CALLS TO THE OTHER SIDE - In Touch With the Mystical

It started with that old tin-cans-and-string “walkie-talkie” sham. I wanted it to work so badly that it never dawned on me that I was simply hearing my little buddies’ voices through the air.

Technology wasn’t advancing all that fast back then. So when an ad for what sounded like a real walkie talkie appeared in Boys Life, I had to have one. Now I could actually talk with someone I couldn’t hear otherwise—as long as we were no further apart than the length of the 30-foot cord.

Looking back on those precious games, I can now see that they were the genesis of a life-long fascination with communication. Well, not so much the kind you engage in face-to-face—or through a string—but communication that broaches one or more “membranes” of separation: great distances, long periods of time, physical barriers, different environments or mediums. Communication that feels like you've just discovered buried treasure.

    That little Emerson radio might as well
    have been some deep space receiver developed
    by NASA.

TUNING IN
When I was about ten, I discovered a magical thing called “skip,” in which AM radio waves, prevented from dissipating into the atmosphere by the electronically-charged ionosphere, can travel phenomenal distances, especially at night.

I’d sit for hours with my ear pressed against the dark brown Bakelite speaker grill of our old Emerson table radio. I’d start turning the tuning knob and, bypassing the clear, strong stations, listen for the faintest signal I could make out.

The reception was intermittent, fading in and out. My goal was to hear a station break while the signal was strong enough to recognize its location or call letters. (Of course, my chances would spike on the hour and half-hour, when stations are required to give their IDs.)

Those faint voices brought down the walls of my room. That little Emerson radio might as well have been some deep space receiver developed by NASA. How mysterious and satisfying to learn that some of the radio waves had traveled all the way across the country—and even a few from other countries. I imagined them as sheer curtains, undulating through a thousand miles or more of starry skies.

BREAKER, BREAKER
Even more seductive was short-wave radio. One of my friends had a rather elaborate set-up for a kid. With his radio we could not only listen in on distant signals, but actually talk with a real person thousands of miles away.

Much later it was the CB (Citizens Band) radio fad. My boss at the ad agency I worked for in New Hampshire had one in his car. With no real need, he’d just put a shout out to any interstate trucker lonely enough to pick up, and then ask about road conditions and speed traps. This medium, though it couldn’t touch short-wave in its reach, had it beat by a mile in the relatively compact size of its apparatus.

When I enlisted in the Army, as luck would have it, I was assigned to the Army Security Agency. Our top-secret mission was to listen in on our own forces’ communications and report any security violations. To do this, we had to become proficient in Morse code.

I got very good and very fast at transcribing code. My motivation, besides getting let out of class early to go play pinball at the PX, was, I’m sure, this continuing intrigue with otherworldly communication. And the secrecy element, sending and receiving messages in code, just added to the enchantment.

         If the sender hit an X instead of the C,
         that’s exactly what would get typed out
         on the recipient’s paper scroll.

IMMEDIACY
In my late 30s I worked for a manufacturing company here in Minneapolis. One of my job assignments there involved sending and receiving Telex messages with customers around the world. That precursor to email would transmit directly, typewriter to typewriter via telephone, messages the sender pecked out on the machine’s keyboard.

Of course, I thought that was pretty exotic. Part of the immediacy of Telex communication was that messages were received exactly as they were typed, character by character. If the sender screwed up and hit an X instead of the C, that’s exactly what would get typed out on the recipient’s paper scroll.

If technology had been plodding along all those years since my cans-and-string walkie talkie, it hit warp speed with the development of the Internet. Now, with e-mail you could review what you’d typed, make corrections—or let your computer’s spell-check do it for you—add attachments, and send it off in a neat little package. Before long, some people's idea of communicating got distilled to a 140-character "tweet."

Then, along came the cell phone, and one’s window to the world and to all the information ever recorded was reduced to a device the size of a deck of cards. And today, with video conferencing via FaceTime or Zoom, we just take for granted both hearing and seeing the people we’re communicating with in real time.

In this rapidly changing milieu, it’s only a matter of time before the device will evolve to something the size of a pea implanted into one’s brain at birth.

      If there’s something down there in that
      cold, dark, liquid place, it eventually sends  
      you a message through the line.

WIRED TO AN ALIEN WORLD
There are other kinds of communication with mystical qualities. Ones far more tactile than technical, where the message is sent in ways other than words or pictures. For example, during the boyhood summers I spent in Franconia, a little village on the banks of the St. Croix River, I’d dig holes in the ground just to see if I came across some old square nail or pottery shard. I was always on the lookout for Native American flint or chert arrowheads.

