The days are getting shorter. The sun is rising later. When I open my eyes, my ears are abraded by the jar of the cell phone alarm. No light shines through yonder door. It is dark outside, and it is difficult not to roll over and wait for spring to rise. But, that would be another six months or so, and there is important stuff to do, I think.

My favorite days of the year are those of the long light: spring and summer. On March 20, 2014, vern equinoxed. Vern is not a plumber from New Jersey. Vern is my shorthand for “vernal,” which means of or pertaining to spring. March 20^th was the first day of spring (vern) because the daylight equaled the nightdark (equinox). On that day, I was ecstatic and jumped from my bed silencing the cell before it could mar the ever brightening day. I love the sun.

Now, my elation has turned to deflation. I see the light fading and spy the autumnal equinox on the horizon. On that day of equal night, September 23, 2014, my sun will begin its dive to the south and the dark will again crowd forward into the day.

I enjoy the change of seasons. I enjoy the cooler days. I enjoy the approaching Holidays. I do. I really do. But, I miss the sun.

To brighten my gloomerie, I asked my wife what song she was thinking of — to hear what would pop into her head. I needed a lift.

Her answer was immediate: “Oh, Crunchy West.”

“That’s no song,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she answered. “My little nephew wrote it. He was trying to spell ‘Oh, Country West.”

The little nephew was 5 when he penned the tune. Now, he’s 28. He has older twin sisters. The second was married last Saturday. The other, the older by seven minutes, was married four months ago. I thought, “Mom and Dad are now a poorer, happier couple.” I smiled. It was working. I remembered when the twins were born. The parents had been told to expect a single baby. They were surprised with two girls. Last Saturday was a second delightful wedding. Dad told us, between tears, how he’d spent two months in the hospital beside the littlest, youngest twin when the doctors said she wouldn’t make it. That tiny baby girl was now a beautiful, radiant, healthy bride. I smiled again.

“Why ‘Crunchy?’” I asked my wife.

“The little guy liked crunchy cereal,” she answered.

Three days before the wedding, our newest grandson was born in the same city as the wedding. The timing was perfect. Our first stop was to visit and hold the little guy. He has the longest fingers and a serious stare that evaluated me between opening eyes. I smiled remembering the look. His two-year-old brother seemed a bit concerned as he crunched chips at the Mexican place we’d picked for lunch. So, I took the older brother running and exploring and yelling through the restaurant while parents and wife and baby sat staring googly-eyed. Sometimes, it’s fun just to be kids. We both smiled when the staff asked if we might leave. It was a good lunch.

“There is no song ‘Oh, Country West,” I told my wife. “I just checked the Internet.”

“I know,” she answered. “It’s “Oh, Crunchy West.”

I smiled.

Why is she always right?

And, it’s not just this time of the year.

I smiled again and looked forward to the equinox.

Grandpa Jim

Where have all the jobs gone?

In the paper this morning, there was a listing of the top 10 jobs that are on the decline. Today is Labor Day in the US, our annual holiday at the end of summer when we celebrate the workers that make our world go and keep the economy strong. Many countries have similar days to celebrate their workers and the jobs they do.

Nothing stays the same. Labor and jobs and work have changed greatly since 1887 when President Grover Cleveland formally established the US Labor Day as the first Monday in September. Change is to be expected. Jobs rise and fall with new products and technologies, with new demands and wants, and with the fading and waning of old attachments. Such is the nature of the human economic condition.

We need fewer mail carriers (#1 decline), because there is less mail to carry. More travels electronically. I love the scene in the original 1947 movie “Miracle on 34^th Street” when Santa Claus is on trial because he can’t exist and the workers in the New York mailroom decide to deliver the children’s letters to prove that Santa must exist. The US Postal Service and its mail carriers pile the bags into the courtroom. Lifting his relieved head through the mounds of letters, the judge pounds the gavel and announces to the cheering citizens outside and the world that “Santa Claus does exist!” I believe and have ever since. Have no fear, Santa will continue, but the mail carriers have no such compelling argument.

