed within the word “someday.” The dictionary makes it short and sweet, defining it as “at some future time,” and noting such synonyms as “eventually” and “sooner or later.” Though it was “finally” that perhaps was closer to my own thoughts.

I believe what triggered this unexpected examination was thinking about a place I find wonderfully alluring—Big Sur in California—and telling myself, “I’d like to live there someday.” Then I suddenly recognized that now, much closer to the end than the beginning, my “somedays” are limited. What would have been at age 25 a reasonable fantasy that could realistically be translated into a reality, now must be tempered by a true expectation of how many days remain.

“Someday” is a word that defines itself differently depending on age and perspective. It roots itself in the concept of time, that relentless ticking of the clock and the cold fact that life makes no promises, offers no guarantees. Which leads to either willing acceptance of the inevitable end, or blind denial based in fear of the unalterable fact of death.

A Simple Bumper Sticker Says It All: Don’t Postpone Joy

My adopted home of Asheville, North Carolina continues to make lists for best of this and best of that, which makes some people happy (particularly those in the tourism and real estate industries). There are others among us who would prefer to be a bit further off the grid.

However, one list the town hasn’t made—as far as I know and assuming there is such a list—is as the place with the most cars bearing multiple bumper stickers. There are vehicles on the streets here on which literally the entire rear is covered with all manner of messages in an array of colors. It may well be part of the eclectic, bohemian joie de vivre here in which letting your freak flag fly is both condoned and encouraged. Or maybe it’s just a subtle, and not so subtle, way to make your feelings visible. And, like a good quote, the quick, pithy bumper sticker message may have more clout and perhaps even produces more contemplation.

There’s one I hadn’t run across previously, but seems to abound here: “Don’t Postpone Joy.” I can’t say how many times I’d probably seen it before I actually paused and considered the sentiment.

Terry Gross + Doris Day = Fresh Air?

If you’re a devotee of NPR, it’s likely you’ve enjoyed the interview skills of Terry Gross, who’s hosted “Fresh Air” for the past quarter century. Even if you’re one who believes NPR stands for “Nationalized Pinko Radio” (you know who you are), you should give Gross a chance because, first, you will find she has no agenda, and, second, she attracts a range of individuals who open up under her subtle probing and offer insights that are both entertaining and informative. In other words, you might learn something and have a good time in the process.

Gross is the subject of the always enlightening final-page “Proust Questionnaire” in the September issue of Vanity Fair, and several of her answers were sterling:

What is the trait you most deplore in others? The inability to stop talking about themselves when they’re not being interviewed.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Entrepreneurialism.

What is your current state of mind? Like someone is hitting the Delete button on the things I’d like to remember, and putting the things I wish I could forget in boldface.

The Man Who Should Have Been Leader of the Free World

In these days of irrational, even insane political machinations, it’s not hard for the memory to slip backward to a candidate who could make sense of all this and again lead the country to greatness, or at least back to being a legend in its collective mind. He’s the candidate who stated quite clearly, “I must choose my words carefully in order to avoid any negative interpretation. Among politicians, this is a tactic known as lying.”

He decried the idea of a professional politician and established an open and honest position: “If nominated I will not run, and if elected I will not serve.” He proclaimed himself neither left-wing nor right-wing, but “middle-of-the-wing,” while observing, “If either the right wing or the left wing gained control of the country, it would probably fly around in circles.” He saw the country’s ills as being traced to a single source: “All the problems we face in the United States today can be traced to an unenlightened immigration policy on the part of the American Indian.”

He was the founder of the Straight Talking American Government Party (STAG), and his straightforward, to-the-point campaign slogan was, “I’ve upped my standards. Now, up yours.” He was Pat Paulsen, and even though he’s no longer with us except in spirit, that spirit might be a better choice to head this country, maybe with Bill Clinton as vice-president.

You Knew Earworms Were Real–But Now They’re Official

Everyone has suffered an “earworm,” whether you knew what to call it or not. You know, that song that crept from somewhere in your cortex and began to sing itself over and over and—

Even as I write this, Tom Petty is crooning “It’s Good to Be King” in my ear, which hopefully is a reflection of my current state of mind. A couple of days ago, it was horrific as I couldn’t stop Glen Campbell from wailing “Galveston” until I wanted to beat my head against the wall. Why that song, which I haven’t heard in at least two decades, at least not that I remember? Had I done something unmentionable and my brain, that so-called conscience therein, was punishing me? I finally had to plug in “Exile on Main Street” at a painful decibel rate to drive Glen out of town. Of course, then “Tumbling Dice” started rolling around, and, for some bizarre reason, it was the Linda Rondstadt version.

But, still, better than “Galveston.” Oh, what, now it’s in your head? Sorry.

But I digress. The news is that “earworm” has officially been accepted into the lexicon of life by the editors of Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary in their latest update, joining other such keywords as mashup, sexting, man cave, and f-bomb. “Earworm” is defined as “a song or melody that keeps repeating in one’s mind.” But as one commentator put it, “it’s more like an insidious virus holding up a tiny boombox inside your brain, playing the same song over and over and over.”