I imagine what it must be like working on an archeological team that discovers artifacts of long-since-vanished civilizations. Or on a paleontological dig unearthing bones of creatures that walked the earth millions of years before man.  

Fishing is another example, one I fully and frequently indulge. You throw out a morsel of food that sinks deep into a hidden, alien world, connected to you by a thin filament held between your fingers. Then you wait for the offering to be acknowledged.

If there’s something down there in that cold, dark, liquid place, it eventually sends you a message through the line. Is it a kind of fish you’ve caught a hundred times before or one you’ve never seen? Is it big or small? Is it even a fish at all, or maybe an eel or turtle?


The clues might come in the form of cautious nibblings or a reckless attack. The creature might pull on the line or it might carry the bait toward you, slacking the line. Some fish gingerly gum the bait to see if there’s anything that doesn’t taste or feel right. Some grasp the bait between their lips, run a few feet and drop it—I guess just to see what happens. Others greedily gobble up the bait and run as fast as they can with it, perhaps chased by rivals.

        It's only a matter of time before there'll
        be some kind of teleportation, and the word 
       "virtual" will fade from use.

APOLOGIES
Now I don’t know what the next chapter of my mystical messages kick will look like. It’s hard to imagine what wonders technology will unleash next. Perhaps a way to make distance messaging feel more immediate, more personal.

Long-term, I suppose it's only a matter of time before there'll be some kind of teleportation, and the word "virtual" will fade from use, along with our other apologies for all these little glowing screens. And time travel won't be far behind.

Or just maybe one day we'll see a global cultural epiphany. A realization that our obsession these past few decades with all things faster, farther and slicker, despite its sexiness, has taken a toll. And just maybe that will open a creaky old door behind which ten-year-old kids will once again be mesmerized by digging holes and fishing.

DOWN BY THE TRACKS – The Forbidden Allure of St. Paul’s St. Clair Park

How ironic that the same steamy, southeasterly summer breezes that wafted over my boyhood home with the stench of death from South St. Paul’s Swift and Armour slaughter houses also carried the romantic, mournful wail of trains passing, blocks away, down below the bluff at St. Clair Park.

Those sounds were among my first and fondest childhood memories. Once in a great while, Dad would drive my brother and me over to the park’s scenic overlook where we waited for 15 or 20 minutes to see if a train would come.

PHOTO: Doug Kroll

By the time I was ten, I’d learned that, come nightfall, that overlook was for a different kind of “parking,” the one involving couples doing…what couples do. My trouble-making little pals and I were always tempted to spy on them…but, alas, we weren’t allowed out that late.

      Our parents weren’t idiots; they warned us
      about the shady connection between slow-
      moving freight trains and desperate men.

CARNAL KNOWLEDGE
When I got to be twelve or so, I enjoyed a bit more parental leeway. By that time, my friends and I found what was going on above the hill at St. Clair Park far less interesting than what happened down below on the banks and along the railroad tracks. On those slopes we explored a maze of tunnel-like paths among the thick underbrush, where we found the kind of dangerous and exotic things that begin to open up the real world to a boy that age.

There were the bums. Our parents weren’t idiots; they warned us about the shady connection between slow-moving freight trains and desperate men. Nonetheless, we had a few encounters with those characters. We weren't quite sure which was more com- pelling: the alleged danger or our fascination with the sights, sounds...and smells of scrag- gly men and their paradoxical freedom.                                 
There were the lovers. Once, deep in the underbrush, we happened upon a couple doing what they didn’t quite dare do up above the bluff in their cars. I still feel bad for interrupting them. And they evidently weren’t the only ones; we must have found dozens of used prophylactics down there. I’m pretty sure one of my more worldly pals had to tell me they weren’t balloons.

This romantic appeal of St. Clair Park’s nether regions wasn’t lost on me; in fact, it turned out to be the setting for my first kiss with a girl. I had a serious crush on my little class-mate, Susan. I don’t remember how we arranged for the tryst, but we ended up in a sort of cave under an abandoned coal elevator, where we very deliberately agreed to see what it would be like. It was like…well, what can I say;
I guess you never forget your first time.

         It was like the very best,  funnest class 
         in zoology, botany, physics, chemistry, 
         sociology…all rolled into one.

CRITTERS AND CRUSHERS
Then there was the wildlife. Turns out we weren’t the only creatures plying those rabbit warrens below the park. There were…okay…rabbits. But also snakes, foxes, raccoons, possums and all sorts of creepy, crawly things. Even—probably because the trains spilled lots of grain along the tracks—the occasional skulking rat.