It was 1955. Pete Seeger had just read a long novel about Russia. Across the pages, young Cossack men ride off to join the army. Drifting back to the songwriter is their youthful tune about flowers, young girls, marriage and becoming soldiers. Something timeless, sad and true floated in that air. Pete grabbed his notebook and scribbled “long time passing” and “When will we ever learn?” A new song emerged in his head. When the young Seeger shared the lyrics at a local college, a student, Joe Hickerson, added two final verses about graveyards and the flowers rising above the graves. The lines circled back to the blooms at their beginning.

Let me share the verses that circled back to me as I read of the losses this Labor Day:

“Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?

“Young girls have picked them everyone

“Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing”

“Gone for husbands everyone

“Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?

“Gone for soldiers everyone

“Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?

“Gone to graveyards, everyone

“Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?”

“Gone to flowers, everyone

“Oh, when will they ever learn?

“Oh, when will they ever learn?”

I have a brother-in-law who returned from Vietnam. Many young men did not. After that, he settled down and became a mail carrier. I have always thought he sought the quiet of the day and the peace of the walk. He is a good husband and father, and he and my sister are approaching retirement. His job has remained. It was, I think, his safe haven after the storm.

Other jobs are on the list, but his was the one that struck me most. I realized it wasn’t the job that had mattered in his life, it was what he brought back and how he used those experiences. For such men, there will always be work, family and a future. For the others, I will take the long walk up the hill and kneel near the flowers.

Where have all the young men gone, long time passing?

When will we ever learn?

When will we ever learn?

Grandpa Jim

Summer is officially over!

The 2014 US College Football season has begun.

At precisely 7:00 PM Eastern Time on Thursday, August 27, the Abilene Christian Wildcats took the field against the Georgia State Panthers at the Georgia Dome in Atlanta, Georgia in the first scheduled contest of the new college football season.

Gridiron mania and the race to the bowls are upon us.

In the US, a bowl is not a kitchen utensil. It is an invited end-of-season contest between two football teams who have prevailed through the season with a record and ranking that has earned them “bowl-eligible” status. And, for the final bowl of this season, two teams will compete and the winner will be crowned the National Champion of US College Football.

But, wait, the rules have changed.

Yes, there will be bowl games. In fact, there will be 39 bowl games. In total, 76 teams will be invited, more than ever before, in more bowls than ever before.

“Hold up, there!” you interrupt. “The numbers do not compute. 39 bowls, at two teams each, would require 78 teams to play those bowls. You only said 76. What’s going on here?”

Exactly, something new is going on here. This year, there will first be 76 teams in 38 bowl games. The last two of these 38 bowls will be the Semifinals of the new College Football Playoff (CFP). That’s right, the old Bowl Championship Series (BCS) selection system to determine the top college football teams is out. A new system is in. The CFP is in.

This new system is a Plus-One System, because a final bowl, the last and 39th bowl, has been added. This new add-on bowl is the new Championship Game. In this plus-one game, the two teams prevailing in the Semifinals will play each other — to the delight of clapping and jumping and cheering fans everywhere.

For the first time, college football has a playoff.

The top four selected teams in the country will play in the two semifinal bowl games, and the winners will play again for the National Title. This is the first time in the history of the bowls that two teams will play in two bowls. The old BCS adage “A bowl for each and each a bowl” is out. The College Football Playoff is in, two teams will play twice in two bowls, and the plus-one winner will be the uncontested National Champion.

Will wonders never cease? Apparently not. Condoleezza Rice, the former US Secretary of State, will serve as one of the 13 members of the new CFP Selection Committee. She joins a current athletic director from each of the five major US football conferences (ACC, Big Ten, Big 12, Pac-12 and SEC) and an assortment of other former coaches, players, administrators and a lone retired reporter. Quite the crowd.

