Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part I

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part I

 

Mildly dismayed, immobile in my platform shoes, and sporting a bad comb-over, I had the stunned look of a man wondering why he was here. Here, was the crowded waiting room of Pennsylvania Station, New York City on a weekday summer afternoon. I was 33, the year was 1973. 

There was frenzy all around. A happy crowd, it seemed, and full of purpose. 

 

As for me, I kept asking, "Should I go through with this?”

By “this” I meant take a trip for a couple of days. Problem was I was unsure of the destination. One choice was Block Island, RI. Maybe I'd go there. Some friends had spoken of a good time there a few years back. That was all I knew.

 I felt I had to get away - do something.

My planning was minimal. Days before I had gotten out a map and traced over the dotted line indicating ferry service between New London CT and Block Island. The next day on the commuter train into Penn Station I was still undecided. 

I was trusting the gods, more or less, trying to be spontaneous which I felt was the in-thing in 1973. I was straining to keep pace, but with who? Truth was, hippies were well ahead of me, and behind me? ... well that appeared to have mysteriously vanished.

I was channeling Carl Jung’s book Memories, Dreams and Reflections, where he talked of the journey as a life-altering event and I suppose that was what I wanted. So I was ready – albeit half-hearted – for a journey, but as far as what it was or how it would be life-altering - no clue.

I was a divorced father of two beautiful daughters who were my best friends. Sometimes I thought, my only friends. They were, after all, my main dinner companions, shopping pals, movie dates and traveling buddies. Earlier in the summer I had toured the east coast with them, the Jersey Shore and then on to Washington DC and back.  Now I was going to try a small venture alone. What came to mind was a phrase from A.E. Housman - “fighting sorrow.” 

At Penn Station I slipped into the line at the information booth. A woman ahead of me was asking, “When is the next train to Danbury?”

“Grand Central,” said the man at the booth. The woman said nothing. Then inquired, "What time?"

            "Grand Central," the man repeated, this time with a stare. The woman stared back. Finally he said, “Lady!”

She stepped aside, presumably she got the message.

The next guy, wanted to return a ticket. The Info man lowered his head, rolled up his eyes and gave a thumb point. “Over there.” The guy scooted away.

My turn.

            “I want to go to Block Island,” I said.

“New London or Providence?”

This should not have confused me, but like a New York kid taking a State Regent Exam, I froze. I starred at the info man. He starred back. Seconds passed. Then suddenly I got it. Thank you God. “There must be a ferry from Providence too,” I surmised. I wanted to ask which was shorter but fearing a put-down, I muttered only, “Do you have a schedule?”

He shoved an Amtrak Eastern Schedule at me and I bolted off.

I bought a round-trip ticket on the 3:10 Metro-liner to Boston. Why Boston? Not sure, but unlike Block Island, I’d been there before – with my wife – ex-wife. Perhaps that was where I’d go.

I wandered about the station and drifted into a bookstore, empty but for a cluster of a half dozen men in suits near the back. I walked toward them. Just as I thought, it was the sex-mag section. I backpedaled out. Bad karma.

I went back to the waiting area. Hippie-like young people sauntered through. I was hippie-unlike, or, perhaps more, hippie-wannabe. The real hipsters were young athletic looking men (boys) and women (girls) variously armed with guitars, backpacks with rolled blankets, one actually with a wine skin slung from his shoulder, another with a folding bicycle, crossbar resting on his shoulder like a golf bag. Almost all were outfitted with Swiss Alp hiking boots over rag wool socks.

I stared down at my platform shoes. Light and comfortable, yes, but as for a rugged outdoorsy look – Not. My bag was a small duffel-type that I carried at my side like a briefcase.

When I climbed aboard the 3:10 train, my mind raced. Maybe I’ll go straight through to Boston, I thought. At least I’ll know something about it, having been there before. I didn’t know where the Block Island Ferry was, either one – Providence or New London. “Play it safe” a voice told me.  I took a widow seat and tried to relax before deciding about New London or Boston. 

We surfaced in the Bronx rolling past Yankee Stadium and I thought of the letter I’d received from the Yankees, when I was in high school, inviting me to a tryout at Yankee Stadium.  No - I wasn’t about to be signed to a farm team contract. Had I been, I would have signed up after college and likely would not now be looking for a dubious adventure on this north bound Metro-liner. But I was here, not there. Anyway I saved the letter.

Soon we were hugging the Connecticut shoreline, beaches and inlets surrounded by tall grass. Two men in a lazy rowboat hoisted beer cans as if to say, “Bet you wish you were here.”