I must say we rarely looked up lest we miss another rubber, a cheap piece of lost jewelry, a spent bullet casing or maybe a still-smokeable cigarette butt. But when we did, above us was a flying menagerie of other critters: songbirds, crows, raptors, and winged insects. And all of it as exotic as those far-flung jungle scenes we'd see in a Tarzan movie.

And, of course, there were the trains. To a young boy, seeing and hearing one with your dad from fifty feet up and a block away is one thing; being right on the tracks as a 150-ton locomotive approaches—feeling the ground shake, hearing the explosive blast of that horn—that’s another thing altogether.

Who knows how lore like this spreads, but we’d heard that those big locomotives were so heavy they could squash a penny. (We’d also heard that putting one on the track could cause a train to derail.) So, guess which rumor moved us. (Yes, a train actually does flatten a penny quite nicely.)

Maybe it was something we contracted from all those hoboes, but we were also fascinated with the idea of hopping one of those trains and seeing where it might take us. Though I don’t think it would ever have entered my parents’ minds to say, “Never…ever…hop a freight train,” somehow I knew it had to be insanely dangerous.

Still, that didn’t entirely stop us; we’d pick one of the slower trains and run alongside a boxcar’s U-shaped step-up just to see if we’d be fast enough. I think one of my buddies actually did hop up and grab on—but he jumped right off again when he realized the train was speeding up. That whole thing, thank God, could have turned out badly.

BEST CLASS EVER
Besides all the fun and adventure, it’s hard to overstate the amount of learning that transpired down there at St. Clair Park. Climbing up things; sliding down things; building things; lighting things on fire; blowing things up with firecrackers; digging, piling…oh, and—I'm pretty sure Mom and Dad were smart enough to have guessed as much—smoking.

It was like the very best, funnest class in zoology, botany, physics, chemistry, physiology, sociology…all rolled into one. And no silly parents telling us we couldn’t do what we knew darn well we could.

        Most of parents’ cautions are based on 
        culturally-fomented fears, not facts, about 
        the actual incidence of childhood accidents 
        and crime.

CRIME...AND PUNISHMENT
Just now, I googled “St. Clair Park, St. Paul,” and next to nothing shows up; I can’t even find a picture of the place. Though I haven’t driven by for many years, I'm guessing it must have changed considerably. Who knows, maybe it’s not even a park any more; maybe it’s covered in luxury condos.

And I’m sure that kind of place is even further off the radar for today's generation of kids. Hell, parents barely let their children out of their sight any more, much less set them free to actually explore their own limits the way we once did—the only way, in fact, that kids can truly exercise their creativity, judgement and self-reliance.

Much easier to let the little ones fall under the spell of whatever’s lurking on those mesmerizing little glowing screens. No danger there, right?

What a shame, for most of parents’ cautions these days about letting kids roam are based on culturally-fomented fears, not facts, about the actual incidence of childhood accidents and crime—neither of which has proven to be any higher than it was in those halcyon days of our own youth. But I guess lawyers, insurers and the media have their own reasons for letting them think otherwise.

WHAT A SCREAM
I can still feel the exuberance of testing our boyhood metal against the worst challenges our little urban jungle could dish out. It was a time of such freedom, such camaraderie and fun—a priceless time. Sometimes I dream of going back and being that impressionable, awe-struck boy once again. And now and then, albeit in other, more distant wild places—including some real jungles—I still live that dream.

Except now my lusty, full-voice Tarzan yell comes out in a wavering baritone, not soprano.

DONE TO A TURN – The World’s Smallest Barbecue

When I was a boy, my family had a summer home on the lovely St. Croix River, about an hour north of St. Paul. My brother and I spent many abundant summers there with Mom, while Dad came and went, commuting most days to work in the city.

Franconia, in its heyday an active logging town complete with school, post office, livery, saloon and jail, had found rebirth in the 40s and 50s as a mostly-summer retreat for well-to-do St. Paul families. With its deep-wooded hills, seething meadows, foot-numbing trout stream and, of course, the river, it was an idyllic place. I spent nearly every waking hour outdoors.

Besides the many other city kids our age who shared the adventure with us, Franconia had its share of home-grown characters. There was old Gus Munch, who lived in the old, never painted home right on Lawrence Creek—and whom, strangely, no one ever seemed to see. There were Spuddy and Ike Vitalis. She had dark, leathery skin and a gravelly, baritone, chain-smoker’s voice. And the twinkle in her eye and warm embrace of all us kids all but compensated for Ike's crusty detachment.