The new Group of 13 will meet at the Gaylord Texas Hotel in Grapevine, Texas, 15.7 miles from where I sit typing. By secret ballot, the group will determine and release to the world their Top 25 College Football Teams of the week. The selection committee will do this for the final seven weeks of the sixteen-week season. The first of the seven CFP rankings will be released October 28, 2014.

The top four teams in the final CFP ranking on Sunday, December 7, 2014, will be the four teams going to the Semifinal Bowl Games. This year’s Semifinal Bowls will be the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California, and the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans, Louisiana. On a three-year cycle, the Semifinals will rotate from Rose/Sugar to Orange Bowl (Miami Gardens, Florida)/Cotton Bowl (Arlington, Texas) to Fiesta Bowl (Glendale, Arizona)/Peach Bowl (Atlanta, Georgia) and back again to Rose/Sugar for the next three-year cycle of semifinals.

Each year, these six top-tier bowls will be played on two consecutive days that include New Year’s Day. Together, the two semifinals (with teams ranked #’s 1-4) and the other four bowls (with teams ranked #’s 5-12, although the Selection Committee has some flexibility to choose lower-ranked teams for these bowls) will be presented to the world as the “New Year’s Six.”

On the first Monday that is six or more days after the Semifinals, the Championship Game, plus-one #39, will be held at a location selected based on bids submitted by cities. For this first College Football Playoff year, the AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas, 24.4 miles from where I sit typing, has been selected as the site of the Plus-One, It’s-Number-39, College Football Playoff Championship Game.

Wow. I can see why they chose Former Madam Secretary Rice for the Selection Committee. That is a lot of meeting, talking, discussing, thinking and secret balloting to get to Arlington and the final game.

Not to worry. The smart guys and gal in the back room will make their selections. Ours is the joy of watching the run and viewing the games. We are in Week #1 of 16 Weeks of Glorious College Football. My teams are playing this Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, as they will every week for the next sixteen. And, don’t forget to check the score for the Wildcats and the Panthers. It was the first of many and one more. . . .

What a joy to be through the sports doldrums of summer.

On to the stadiums and the fun.

Grandpa Jim

It is corn harvest time on Uncle Joe’s farm.

The combine is racing down the rows of dried stalks.

The grain trucks are piled full to overflowing with the golden kernels

Standing tall at 8-9 feet in height, Uncle Joe says, “It’s the best #2 corn you can get.”

#2 corn is intended for livestock feed and ethanol production. #1 corn is food grade and is used to make vegetable oils and other products consumed by humans. Where I grew up in heartlands of Iowa and where I live now near the farmlands of Texas, most corn is #2.

This year’s harvest of #2 corn is a record. Uncle Joe says the yields range from 120-170 bushels per acre. The corn is clean with a heavy test weight and free of contaminants. It is excellent corn.

As the grain buggy pulls away in the evening light, the golden amber of the standing stalks and cut stubble reflect the bounty of the harvest and the beauty of the land.

Never doubt that the life of the farmer is uncertain.

In the midst of a glorious corn harvest, the harsh realities of life intrude. Uncle Joe and the other farmers have the trucks to take their corn to the grain elevators, but the grain elevators cannot send the grain from the storage bins to market. There is a shortage of trucks to move the corn from the elevators. Uncle Joe is halfway through the corn harvest, but he has to wait and time his combining to the space available in the grain elevators.

Why? That is a good question and there are apparently a number of factors contributing to the holdup. The oil & gas industry is booming in these parts, which is wonderful, and trucks are needed to support the boom. The just-completed milo/sorghum harvest was outstanding, which is wonderful, but the trucks moving the milo to market are not yet available to turn and transport the corn. And, some corn buyers, for their own reasons, are not ready to take delivery of corn and are not sending trucks to pick up their grain.

As you can see below, the bright flashing combine with the corn head is ready and rearing to keep on cutting, but Uncle Joe has had to slow down the big green muncher machine to cut only enough corn to load two semi truck loads a day, the most the elevator can process from his farm.