I guess.

A family of four on a narrow beach, each held up a single hand salute, as they tugged chairs, blankets and sundry beach paraphernalia toward home.

Before long I heard the conductor shout, “New London next,” and my chest thumped. Should I get off or continue on? I stood up, fetched my bag. The train stopped and suddenly the decision was made.  Seconds later I was outside on the platform, turning my head as home bound commuters brushed by.

I thought of the people still on the train, peering out the windows. Did I look forlorn? Confused? Anxious? All of above?

The train whistle sounded and I considered dashing back, waving my arms, and shouting, “Wait! Wait!” But the cars pulled away and there I was alone on the empty platform in New London, CT at 6 PM on a Tuesday night.

I tried to gather myself. A minute passed. I saw what looked like a ferry dock right next to the station. I walked over. A sign said, “Block Island Ferry.” “Good,” I thought, “I can just hop on right here. Wow, that was convenient." I asked a man on the dock “What time is the ferry for Block Island?”

“11 AM,” he said.

I missed it - by seven hours.

... continued - at Part II

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part II

 ... continued from Part I

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part II

“Now what?” I thought. Over my shoulder the downtown area of New London was visible in the distance. It didn’t warm my heart. I moseyed about the empty dock trying to think of what to do when I noticed another ferry dock up ahead. I walked toward it.

“Is there a ferry here?’ I asked.

“Orient Point,” was the reply. 

 

Never heard of it. I was told it was on Long Island. OK, I had been to Long Island once, a decade ago but remembered nothing about it.

Regardless, I bought a ticket on the last boat to Orient Point, an 8 PM departure. I watched as a couple of dozen cars and a few pick-up trucks rolled onto the boat deck. I was the only one walking aboard. I soon discovered why? Orient Point was not a town. The nearest town was ten miles away. This brought a wave of more anxiety. I started thinking that I had a history of impetuous, dangerous decisions. I couldn’t think of them all now but I felt, as I looked at the gathering darkness in the night sky, that it was true. And now it would do me in. My trouble was I didn’t think things through.

I stood on the top deck of the ferry and tried to bring positive thoughts to my mind. The water looked cold, dark, and unfriendly. There were two couples on the deck - lovers I presumed plus two teenagers that I struck up a conversation with. Finally I got to the point: “Could you possibly give me a ride into town when the ferry gets to Long Island?”

They refused. Said they had no room. I pretended to understand, remembering when, as a teenager, I turned down a hitchhiker who asked for a ride at a NJ Turnpike rest stop. “I promised my parents I wouldn’t pick up anyone,” was my excuse.  These teens were college students, I was a teacher. We told a few jokes, stories about studying, but mild discomfort remained – because of the ride refusal, I was sure. Eventually they went back to sit in their car. I watched them, trying to see if their car was really full, but it was out of view.

What soon came into view was Orient Point, or I should say a single street light appeared, because that, essentially, was all Orient Point was – a street light and an outhouse size ticket booth shed, plus the dock. That was about it.

After we locked into the dock I strolled off the boat trying to put a spring in my step, as if I knew what I was doing and where I was going. It was all for show, for the riders in the cars that were sweeping past me. The faint circle of light from the street lamp soon gave way to darkness on an unpaved, sandy road. Cars rolled by. I imagined people asking, “What is this guy doing here alone, walking?”

Who me? Oh I’m just walking along here, going off to sleep in one of these fields. Don’t worry, I’m the outdoorsy sort. Also I’m a successful businessman, person – just out for a little solitary jaunt. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Needing some solitude, that’s all. I’m fine.

I was reluctant to hitchhike, not wanting to be observed by the college kids I’d asked for a ride but finally, panicked, I stuck out my thumb. The next car stopped.

I climbed into the back seat mumbling how easy it was to get a ride as I tried to get a look at the driver and his female companion. They turned trying to size me up as well.

“Where are you going?” the driver asked.

“To civilization,” I quipped, “If it’s not out of your way.” I let out a nervous laugh, wanting to show just enough desperation to curry favor but not so much as to appear deranged.  

 I asked, “Can I get to the Hamptons?” A long ago friend, a New York savvy guy, often spoke fondly of weekends in “The Hamptons.” I knew it by name only, much like I knew the rest of L.I. - like I knew Block Island. It turned out to be a dumb question.

“You’d have to take two ferries. It’s probably too late for that.”

“Yeah,” I conceded. Who knew? “Are there any towns, where there’s a motel maybe.” I said betraying my despair.