One of Spuddy and Ike’s sons was Jackie, a strapping young man in his mid-twenties—a bricklayer. Personality-wise, he took after his mother; he loved kids…and life. With his well-tanned weightlifter’s physique, spirited blue eyes and naturally curly hair, he was the embodiment of Swedish perfection. And he was the idol of all us little river rats.

     By the time he poked his head out into the 
     gap between boughs, Jackie already had him 
     in his sights.

THE HUNTING PARTY
Every July, my family would host all our Franconia neighbors for a pig roast. Dad would buy a whole pig and rent a commercial motorized rotisserie. Early the morning of the event, while he set up the roaster in the back yard, my brother and I would dig a large pit, fill it with bags and bags of charcoal briquettes, and then, with Dad’s close supervision, light it.

One year, after everyone had gotten their fill of that succulent pork and its many accompaniments, Jackie, like an inspired camp counselor, gathered a few of us boys, and enlisted us as co-conspirators in his vision: our own, kid-sized barbecue. Then, with us in tow, he headed home to pick up his .22. 

We set out up the steep, wooded flank of Monument Hill, eyes peeled for our quarry: red squirrel. At the top, we heard it before we saw it. Fifty yards away, hidden somewhere in the impenetrable needleage of a big old pine tree, the little critter had already spotted us and let loose with his scolding chatter.

I'm afraid that squirrel didn’t know who he was up against. Jackie, giving us all a lesson in woodsman’s wiles, motioned us stealthily forward, and there we just waited the little bugger out. As we all held our breaths, the squirrel must have thought we’d left. And by the time he poked his head out into the gap between boughs, Jackie already had him in his sights.

With the rifle’s sharp clap still echoing through the forest, our kill tumbled to the ground, bouncing twice off the thick, tawny bed of needles. Feeling like heroes, we toted our prize back to the barbecue. The only difference between us and those storied safari hunters like Hemingway or Teddy Roosevelt was that no one even noticed our trophy; Jackie's big hand pretty much enveloped it.

A THREE-BRIQUETTE FIRE PIT  
Now came the fun part. We watched, spellbound, as Jackie skinned and gutted the pitiful six-inch carcass. Someone got a coat hanger from the house while I spaded out a little three-by-six-inch pit in the lawn right next to the big pig-roasting pit.

We filled our version of the pit with three briquettes, sprinkled on some lighter fluid and lit it. As the charcoal caught, Jackie helped us fashion our wire spit, complete with a handle for turning. Then, with the squirrel skewered, we mounted the spit between two forked-stick supports and started turning.

In about ten minutes, our little roast was nicely browned and sizzling. There was barely enough meat for all the kids to have a taste, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that we’d had an amazing, creative, once-in-a-lifetime adventure, one that taught us well—albeit on a Lilliputian scale—the timeless ways of hunting and woodsmanship. I wish all kids could have a Jackie Vitalis to inspire and guide them.

And roast red squirrel? Well, I must say it tasted a lot like…squirrel.

JUST A STONE’S THROW – Where Kids, Nature and Physics Coalesce

When’s the last time you skipped a stone?

It’s such an iconic image of youth, such a quintessential point of connection between a kid—or an adult’s inner kid—and Nature. It doesn’t matter if you live near that sweet swimmin’-hole pond from a Norman Rockwell illustration or down the street from a drainage canal you wouldn’t set foot in.

Rich or poor, from the sticks or the city, anywhere from Abilene to Zanzibar, any able-bodied person can do it. If there was a pond in Eden, I suspect Adam and Eve did it. All it takes is a stretch of still water and a few reasonably flat stones.

Do you remember who taught you how to do skip stones? Selecting the perfect stone*; the proper grip and body position; a nice, low release point; the finger roll and follow-through. Perhaps, like me, you were in awe of your coach’s skill, her effortless tosses hopping four…five…ten times before sliding, then settling into the water.

The first few times you try it, you may as well be tossing a brick. Soon you get a skip or two, but then…kerplunk. Eventually you get it, and you remember for the rest of your days how very satisfying it was—your first multi-skipper.

     …and, finally, the two elements’ graceful 
     surrender to each other, the water reclaiming 
     the thing it’s spent a thousand years shaping.

SURRENDER
There’s something so utterly serene about skipping stones. First, it puts you outdoors, next to water. Most people feel free, calm, happy when they’re near the water.