To add trouble to tumult, corn prices are down. Why? That is another good question. Official reports are portraying a carry-over supply of corn from last year’s harvest. Administrative communications are also touting the forthcoming harvest in the Midwestern States, including my birth-state of Iowa, to be exceptionable. In other words, the published position is projected over-supply versus present demand, and, with this forecast, the classic supply and demand paradigm has driven corn prices down.

Never doubt the life of a farmer is uncertain.

When I talk with Uncle Joe, he is even and balanced in his answers and facts. There is not a hurry to his words. The worry is there, between the sentences, in the background, but not pushing forward. The doing is in the front of his talk and his actions. He is optimistic. The milo bins at the elevator are almost cleaned out, and that will open up space to combine and deliver more corn. And, there’s always plenty else to do and keep busy at around the farm. There’s never enough hours in a day.

As Uncle Joe puts the last of the equipment away, he stays and stands a moment to watch the sunset off across the fields before heading in — to supper, a short sleep and another early morning.

Never doubt the life of a farmer.

Grandpa Jim

Near the end of their time together, Paul McCartney of the Beatles wrote and sang “The Long and Winding Road.” On June 13, 1970, the song became the last number-one hit of the Boys from Liverpool. The ballad was also the last Beatles’ song while all four remained alive. In its way, the lyrics echo a plaintive plea for help and hope that resonates the sadness and joy of parting.

“The long and winding road that leads me to your door

“Will never disappear

“I’ve seen that road before, it always leads me here

“Leads me to your door

“Don’t leave me waiting here, lead me to your door

“Don’t keep me waiting here, lead me to your door”

We buried a D-Day survivor today. He was a hero, with three Bronze Stars and a number of Purple Hearts.

A year ago last summer, we buried another veteran of World War II. We buried my Dad.

It has been a long year, a long and winding road, a year of sadness, joy and hope in the future.

D-Day was The Day of the Allied Invasion of Europe. It was the last great effort and great risk to break the grip of the German Third Reich and free the peoples of the Continent. The Day, D-Day, was June 6, 1944.

It was a long day.

Many thousands of men fell and died that day.

I never knew my Dad crossed the English Channel on D-Day. Some weeks after his funeral, my sister said simply, “Did you know Dad landed in Europe on D-Day?” I didn’t. It must have shone on my face. My sister added, “He was one of only a few from his company who survived the day.” I didn’t know.

The hero we buried today was one of only a few of his company who survived D-Day and the days after that. I don’t think many at the funeral and standing beside the grave knew.

Our survivors didn’t talk much of that day. They said little, if anything, of the long hard days that followed and the biting cold of the coldest winter in European history. They did not mention the snow, ice and falling temperatures that sapped their strength and froze their bodies. In passing, my Dad commented briefly that the Battle of the Bulge had occurred in a frozen wasteland. The Battle of the Bulge, the battle that bulged back the allied lines, was Germany’s last great counter attack. It failed at great loss of life to both sides. The soldier we buried today said little more to his children and grandchildren.

It is the survivors’ way.

We buried the Sergeant on a quiet Texas hillside. A light wind cooled the mourners as we stood in the hot sun. Behind us, back near the old white church, ran the ridge road. The road was likely the old military highway that connected the early Calvary posts when the land was wild and Native Americans camped in their teepees near the stream below. White wild flowers bloomed on the slope. I like Texas that there always seem to be flowers at the right times and in the right places. This was a good place, on the high ground with the blue sky, a good place to rest and view the fields and trees stretching to the horizon.

My Dad was a Sergeant too. He is with my Mom, who was also a veteran. They lie together, side by side, beneath the crosses, row on row, in a far place north of here. In its manner, it is also a very pleasant place to see.

The two Sergeants, my Dad and the one today, never met, that I know of. Had they met while they lived, I am confident they would have recognized each other immediately. I know, with a certainty, they know each other now.

Their roads lead to the same door.

It is the heroes’ way.

Grandpa Jim

The skies are alive with . . . what?