“Greenport, there’s one there.”   

I didn’t ask if it was out of their way. I didn’t want to give any opportunity for them to refuse.

They dropped me in Greenport, in front of a motel.  “Do you have any vacancies?” I asked trying for a look that was needy enough to qualify for the presidential suite. But it was no luck.

“Perhaps, at the Townsend, they may have a room. I could call …” the clerk said. I brought up the forlorn look again as she dialed the number. I sighed relief when I heard, “He’ll be there in about twenty minutes. It may take him a while, he’s walking.” I thought that the last comment was not great because it could suggest vagrancy. I thanked the proprietor and headed out repeating the directions in my head.  

 I felt more at ease, being in a town. The earth felt warm again. Suddenly an earsplitting howl from a nearby yard startled me almost to my death. I lunged away from the sidewalk, scraping my forehead on a tree trunk before bouncing off onto the street. “This dog will kill me,” I thought just before I realized that there was a fence between us. 

 

With my heart still racing, I continued on my way. That the world is a dangerous place replaced my “warm earth” thoughts.

The Townsend Motel/Inn was wonderful. Charming colonial décor and built of mostly wood with an attached restaurant and bar - just what the doctor ordered. I felt safe finally.

I dropped my bag in the clean fragrant room and went downstairs to the bar to unwind with a beer. There were two partially inebriated couples at one end of the bar and one attractive woman at the other. As a sober observer I labeled the couples as attractive, but off limits as far as striking up conversation. As for the lone woman, I overheard her complaining to the bartender about working until 4 AM last night and then getting up at 6:30 this morning. “Surely she exaggerates,” I thought.  I wasn’t about to try to engage either party. I nursed the beer and then headed up for bed.

Sunlight through the window woke me. It felt great. I showered, shaved, and went downstairs for breakfast - eggs, home fries, toast and coffee – great again. I bought a copy of the L.I. daily, Newsday. I enjoyed the paper and thought maybe I’d send them an account of my trip. Yes, good idea - me, adventure man, writer - great. Where was I going again?

I left the motel at around 9 AM. In daylight I saw Greenport as a charming town with tree lined streets, sidewalks, middle-class homes and a nearby shoreline visible down the side streets.  I headed toward the shore. A fifties model car with a bumper sticker that said, “I’d rather be fishing,” rumbled by. OK - what to do now? One idea was the Hamptons; the other was catch a train and go back home – more or less admit failure. A drug store clerk offered that there was a bus stop on the corner down the street. “There’s a sign there. When a bus comes, ask the driver if he goes to the Hamptons.” OK, I could figure that out, but who knew when a bus would show up?

“Thanks,” I said and shuffled out thinking I would try the railroad station. I liked trains better than buses.

There was an old man – probably fifty – sitting on a bench at the station. “Train leaves in forty-eight minutes,” he said, “It’s a bus.”  

“A bus?”

“A bus takes you part way, then a train.”

My shoulders slumped as I strolled along a rusted side track. I stepped over a broken wooden fence,  ignoring a weathered “Keep Off” sign and walked onto a dilapidated pier. I watched small ferry boats crisscrossing the placid bay. An arriving ferry floated into a nearby dock. A hardy lad on board threw a thick rope to an old man standing on the shore. The man wrapped the rope around an anvil shaped piling and the boat glided snugly into its dock. 

I decided I'd get on. 

... continued - see Part III

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part III

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part III

... continued from Part II

I headed over toward the ferry. A stream of cars rolled toward land, their noses dipping as they bounced across the dock. Another dozen or so cars, pointing in the opposite direction waited to fill the empty boat deck.

“How much to get on?” I asked the college kid working the ticket booth.

“Walkin?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, a hint of adventure in my voice.

“Twenty-five cents,” he said.

“Is there a road over there that leads to the south shore,” I said. It was the first time I ever used the term south shore. I felt a bit more competent, like I was Walt Whitman on a journey from NYC to Boston, walking the old Boston Post Road. South shore – yeah, cool.

The waiting cars drifted onto the boat, which looked like a large oblong raft with a high telephone booth on the side middle. I paid my twenty-five cents and joined the crowd, feeling special. Out on the bay I began to feel even more special. I stood on the bow, a gentle breeze hitting my face and decided what I would do. I would walk across Long Island, north to south, to the Hamptons. Walking the whole distance, I calculated that I would arrive before dark. I felt, happy and safe for the first time. I wasn’t enough of a hippie outdoorsman to hike through the Adirondack wilderness, but - walk along Long Island roads in daylight – I could do that.  And didn’t it sound good? “I hiked across Long Island, north shore to south shore.”