And the activity itself is so enchanting and sensual as to border on the transcendental: the interplay between solid and liquid, hard and soft, rounded and flat; the sense of flight as the stone’s weight is denied by water’s little slaps from below; the tiptoeing ripple footprints, often tracing a graceful arc; the dwindling rhythm of ever-shorter hops; and, finally, the two elements’ graceful surrender to each other—to gravity—the water reclaiming the thing it’s spent a thousand years shaping.

PLAY, PLACE, PEACE
Have we lost touch with such primal Nature play, such a simple union with the elements? Have our notions of time and place and priorities been so transfigured by the omnipresent allure of instant-information and virtual-recreation technology that we’re forgetting how fundamentally healthy, educational, and peaceful—not to mention how fun—a direct interaction with Nature is, with no man-made device timing it, simplifying it, interpreting it for us?

Whether it’s skipping stones, digging a hole or building a fairy house of sticks and leaves, it’s the innate, elegant simplicity of pure Nature play that teaches human beings—of any age—not just priceless lessons in physics, coordination, spatial awareness, creativity and esthetics, but a deep sense of place.

               You’ve returned to the essential 
               elements of your birthright.

For there, next to that pond, or river…or drainage canal, you interact with Nature in the same way the stone and the water do. You arrive light-spirited, spinning ‘round to take it all in. In your excitement, you run; then, perhaps something you see or hear slows you to a jog, then a stroll. At last you are still, and it all surrounds you, absorbs you...and you surrender to it, sinking into its soothing embrace.

The subtle footprints you left along the gravely shore soon vanish, but deep inside, the impressions last for a lifetime. For you’ve returned to the essential elements of your birthright—a small piece of the earth itself, and the clear, life-sustaining liquid that once quenched and warmed and supported you; that cleansed you, buoyed you; that together, in time, will once again absorb you.

                  ---------------------  More On Skipping  ---------------------
I have no claim to any special skipping techniques. But sometimes, after finding my rhythm and laying down a few ten-skippers, I raise the bar for myself and any competitors with some added challenges. I've been known to brag that I can skip any rock at least once, as long as it's small enough to throw. And I back up my claim… okay... maybe a third of the time.

What are some of the tricks and style elements you’ve brought to the sport of stone skipping? Do you have a favorite beach or shore for doing it? Favorite memories? We’d love it if you’d share them in a comment here.

And please, if you're ever stuck for something to do with kids / grandkids, head for the nearest rocky shore and pass on the art, the ancient tradition, of skipping stones. But for you, it may be lost.

* THE PHYSICS OF SKIPPING STONES

STONE-SKIPPING RECORDS

COMING TO OUR SENSES – How to Free Your Inner Child

What incredible contraptions we humans are. Our bodies make even the most complex machine we’ve ever devised look like a child’s toy. They’re an astounding integration of systems, each a marvel in itself—musculoskeletal, circulatory, pulmonary, digestive and immune, among others.

Perhaps the most amazing of all is the nervous system. Sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell are the receptors we use to sense the world around us. They afford our brains the reach they need to collect data about the conditions and resources we need to survive.

They tell us when danger is present, compel us to satisfy our hunger and thirst, and let us communicate. Should one sense fall short of the job, the system calls in reinforcements from the others. Our senses nourish us with learning, recreation and spiritual connection. And they indulge us with pleasure. 

As blessed as most of us are to have all our senses, too many of us under-appreciate and under-use them. Life’s tough for a sense. First of all, since few of us any longer depend solely on our raw, native senses for survival, they’ve gotten soft and bloated. What’s left of them gets harried, waylaid and drowned out by all the demands—and perceived demands—of life in the 21st century.

  Curiosity does for our perception what a strong 
  sense of self does for our health and well-being.

SHAPING UP
But we can rescue our poor senses. It’s not hard to do, but it takes some re-prioritizing and a bit of practice. Just like when we’ve failed to properly feed and exercise our bodies for a while, we must assert some discipline to get back in shape.

No, you can’t just sit on the couch or at your desk all day; no, as hungry as you might be for it, you can’t pig out on the tempting, but far-from-nutritious virtual experience and “connection” heaped on your plate by a phone or iPad screen.

Reclaiming our native senses also requires the recruitment of an ally, a quality no less deserving than intuition of status as our “sixth sense.” Curiosity is the impulse that fuels the senses. It does for our perception what a strong sense of self does for our health and wellbeing.

We’re all born with curiosity—lots of it. As far as we know, we’re the only creatures with the luxury of possessing it for reasons not immediately related to survival. Other animals may track a smell, follow a sound or turn over a rock to see if there might be something to eat. We get to do so just for the joy of discovery, just for the fun of it.

Turn off all the little i-robots conspiring to keep you in your seat under their all-consuming spell.