It is the time of summer. Since my childhood, the skies of summer have been alive with reports of unidentified flying objects (UFO’s). As a kid, I thought it was a summer news phenomenon. School is out, sports are done, nothing much is happening, reporters are bored, people are bored. Staring off into the distance, people spy strange things in the sky, things they can’t identify, things that are flying. They see UFO’s and make reports. Newspaper columnists get the calls and write the articles, because there is nothing much else to report.

Maybe, I was wrong.

On June 24, 1947, Kenneth Arnold was flying his airplane toward Mount Rainier in the state of Washington. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. The skies were clear. Ken put the plane on auto, sat back and gazed out, enjoying the open panorama and the snow-covered peaks of the Cascade Mountains. A flash of light caught his attention. There were nine of them: bright objects, flying objects, in formation, like knots on the tail of a kite, moving from north to south, traveling fast, faster than any plane he knew to exist. The formation banked in unison. Mr. Arnold observed the objects were shaped like saucers, thin on the side and wide across the middle. In minutes, the group disappeared from his site. Ken continued on, landed and related the sighting his friends, who called their reporter friends, sitting at their desks, twiddling their thumbs, wondering what to write about in the middle of summer.

The next day the newspaper stories began. Somewhere in one of the reports, someone coined the phrase “flying saucer.” It was the first time the term was used. Before the year was out, 140 newspapers had reported 853 sightings of flying saucers.

The race was on.

It was fixin’ to be the 4^th of July, 1947, just a week or so past Ken Arnold’s sightings at Mount Rainier, W. W. “Mack” Brazel and his son were out early on the range, riding their horses to check that the livestock was safe after a fierce thunderstorm the night before. Their ranch was northwest of Roswell, New Mexico, and that storm the night before had produced a passel of lighting. The electricity of the storm had ignited the countryside. Who knew what damage it had done?

“What’s that shiny stuff on the ground, Paw?”

“Don’t know, Son. Looks like something got blown apart. Maybe that storm last night. There’s pieces everywhere.”

Father and son got off their horses and started to examine the debris.

“This is like tin foil, but I can’t bend it,” Dad Mack commented.

“Paw, look! This little beam is lighter than a feather, and its got colored writing on the sides. Not letters I know from school?”

“Saddle up, Son. We’ve got to get back and tell the authorities. Something crashed here in the storm last night. No telling what may be over that ridge. Probably need the military. This could be one of them flying saucers we read about in the paper.”

On July 8, 1947, the military issued a press release stating that the wreckage of a flying object had been recovered near Roswell, New Mexico. Within hours, The Associated Press reported: “The Army Air Force here today announced a flying disc had been found.” Within days, the site was sealed to visitors. No reporters were allowed to see or examine the remains from the crash.

Curiously, a local mortician related to the reporters that the military had requested some small sealed coffins to preserve bodies exposed to the weather.

Soon after, the military announced the results of its investigations. The objects found near Roswell were the crashed parts of a weather balloon, not a flying saucer or its occupants.

To this day, the military insists the Roswell crash was that of a weather balloon.

For the rest of 1947 and to this day, the reports of UFO’s and flying saucers have continued.

In a 1950 interview with journalist Edward R. Murrow, Kenneth Arnold reported sighting similar flying objects on three other occasions.

In the written report of his first sighting near Mount Rainier, Mr. Arnold added a hand-drawn picture of a saucer-like object. Above the picture in the text, Kenneth Arnold noted that the Army had chosen not to visit with him to investigate the authenticity of his story. Mr. Arnold added, “If our Military intelligence was not aware of what I observed, they would be the very first people that I could expect as visitors.”

Could it be that the unexpected visitors were somehow expected?

Sometimes, silence can speak more loudly than words.

Could UFO’s be more than a summer event?

Could it be that flying saucers exist?

Maybe, I was wrong.

Who knows?

Do you?

Grandpa Jim

Dreams happen at night.

In the dark, in our minds, something happens.