The destination of this boat was Shelter Island which was an island in the middle of Long Island. That meant another ferry to the south shore. Fine with me. I’d heard of Shelter Island. Now I was about to walk it. The ferry slowed as it aimed for the Shelter Island dock. Chains unraveled clanking; a large wheel turned grinding, lowering the bulkhead flush with the boat deck until the ferry was locked snug with the dock.  I was first off when the boat gates opened, strolling southward. There was a purpose to my step.

Several hundred feet into the road I ducked into the woods and changed my long pants for cut-off jeans. This was the hip summer uniform of choice for hardy, adventurous young (aging) hippies – like me. Changing in the woods felt like a major accomplishment, like I was a legit outdoor guy able to live anywhere in the world. 

That done, I trotted out to the road and headed south. A small town came into view at the top of the next hill, a cluster of frame houses and a store or two. I passed a large home with a tennis court. A game was in progress, two men. The server looked surprisingly inept, barely connecting on his first serve. “Bad toss,” he offered. The second serve didn’t reach the net. His opponent looked more able, in all tennis whites, crouched pro-like and ready to receive.  

Forty – five the server announced. What? He was leading? Oh well, I chuckled to myself. And they even have their own court. Must be friends of the owner. Soon I was through the town and approaching the southern edge of Shelter Island. I made the four mile trek to the next ferry in one hour and ten minutes.

The boat was loading when I saw the shoreline come into view. I raced the last hundred yards or so and was gasping, plus more than a bit self-conscious when I finally stepped aboard. “Everyone saw you running down the road,” said the captain, “So we waited for you.”  I thanked him - skipper/captain - whatever. “How much?” I said. “A quarter,” he replied with a smile. I wondered – really? - why bother?

The ferry ride was about twenty minutes. I stood on the bow the whole trip next to two kids that peered into the water counting jellyfish. “One, two,” said one kid. “Five, six, seven,” said the other. “I counted that one,” said the first. Disputes continued the entire voyage. Intermittently they yelled the count back to their mom who forced a smile from a nearby car. I didn’t say anything but personally I doubted their count. I could not verify the sightings which I actually tried to do without being obvious. As we approached the dock they were yelling out numbers in the fifties while walking back to the car not even looking at the water. Oh well.

Off the boat now and back on the road a sign said Sag Harbor, 5 miles. A large highway bridge loomed ahead. I was relieved that the bridge had an ample sidewalk (fear of heights) and I looked down from the railing at the cool bay water below. It was too inviting to resist. I hopped over the rail (illegal, but hey, I was a daring adventure-man) and made my way down the bank of jagged ballast rocks to the water. I removed my shoes and shirt and walked out to knee depth where I set my hands into the water and did a couple of pushups submerging my face, lingering in the refreshing water. Wow!

Invigorated, I made my way back up the pointy rock hill and onto the bridge sidewalk and into Sag Harbor without looking down.  A tavern door faced me on the first street in the village and I decided I’d go in for a beer. The inside was dark and damp, that gave me the feeling of an old shore bar. Nice. There were a dozen or so customers, one woman and the rest men, some standing, some sitting and some half sitting. The bartender was an attractive woman. I judged her to be fiftyish and looking at her ready self-assured smile I imagined her to have a happy life. The same went for her customers, an especially jolly lot for 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. I was the youngest person in the room. I ordered a draft beer. “Glass or stein?” the bartender said. “Glass,” I said and she poured a small glass (8 oz.) from the tap and set it before me.  

Hard to say if this was the best beer I ever tasted, but it got my vote. Still I had just the one. I left three quarters change on the bar and walked out to the bright sun. Who was that hardy adventure-man? I took to the sidewalk this time because it felt easier on my legs which were beginning to stiffen on the front of my thighs. There was no pain, just the tightness, which actually felt good as long as it didn’t get worse.

Out of Sag Harbor the road was straight highway with little variation. My face was burning and I began feeling anxious to finish the journey. I decided to hitch-hike. After a half-dozen cars whizzed by without so much as a glance at me a guy in a truck pulled into an intersection just steps ahead of me. As I walked by I gave him such a pathetic look that he must have pitied me because he shouted that he was only going a mile or so but I could have a ride if I wanted. I hopped in grateful to be sitting. The ride was over in five minutes. I bid him farewell, feeling that I saved a half hour and happy for that.             