FREEING YOUR INNER CHILD
So, how do you start? Just ten or fifteen years ago, I would have said just observe a five-year-old child. Sadly, though, children, even more so than we adults, have been abducted by the fat, lazy aspects of technology.

So perhaps the best way to picture success is to remember what childhood was like for you. No phone; no laptop; no 24/7 news scaring you into believing conflict and danger are ever-present in your life; no über-litigious legal system instilling fear into anyone daring to let kids experience spontaneous, parent-free, outdoor adventures.

Try to channel that spontaneity and freedom. Feel the rekindling of that old inner fire of energy, awareness and curiosity. Meditate, in whatever way you like, to rise above the myriad “adult” concerns holding those native instincts back.

Turn off all the little i-robots conspiring to keep you in your seat under their all-consuming spell. And get outside in Nature, whether that means in a remote wilderness, a national park or just that little patch of grass down the street, and let her draw out your senses as only she can.

         What’s so hard about it is actually 
         that it’s so utterly simple.

OUT OF CONTROL
And finally—this is the bitterest pill for many folks—let go the illusion of control that’s come to delude nearly every one of us trying to cope in what seems an ever-more-out-of-control world. Surrender your senses and your spirit to the ever-wise, all-knowing oneness of the universe. For it knows, even if you do not, where peace and wisdom reside.

Many find it hard to grasp this exercise in faith, because somehow it’s gotten confused with something complex and abstract. Some would have you believe that we have to go on long, arduous quests for it. We think we have to pay people to guide us to it; we take all sorts of elixirs to bring it on.

But what’s so hard about it is actually that it’s so utterly simple, and—perhaps the biggest obstacle to our sensing like kids once again—we’ve gotten conditioned not to trust that simplicity.

We must re-learn it, for the sake of our own health and happiness, for that of our children and grandchildren, and for that of this precious, vulnerable planet.

AGELESS WONDER — How To Channel Your Inner Five-Year-Old

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?
 SATCHEL PAIGE

As those of you know who follow my efforts here and in the social media, I’m a champion of reclaiming curiosity, wonder and regular access to Nature for a generation of kids robbed of those birthrights by well-intentioned parental interference, socioeconomic barriers and the glow of three- to ten-inch screens. I’ll continue to lobby for, at the very least, equal time for the wonders of technology and those of real, first-hand, low-tech experience in the out-of-doors.

And this isn’t just about kids; I actually make my case for people of all ages and circumstances. Everyone needs a regular dose of “vitamin N,” not just on weekends or vacations, but in our daily lives. Without it, we deprive ourselves of life’s most abundant font of peace, reflection, mental clarity, spiritual inspiration and general replenishment. Perhaps most importantly, without Nature we forget who we are and where we came from.

           Without Nature we forget who we are 
            and where we came from.

SITTING AND SETTLING
We all start life with an abundance of the natural tools we need to commune with Nature—curiosity, playfulness, creativity, spontaneity, wonder. But something happens as we grow up and become acculturated to the strictures of adult life. Ambition, expectations, responsibility and a cabal of other seductions conspire to rob us of those simple joys.

We learn to settle for Nature as an occasional treat, if at all, and something that takes an extraordinary effort. But we need the calming, healing, restorative effects of vitamin N every day and in every aspect of our lives.

That need to be touched by Nature all the time doesn’t end when we reach some arbitrary age—that of retirement, of moving to assisted living, or even of winding down our final days in this life. Indeed, as I’ve preached so often on this forum, our need for Nature may be most vital during both our first and last years of life.

Our entire culture has alienated itself from Nature at a rate unprecedented in human history.

As a man of advancing years, I can only hope that I—and certainly those entrusted with my care as I come to depend on them—will recognize that need and honor my express wish that vitamin N be part of my care-and-treatment plan until the very end. I want to be outdoors, feel the sun, smell the flowers and interact with the animals and birds. I want to go fishing.

But there may be some obstacles to clear. Many folks are so wowed by medical technology's incredible devices and pharmaceuticals that they seem to have forgotten Nature's powers. In fact, our entire culture has alienated itself from Nature at a rate unprecedented in human history. If we don't devalue it or forget it altogether, we fear it. And, even if we’re surrounded by Nature, too many of us have lost the ability to understand and embrace it the way we did when we were children.

That can change.

So here are my top-ten tips on how, even at a ripe old age, to get up, get moving and embrace Nature like a five-year-old again:

1. Make time. You’ve spent most of your life since high school conforming to schedules and deadlines. The self-serving muse of competition has convinced you that if you don’t work during break, after hours and even while you’re on “vacation,” someone else will and steal your job. Hogwash! Declare it mental health time, a medical emergency, whatever takes. For that’s more than some crafty “dog-ate-my-homework" excuse; it’s the truth.