We see things we don’t understand, things we often don’t remember, things that wake us from sleep wondering what and why.

Joseph didn’t have the dream.

Pharaoh did, two of them.

Joseph of the many-colored coat had been sold by his jealous brothers into slavery in Egypt. In prison for something he did not do, things were not going well for Joseph. One night, Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, had a dream. Seven fat cows waded out of the Nile River, followed by seven scrawny cows. The scrawny cows devoured the fat ones. Pharaoh woke, fell back to sleep and had another dream. Seven fat ears of grain grew on a stalk, behind them sprouted seven shriveled ears. The shriveled ears swallowed up the fat ones. Pharaoh woke and sought answers, but none of the king’s counselors could explain the meaning of the dreams. Joseph could and was summoned from his prison to do just that, which he did. In each dream, the seven fat were seven years of bountiful harvests. The seven thin were seven years of severe famine. Pharaoh was being doubly forewarned to plan ahead to save his people. To do this, Pharaoh needed a wise man to manage the good years before the bad times arrived and took their toll. Pharaoh was wise and he saw the man for the job. He put Joseph in charge of everything, for the good of everyone.

Dreams can be shared for the good of others.

Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream. On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., on August 28, 1963, Mr. King shared his dream.

“I have a dream.

“I have a dream that all men are created equal.

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

“I have a dream that one day little black boys and blacks girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

“I have a dream today. This is our hope. Let freedom ring.”

That is a wonderful dream, the dream of many, of many today in many parts of our world.

My granddaughters shared their dreams with me. I listened and we talked, and in their eyes I could see my listening and our talk was important to them.

Dreams are to be shared.

Children are meant to dream.

And we are all children.

It is that which we all share.

Joseph was different, very different.

Pharaoh did not look to the color of Joseph’s skin.

Pharaoh looked deeper, to the content of Joseph’s character.

I think Pharaoh saw the child in both their eyes, heard the voice of a fiery black preacher three thousand years in the future, laughed, removed the king’s signet ring of authority from his finger, handed it to Joseph, and reached down to take the hands of the young prince and princess beside the throne.

He had a dream.

Grandpa Jim

I await the air conditioning repair persons.

We have been a-waiting since last Saturday evening.

Once the afternoon festivities ended and the family and guests said their final goodbyes and departed, the air conditioner quit. It was about 8 PM. The temperature outside was hovering near 100 degrees Fahrenheit (37.78 degrees Celsius). The official high for the day was 102 F. It felt much hotter. At one point, my outside wall thermometer read 110 F (43.34 C). On any scale, those are some degrees. I guess the AC unit said enough is enough and stopped dead in its tracks in protest. Of course, the timing was perfect.

On Saturday evening the nearest repair person is not in sight until Monday noon. In the Texas summer, this would usually mean a frantic pack and retreat to the relief of Hotel Cool. Fortunately, our new house has two AC units. The survivor muscled up to the plate and began its attempt to carry us through the weekend. The Edge of Heat advanced slowly down the back hallway, through the bedrooms and into the living areas. Parts of the house became uninhabitable. Shedding clothes, we backed closer and closer to the remaining draughts of refrigerated air. Huddled like modern-age monkeys in a remake of the movie “2001: A Space Odyssey,” we raised our hands to the cooling ceiling vent that was our hope and future. Heat can do strange things with the mind.

The doorbell just rang.

The techs are now at their work.

I await patiently the results of their endeavors.

My leading theory is the grandkids did it. My three-year-old grandson has a talent for these things. I found a chair backed to the thermostat in our bedroom. When I tried to get the device to talk to me, it kept reading “Temporarily, Temporarily, Temporarily,” over and over again. My interpretation is temporary mechanical insanity from young-child exposure. All those little finger manipulations caused the controller to blow a fuse, scream in computer-ese and pop a gusset.

I wasn’t that far off.

The technicians found a popped capacitor.

Advanced technology is no match for a focused three-year-old.