 

I stuck out my thumb again but had no luck, just indifference from car after car. I felt rejected – really - which wasn’t pleasant and it led me to begin a new technique. I decided to reject them before they rejected me. Here’s how that worked. When I saw that there was no slowdown as a car approached I quickly turned my back, dropped my outstretched arm and marched onward. Like I care! 

Finally I gave up all together, new technique and all. I tried to calculate my arrival time into the Hamptons if I walked it all. In the middle of my calculations a van pulled up alongside of me. 

“Do you want a lift?” said the woman in the passenger seat. I immediately went into my loner-outdoorsman-hiker-adventure-man mode for the benefit of the woman. I hesitated, as if I really wanted to hike - not ride. 

“Great,” I said like the thought of bumming a ride never occurred to me. I climbed in. There were five children in the back of the van, two women in the front seat. The women were attractive - very. They said that they would take me to the Hamptons and suggested the Sea Spay Inn as a spot to for me to stay. I wondered why the women offered me a ride. Perhaps they thought I actually was an interesting adventure-man type and perhaps they might like to meet me, maybe have a drink with me when we got to the Hamptons. The thought may have occurred to me but, any words, I kept to myself. 


... continued - Part IV

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part IV

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part IV

 ... continued from Part III

re, my experience walking and hitch-hiking across Long Island 

Having just been picked-up hitch-hiking I settled into the back seat. I looked up at the two women in front of me, Very upscale and attractive, I thought.

 

Despite the disarming beauty of the driver and her passenger, I felt that at least some of the credit for their gesture to offer a ride, should go to me - i.e. the adventure man look. After all, I had momentarily ceased hitch-hiking. I was just walking along the road when their car stopped. 

 

"Would you like a ride?" a young women shouted toward me from the passenger window.

 

"Thank you," I said, then offered as I climbed into the back seat, "That was very nice of you."

 

OK, I'm just saying ... That it was not unreasonable that ... yes, ... well ... perhaps my appearance had some appeal – the platform shoes maybe or the cut-off jeans or my shirt half unbuttoned from the neck (very cool). 

 

Shut up, loser!

 

 More likely it was pity (that could be too strong a word), I confess that I did look out of place walking along this highway,possibly more desperate than adventurous. Like perhaps my car broke down, and I needed help ... or something.

Regardless, they were most congenial, inquiring about my circumstance and even recommending a place to stay - the Sea Spray Inn, East Hampton. When they dropped me off they gave me their phone number and said that if I didn’t get a room I should call them. 

 

Hmmm.

 

I walked into the inn wondering if I should have asked one of them (or both?) to have dinner with me – or something. 

 

I succeeded in getting a room, which was a quaint cabin with a small porch. The porch had a chair and an ocean view. The cabins came in pairs. I entered my side and stretched out on the bed, my mind wandering about w­­­hat to do now. I decided to go for a swim in the ocean.

The water was cool. There was a lone woman on the beach that I assumed was staying at the inn so I waded in and quickly dove head first into a wave, macho like. Then I swam out a bit then back and walked onto the sand. The woman was standing at the water’s edge now dipping her toes in.

“The water’s cold,” she said.

“Not bad,” I said. At least not for manly tough guys.

We talked for a bit. She was staying here also and said that the inn had a nice restaurant and a bar that had entertainment.

“It’s a nice atmosphere,” she said.   

I went back to my cabin, took a nap for an hour then showered and went over to the restaurant. I ate a fish sandwich and ordered a beer. The evening crowd filtered in shortly after seven. The entertainment was a couple – man and woman – who played guitar and sang.

  I looked around at the crowd, three couples and a half-dozen thirty-plus/forty-plus single women. I tried not to stare at the others. Being the adventure-man loner type, I nursed my beer. The singers belted out pleasant folk tunes intermittently seeking some audience participation.

“Freedom’s just another word for …” They stopped waiting for someone to finish the sentence. The audience was silent.

“Come on people,” said the male singer.

“I know it,” said a woman.

“Go ahead, what is it?”

“I can’t think of it.”

That did it. I abandoned my loner-brooder- mode and called out “nothing left to lose.”

“All right,” shouted the singer, and then he continued, finishing the song. The crowd shot me approving looks. I slipped back into brooder- mode, “silly game” look drawn onto my face.

