The eve of my 74th birthday: A few thoughts

A hammer, a bell, and a song to sing

The past and all the days that made us (A lyric from ‘The Saving Things’ by Mary Chapin Carpenter)

When certain people have asked me how I’m doing, my reply has often been “Not bad for an old farm boy from Fowlerville.” Well, I left the farm long ago although that upbringing and its influence have remained—baked into the mental lobes during the formative years. As for Fowlerville, while I haven’t resided there much since heading off to Michigan State University at the tender age of 18, the place and its people (it turned out) have been a central focus for much of my professional life, first, as a reporter and then as the proprietor of the hometown newspaper.

As for old, I didn’t used to be. But it seems this part of the comment has turned out to be an accurate adjective. I’m writing this column on the eve of my 74^th birthday.

I should confess that making retorts like this one, done in response to a heartfelt question, may be a weakness on my part, given that some folks (and probably with good reason) have viewed such quips as being a bit smart aleck. An unintended reaction to my actual intent of showing off my wit or, better yet, my dry sense of humor?

“Leave comedy to the people who are funny” would be good advice.

The same might be said of expressing an opinion, of which I’ve been known to do from time to time. But I yam what I yam so here goes another one.

“How then shall I begin?” asked Prufrock in the T.S. Eliot poem. Well, I won’t do that in this small venue of a column, nor any overview other than to say that much of my life—these 74 years—has been spent as a farm boy and then as a newspaper man, with a lot of family and friends thrown into the mix. This combination, and everything else, is what ‘made me.’

I should add “for better or worse,” but there I go again with the jokes.

* * *

All those dots with the lines connecting them, recognizable although never seeming to be quite complete. The image of a hammer and of a bell as well as the notes of a song…the hammer of justice, the bell of freedom, and the song about the love between my brothers and sisters all over this land. The dots and connecting lines have been the work of so many over the long years—their life’s passion. Done by people inspired by such virtues as compassion, charity, equanimity, tolerance, and a wide and warm embrace of the huddled masses.

People who could not look the over way when a child was hungry or “greed was beating on neighbor near” or the bully was preying on the weak and helpless. Such souls have not always succeeded, but they tried. God knows so many have tried and then sought to pass the torch. And God Bless those who took ahold of it. Who kept putting down the dots and drawing the lines.

But there are always those who have an eraser to remove the dots or use a marker to scribble the lines. Who wish to create a different pattern with their own dots and lines that divide, belittle, terrorize, or have notes of a more martial tune.

Our history is a chronicle of those opposing approaches, with all manner of choices taken in-between. The past is made of a myriad of events, but those events are often the result of what people decide to do, who they follow, or what actions they take. The saint and the sinner, but with most of us having a measure of each. Most of us falling in-between. And what is regarded as saintly and sinful often being in the eye of the beholder.

The moral compass may go awry, and does, still the needle should point to compassion, tolerance, and the helping hand. And guide us when needed to the act of repentance rather than continue a course of stubborn refusal. Yet not an attitude of holier-than-thou. Not a disregard for the desire to defend family and friends, protect hearth and home, and to hold an affection for the way-of-life that is the heritage of the past.

To find common ground rather than build a fortress, to be “part of the main” rather than an island.

The choice is not always (or only) either-or, but rather a blend, a mix, a synthesis. Not just my way, but our way. All those paths, not necessarily easy ones, between the absolute and tempered, the rigid and the wavering, the orthodox and a different option

To sometimes follow the artistic spirit that takes us to an unexpected place. To toss the dice from time to time. To set the sail toward the distant shore and see what final adventures might await.

* * *

“An old man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless… Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing… For every tatter in its mortal dress” were the lines of a W.B. Yeats poem.

At 74 I hope I am not yet too tattered; of little use and diminished measure. I hope I might still “sing and louder sing” and use that hammer, ring the bell, and (while admittedly off key) join the chorus of regard “for my brothers and sisters all over this land.” Yet defend as well my family and friends, hearth and home, and the way-of-life that is the heritage of the past.

To put down a few more dots and draw another line or two, done with the hope of helping further complete that picture of common good and welfare of all.

Steve Horton is a mid-Michigan journalist.