I was just able to reach the back bedroom without a safety line. The thermostat has stopped reading “Temporarily” and appears at ease. I didn’t have the heart to tell it the children are back again tomorrow night.

Why am I seeing images in the thermostat’s head from the “Gremlins” movie?

Well, there’s always air in the car, if things go south.

I’ll fill up before the kids arrive.

Just in case.

Grandpa Jim

Alzheimer’s Disease (AD):

I’m looking at a picture of a cross-section of a normal brain next to a picture of a cross-section of a brain with Alzheimer’s Disease. I’ve read the accompanying article, the 1,000’s of printed words. Sometimes, pictures are worth more than words. I page back to the pictures. The normal brain is larger – it looks fat and happy. The Alzheimer brain is smaller – its looks thin and mad.

Alzheimer’s is a shrinking disease. The brain cells or neurons wither. The snaps of energy or synapses between neurons fire less frequently. The brain is atrophying, degenerating, disintegrating, wasting away, breaking down. When that happens, recall is diminished. Short-term memory goes first, the body begins not to work so well, long-term memories fade next, and then the body works only with the help of others.

I’ve held the slipping hands and gazed into the struggling eyes of dear ones with Alzheimer’s.

It is not easy to talk of disease, but understanding has helped.

Alzheimer’s is a shrinking disease.

It can be fatal.

Cancer:

With cancer, cells proliferate, expand and intrude into spaces and places they should not occupy. Unbridled growth restricts and damages tissues, limits function and can cause great pain.

As I age, the cancers of friends and family surround me more each day.

Cancer is a growing disease.

It can be fatal.

Shrinking and Growing Diseases:

For me, there are two kinds of diseases: shrinking diseases and growing diseases. Alzheimer’s (shrinking) and cancer (growing) are the leading examples of each type of disease. I believe there is no cure for either or for any disease, and no disease can be eradicated.

All diseases exist in all humans.

When an individual is healthy, the body controls the presence of disease. The controlled presence of disease is the normal condition.

When an individual is unhealthy, the body is unable to control the presence of disease. The uncontrolled manifestation and progression of disease is the abnormal condition.

The disease is not the abnormal condition.

The uncontrolled shrinking or growing of the disease is the abnormal condition.

This view has helped me to understand that what we call disease is not something to fear. Disease is normal. Underlying diseases cannot be cured, and their natural presence cannot be eradicated. This is the human condition. I respectfully submit that it may be folly to pursue a course to cure or eradicate a disease. The resulting actions may do more harm than good.

Other than by accident, every human person will die of disease. But, the natural presence of disease in the human body can be managed and controlled to prevent untimely and excessive appearance. And, once a disease manifests in an uncontrolled fashion, treatments can often control the symptoms of the unchecked disease, and, in some cases, intervening actions can return the disease to a controlled position within the body.

Manage, control, prevent, treat, intervene.

From understanding comes hope.

From hope springs action.

Preventive Steps:

I’m reading an article in the local paper, entitled “Sleep may play a role in Alzheimer’s.” The writer reports on a number of recent studies. The results suggest that certain actions can delay the appearance of Alzheimer’s or moderate the progress of the disease once it does appear.

What are these actions?

The golden mean, or close to it.

Sleep: get more, deeper and better sleep.

Mental Exercise: Keep the brain busy with mentally stimulating games and activities.

Physical Exercise: Moderate physical exercise can delay the onset of unwanted symptoms.

Diet: I found this one in another article. A balanced diet, more fruit and vegetables, a glass of wine now and again, and fewer processed foods keep the brain fat, happy and looking good.

Smile: I added this one. It was between the lines in much I read. Keep a positive attitude. Do something for someone. Laugh at something silly. Do something silly. Go to a movie with someone close. And, yes, you can have popcorn with butter. Every good rule has exceptions.

Sometimes the best preventive step is the two-step.

To dance and wave your cares away.

Live long and well.