2. Get outdoors. Between household chores and the big game on TV, the sirens of sloth try to persuade you that it’s easier and more predictable to just stay inside and relax. That’s okay up to a point, but you’ll almost always unwind and restore yourself—physically, mentally and spiritually—more completely if you get outside and let Nature do her magic on you.

3. Explore. Human beings are hard-wired to explore. Sadly, we’ve decided to let devices, and someone else’s legwork, do the exploring for us. We're coming disturbingly close to the point of googling natural wonders instead of expecting to actually observe them.

4. Touch. The idea of fiddling with things just to fully experience them was all but beaten out of us by the time we were about eight. Hey, you’re an adult now; you know to be reasonably careful, and besides, you can pay for it if you break it, right? It’s high time to reclaim this, the only one of our senses that's always reciprocal.

5. Be patient. Here’s one place where maybe you don’t want to act like a little kid; often, with Nature, you just sit for long periods without anything happening. That’s the beauty of it; you enjoy what’s there, not something you expect to happen. Don’t worry, if you follow step 1, you’ve already taken the biggest step.

        As in nearly any aspect of life, you see 
        pretty much what you expect to see.

6. Hang out with like-minded folks. Depriving yourself of Vitamin N is just like any unhealthy habit; codependency helps support it. If you have trouble hoisting your friends off the couch, go by yourself…or get new friends.

7. Take youngsters with you. The key here is to get them out there in field or forest, set a few parameters and then let them alone; don't be responsible for entertaining them. Nature is the consummate playmate. It invites kids to exercise their curiosity, wonder and sense of play. Watch carefully what they do—digging, building, playing with sticks, rocks and water...and then you do the same. The simpler, the better.

8. Let go. Have you ever seen young children playing who looked like they had the weight of the world on their shoulders? It’s impossible. Same for you. Suspend your need for control. Put the stresses of “adult life” into a musty corner of your consciousness and let spontaneity and joy make your day.

9. Insist on Nature as part of your elder care. If you want vitamin N to be an integral part of your care during your old age, speak up now. Don't trust the medical community to think of it. And do make sure your family and closest friends know your wishes. In my case, I've spelled it out: take me outdoors every day, weather permitting; if I can't go out, bring Nature to me—surround me with plants and animals I can touch and hold, play recordings of Nature's sounds, read to me of people's adventures in Nature.

10. Expect wonder. Believe it or not, there's an element of faith in all of this. As in nearly any aspect of life, you see pretty much what you expect to see. If you come into any experience with cynicism and doubt, sure enough, you’ll be disappointed. Approach it with an open mind, heart and spirit, and whatever happens—or doesn’t happen—will end up somewhere between cool and awesome.

PEONY – An Explosion of Wonder

My grandfather on my mother's side taught me a lot about Nature. Some of it he showed me—like how to flood night crawlers out of the lawn for fishing bait. Other things he just let me learn for myself.

Like most German immigrants of that generation, he believed that kids, once given the basic necessities of love, health and safety, should pretty much entertain themselves. So I spent lots of time just hanging out in their back yard and garden, exploring, playing with whatever gifts Nature provided that day.

      The petals lifted and spread, revealing 
      an explosion of golden stamens inside.

PHOTO: Tim McCormack

One of my favorite discoveries was the peony bush just outside the back door. The first thing I noticed was the succulent, sensual flower buds. The hard spheres with their tightly-wrapped petals-to-be reminded me of the way Grandpa's cigars were wrapped, in thin phyllo layers.

Each bud glistened with a sticky nectar, which explained why there were always ants on them. They didn't seem to hurt the bush and, in fact, may have protected it from other invaders or helped in some way to stimulate its flowering.

That unfurling was a glorious sight. Not quite fast enough to see their movement, the petals lifted and spread, revealing an explosion of golden stamens inside.

Form, line, color, texture, touch...and fragrance, unforgettable!

What is your favorite peony memory?

TEARS FOR FEARS – One Kid's Favorite Halloween

BOO-O-O-O-O!

It says a lot about our way of life, don't you think, that we have to manufacture our own fear. Most of us, our lives free of any real threat, are fortunate to be able celebrate and have fun with fear each October. In that guise, fear lets us revisit childhood, when wonder would turn to horror and then to delight.