The silly games continued. I couldn’t resist one more turn to prove, in addition to being a loner-brooder-adventure-man, I was also a hippie-music-man. The riddle line was “Don’t think twice … I offered, “It’s all right,” and was again cast as celebrity. Thus eventually I joined the crowd, had more than two more beers and actually had a good – wonderful – time. I slept baby-like in my cabin and the next morning bummed a ride to the East Hampton train station from a woman in last night's crowd. I hopped aboard a NYC bound train and from the city got the NJ Transit train home to home, Madison, NJ. All in all a successful venture.

Question: “Where’d you go?”

Answer: “I hiked across Long Island, north shore to south shore.”

Probable response: “Cool!”

“Yeah, no problem. I started with a nighttime ferry ride from New London, CT.”

Further response: “Wow, really?”

My response: “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a cure-all, but it was something.

Life's debt, circa 2009

Life's debt, circa 2009

 

Real life began for me the day my first child was born and the second child, two years later, multiplied the joy. We (wife Donna) had two daughters and the youngest will turn forty this year. As a twentieth century man born to the fortunate circumstances of a middle class American, I have lived a life of many blessings. My two children and their five offspring are healthy, and so my mantra, “As long as your children are healthy, you have all of the world’s blessings,” applies to me daily. My other stock phrase is, “All we ask for is health. Then we have a fighting chance.” 

 

So as far as real problems go, I have none.

Still it would be foolish to think that somehow I have been specially blessed.  I am reminded of a call, a few years back from my daughter Brett who was working as a nurse at a hospital in Los Angles. She had worked a 12 hr. shift on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and toward the end of her shift she was called upon to draw blood from an eleven year old child who was suffering from cancer and was in the Pediatrics ICU. The blood work had to be done every hour so she had to wake the child if he was asleep, as was the case this time. Groggy and in constant pain the young boy moaned faintly to Brett as she awakened him to take his blood for the umpteenth time , “Oh,” he said weakly, “I’ve got so many problems.”

She said that nurses are taught to work focusing on the tasks at hand but at this moment the soft anguish of this young boy broke her heart into a thousand pieces right there. I listened to the story, and immediately was struck with the comparison of this boy’s life to my own and to my daughters. Sadly, the story of the suffering child is not unique or unusual. Thousands of similar pleas are sounded all over the earth each new day. And yet, I wander about this earth, forgetting the very dumb luck that somehow has applied to me.

   

And so it is with the reminder of the small boy in the Los Angeles hospital that I begin again my daily effort to live an undistracted life. I am not sure what this means, except that the concept feels right, even sacred. To me it means don’t waste a healthy life. In other words, any good that I may do let me do it now …. Nice words. Essentially, to clarify, Do unto others ... period. 

Susan Sontag was said to have felt that she was somehow “special” when it came to beating the cancer that had ravaged her body over the course of a decade. She fought on gallantly, but ultimately succumbed. I don’t know why there are those of us that are allowed to avoid the many acute and unspeakable sufferings of the world. I cannot believe that it is because we have been singled out, as special, but I do know this: that living as best one can is the least one can do, to honor those that have had so much less. In my case I will think of that young boy in the hospital, and try again, and again.

And so, what to do in the face of so much suffering and so many lives cut short? The one thing that surfaces is that although you may escape severe pain, your own life will be short as well?  Do not squander your good fortune, I tell myself. Even ninety years, a respectable, but largely unreasonable, outer limit, is well within my own view now, at age seventy.

Must our destiny be like that felt by Joan Didion’s husband quoted by the author from her book, “The Year of Magical Thinking”? I refer to John Dunne’s remarks to Joan upon returning from the hospital where his daughter was critically ill, “Everything [he had done] was worthless," wrote Didion, "a novel he had written, a review for the New Yorker, all worthless.”

Dunne is not alone. The “everything is worthless” notion has risen to the top of practically every thinking head, at one time or another. Me? I am left with only this: that this life of freedom, freedom from pain and suffering, however fleeting, comes with a debt. And to live honorably, that debt must be paid.

While I may fail miserably at this, I vow to forever try, to remember, "Do onto others" - again and again.   

"Vow to forever try?" Sounds a bit less than candid. 

The reason is that, sadly, I've found that  … to actually "do that" … well … many things get it the way. Life, for one thing. Turns out that, though, objectively, do unto others was easy to do – well not really: forgiveness, for one thing was not easy. The point is, the easy version of “do unto others” was also easy to forget about. Not that there were obstacles, but acting on the golden rule wasn't built into my automatic pilot mentality. My auto-pilot, that which I acted upon on a daily basis, was ego gratification, pure and simple: trying to make others think highly of me. And living on that “automatic pilot” was a hard habit to break.

I can only say, "Keep trying."