Grandpa Jim

In 1957, the immortal crooner Johnny Mathis graced the world with a single recording entitled “Chances Are.” The song climbed to #4 on the charts. On the flip or backside of that 45 record was a curious piece that Johnny reportedly did not at first care much for, although he sang the tune so well.

For the history buffs, a “45” was a small disc about the size of a modern CD or DVD on which was recorded a single song to be played on a phonograph or record player. For the more current among us, 45’s have long gone the way CD’s and DVD’s are now going. They quietly disappeared from our midst as technology advanced and introduced easier and more available means to enjoy music. Yes, soon it will be as difficult to find a CD as it is to spot a 45, and in time the moderns of their day will wander the aisles of dusty curio shops and wonder what purpose the small flying saucers once served – 45 or CD.

I first listened to Johnny M.’s 45’s on one of the first portable record players. It was the size of a small suitcase and could be transported anywhere with ease, provided you had room for a small suitcase and another large box for the 45’s and 33’s (the 33 long plays, or LP’s, were the bigger vinyl discs with more songs). Our first portable was battery operated and could be used outside for maybe up to an hour or so. We were in heaven and parts of our heaven were the croons of and swoons to the Master Mathis as we shyly and ineptly asked our dates and proceeded to dance the hour away.

On the 50’s channel driving today, I heard that curious song on the flipside that Johnny did not at first favor. Here is a sampling of the lyrics:

“You ask how long I’ll love you

“I’ll love you ‘til the blue bells forget to bloom

“I’ll love you ‘til the clover has lost its perfume

“I’ll love you ‘til the poets run out of rhyme

“Until the twelfth of never

“And that’s a long long time.”

The name of the song is “The Twelfth of Never.”

The meaning is clear: “I’ll love you forever.”

But, why?

Why does the “twelfth of never” mean “forever.”

On the Internet most people say because that’s what the phrase has always meant. It’s a colloquialism, a form of conversational speech people use when they’re talking. You don’t write it, you say it. Everyone knows it’s forever.

But, was it really always forever?

Apparently not – at least not before clocks, and it seems not for some time after clocks were first devised. In olden times, clocks did not have faces. The first clocks were mechanical mechanisms designed to chime and let you hear the hour of the day, not see it. Then, the inventors of time figured out how to add a face and hands to make clocks more friendly, to resemble more closely the likes of you and me. Of course, hands needed something to do, so someone added numbers for the hands to point the hour of the day. At that first directed time, there was no “12.” Instead, the hands spun to 11:59 and faced back around to “zero,” nothing at the top, ought. Noon was noon. Midnight was midnight. The end was the end. When you got there, you started over the same as when you were born, with no age, not “1” until you earned it. You certainly were not “12” — we just passed that. One minute past zero was one minute after noon. Ought-30 was 30 minutes past midnight. Olden folks talked like that, I guess, but it didn’t make much sense. You never got to say “12”, because no 12 could be found on the face of time, although everyone knew it was there and always would be. Twelve could never be reached. So the phrase developed: “This is taking longer than the twelfth of never.” “You are slower than the twelfth of never in January.” “Wow, I haven’t seen a 45 or CD since, I don’t know, the twelfth of never.”  “I’ll love you until the twelfth of never.” Now, that had a nice ring to it.

It did. It was time for 12 o’clock to appear again.

Around 850 AD, Pope Leo IV said: “Enough. These may be the Dark Ages, but we’re not backward. For the ease of common parlance, I formally pontificate that hereafter the first hour shall be called the 12^th hour. Twelve thirty is twelve thirty, not ought thirty. Who ever heard such talk? It’s time for some enlightenment.”

It was. Time moved on, with a new and better hour.

Still, the twelfth of never had a nice sound and was not forgotten.

To the 1950’s the phrase reached the ear of a weary songwriter who penned the lyrics that concerned the singer until he heard the lost chime of the twelfth of never and sang a song of simple speech for all to see and hear forever.

Until the twelfth of never.

Take a minute.

Grandpa Jim