My wife's an elementary school teacher. Halloween is her favorite holiday. While her kids were growing up, she delighted in welcoming all the little mermaids, vampires, princesses and Jedi knights at the door of her spookily decorated suburban home. She'd remove the screen/ storm window panel of the outer door so she could pass the goodies right through to the eager little hands, bags and plastic pumpkins.

    The poor little guy lurched backward 
    as if someone had just yanked on a tether 
    tied around his shoulders.

 
I'm not sure Sally realized it, but taking out that panel from the door also served to frame her striking persona each time she swung open the inner door. You see, Sally was also a drama teacher, well versed in makeup. And she made herself into the most convincing witch you've ever seen. She built up her nose and chin into menacing juts, complete with grisly, hairy moles. She gave her skin that greenish, waxy cast, and wore a flowing, solid black gown and fantastic pointed hat. And then there was the voice.

One of her favorite stories from all those Halloweens is that of a little boy who could barely reach the doorbell. He was dressed as a snowman, realistically padded from head to toe. His parents waited for him at the foot of the driveway as he waddled up the seven concrete steps to the door.

Sally was concerned the moment he caught sight of her. The poor little guy lurched backward as if someone had just yanked on a tether tied around his shoulders. Sally quit her screechy witch voice to reassure him, but the damage was already done. "It's okay", she said, holding out the huge bowl of candy to him. He stepped back still further, now just a step away from the stairs behind him.

Sally realized it was no longer about fun, but saving the kid from real harm. So she did what anyone would do; she dropped the bowl and lunged forward, right through that large frame in the door, hands flailing, grasping for some of that white fleece and padding.

Frosty bounced three times before rolling to a stop at the feet of his parents, who'd sprinted up from the street.

He was fine, and he got his treat. But I guarantee you, that young man—by now a thirty-something—still talks about that Halloween.

May you have such a memorable Halloween!

DEEP CONVERSATIONS – The Wonders of Fishing

I’ll never forget the first time I went fishing. It was at Peter Pan, a little summer camp my parents sent me to when I was about seven or eight. I caught a sunfish from the dock. Its bright, exotic colors and patterns captivated me. It was cool and slimy. It smelled funny but good—sort of earthy and spicy. It wanted very much to get away and used its spiky dorsal fin to make its point. I got it, and it hurt. There was a little drop of blood.

For the impression it made on me, that little bluegill might as well have been a space alien. Ever since that day, I’ve found fishing to be about the most fascinating, beautiful, peaceful thing I do. If ever there were an activity that’s all about discovery, patience and appreciating details, this is it. But perhaps more than any of these qualities, I think it's the mystical dimensions of fishing that hooked me.

If there’s something down there in that cold, dark, liquid place, it eventually sends you a message through the line. 

You throw a morsel of food deep into a hidden, alien world, connected by a thin filament held between your fingers. Then you wait. If there’s something down there in that cold, dark, liquid place, it eventually sends you a message through the line. Is it a kind of fish you’ve caught a hundred times before or one you’ve never seen? Is it big or small? Is it even a fish at all, or maybe an eel or turtle?

The clues might come in the form of cautious nibblings or a reckless attack. The creature might pull on the line or it might carry the bait toward you, slacking the line. Some fish gingerly gum the bait to see if there’s anything that doesn’t taste or feel right. Some grasp the bait between their lips, run a few feet and drop it—I guess just to see what happens. Others greedily gobble up the bait and run as fast as they can with it, perhaps chased by rivals.

THINKING LIKE A FISH

Besides the cryptic quality of that connection to another world, fishing is full of opportunities to observe and explore. One of the first rules of the sport, for example, is that, if you want to catch fish, you have to think like a fish.

Look at the water. At first, maybe it just looks like water. But, on closer inspection, you’ll notice the way a current eddies after it flows past a point, or wells up over a submerged log. You can check out a lake map or just use your anchor to find out where there’s underwater structure—drop-offs, rock piles, sand bars, etc.—where fish like to rest or lie in wait for prey.

Sometimes you’ll see minnows jumping, scattering frantically as they flee a hunting game fish. If you wonder what bait to use, look for what’s already there. (Fly-fishermen are the masters of this art, tying their artificial flies to replicate the insects they’ve seen the fish eating.) For fish that don’t feed so visibly, some fishermen will dissect one they’ve landed to see what’s in its stomach.

More rabid fisherman than I invest in all sorts of high-tech gear to help them find the fish: global positioning systems, sonar, even underwater cameras. (Now there’s a trick that takes the last shred of guesswork out of the sport!) Call me a purist, but I still love the mystery of not knowing exactly where the fish are.