The Distant Star Theory of Blogging

The legendary 1930’s essay ‘In Awe of Words’ often circles back to the quiet reasons we write — the rhythms that steady us, the connections that surprise us, and the memories that tug us forward. In this reflection, Jean revisits an old pandemic-era post, a favorite Steinbeck quote, and the complicated dance between observing life and participating in it. What emerges is a meditation on friendship, aging, and the strange, sustaining companionship of blogging… AI

Every so often an old post shows up in my “Most Read in the Last Seven Days” column, and I'll know people have been poking around in my archives, maybe even shared one of my links. If the title doesn’t ring that proverbial bell, I’ll click on it myself. That’s what happened with a piece I wrote during the pandemic six years ago. When I opened This Too Shall Pass… I found one of my all-time favorite quotes by John Steinbeck — a quote worth repeating in this forum of bloggers who enjoy the art of writing for whatever reason: personal pleasure, documenting our lives, or monetizing our blogs in hopes of fame or fortune.

If I had done the latter and been paid a penny a click over the past ten years, I would have made $46,254.97. Roughly $4,625.50 a year. Hoop dee doo. I’m glad I never did that. Money makes you a slave to the consumer of your content.

Nope. Steinbeck nailed my reasons for blogging In Awe of Words when he wrote:

“A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say — and to feel — ‘Yes, that’s the way it is… You’re not as alone as you thought.’”

That quote still hits me like a tuning fork.

In a reply to one of the comments on that old post, I wrote that blogging gives a rhythm to my weeks. That’s still true. But it’s also becoming more important, now, for me to connect with people out in cyberspace because I feel more and more disconnected from the people I live with here in my Continuum Care Community.

That’s partly because roughly a quarterly of the original residents that all moved in when I did (when the place was brand-new) have died or had to move to other buildings for more care. And every time that happens its a reminder that life is fragile. But it's also partly my own fault. I chose the double life I’m living as a kind of undercover reporter writing about my fellow residents. I observe. I make judgments, fair or otherwise. I hold nothing back when I write. But in person I hold back most of what’s going on in my head. On one hand, you can’t make deeper connections without taking risks and sharing our thoughts. On the other hand, civilized society doesn’t stay civil if we vocalize every observation and thought out loud in close-knit places like this. I have causal friends here, but no one close.

Early on, when management was looking for someone to write a weekly column for the CCC’s blog, my name came up because I started the creative writing club. But I refused. It sounded too hard to write about all the events going on while keeping my personal observations and quirky humor in check. I learned that lesson back in the ’80s when I wrote my first family history book and characterized the hometown of my nieces and nephew in a way my oldest niece didn’t think was fair. She was editing the book, and I ended up softening my description. That experience taught me that writing for community consumption is different from writing about a community. The family history book wasn’t about me, nor would an official CCC blog be — nor should they be. “Just give me the facts, ma’am,” as Sergeant Joe Friday supposedly said on Dragnet.

Except he didn’t. When I googled it, AI told me Joe Friday never actually said that line. What he said was, “All we want are the facts, ma’am.” A radio parody cemented the version we all remember.

And this — right here — is the point in my post where I’m supposed to come up with something profound or universal. Something that ties all these threads together. Something that makes readers nod and think, Yes, that’s the way it is for me, too.

But damn if that doesn’t get harder to do the older I get.

I look back on the friendships I’ve treasured over the years and I see a pattern: complete trust, a shared sense of humor, mutual respect for each other’s opinions, and the ability to really see each other — foibles and all. That kind of connection doesn’t come along every day. And it doesn’t always stay the same.

Friendship has been on my mind for a couple of months now, ever since my best friend since kindergarten was moved to an assisted living facility. She calls me sometimes ten to twenty times a day. I’ve changed her ringtone to something unique so I don’t have to run to find my phone every time it rings. And I’ve made it a rule to answer her only once a day. When I do, I put on my Clown Hat and entertain her with stories about life in my CCC or about our shared experiences growing up. She talks about the same theme every day — how she wants someone to take her home. I leave her laughing. She leaves me exhausted.

In days past, we walked back and forth to school every day of grade school and high school. We did everything together. We taught each other what friendship truly is. I thank the powers of the universe for putting us together all those years ago. And now we’ve come full circle with a slew of daily phone calls about nonsense and nothing not unlike what we used to do as boy-crazy teenagers.

Maybe that’s the universal thread I’ve been trying to find: connection doesn’t disappear as we age — it just changes shape. It becomes more intentional, more fragile, more precious. Sometimes it happens in the dining room or on a park bench here on campus. Sometimes it happens in a phone call about nothing. And sometimes it happens in the quiet space between a writer and a reader, we're like a distant star sends out a signal and hoping someone will feel the vibration and think, Yes. That’s the way it is for me, too. ©

X is for the X in the Margins—Those Bookish Breadcrumbs

Okay, I’ll admit I’m fudging a little by claiming I put X’s in the margins next to passages in books that speak to me. I’m more of a highlighter‑underliner and occasional‑pencil‑circler. But X is a stingy letter in the A to Z Challenge, so here we are. And apologies to longtime readers if you recognize a few of these quotes. I warned you on Day One that I’m old and starting to repeat myself both on and offline.

The first passage I can remember metaphorically put an X beside comes from John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. Decades ago I would have said he was my favorite author, though I eventually outgrew him. Still, I’ve kept my battered copy for one circled paragraph. It appears halfway through the book, when three characters debate how a single translated word in Genesis shaped entire branches of religious thought. The Hebrew timshel — “thou mayest” — struck me hard when I first read it. I was in a state of flux about religion back then—even after taking several classes on world religions both at a secular and a Catholic colleges—and the idea that we are given a choice, not a commandment depending on that translation, fit perfectly with an issue I’d been wrestling with.

My second quote to share is from Dean Koontz’s Seize the Night. I’ve always been overly sentimental about objects, and this passage explains why: “…we remember best those that are linked to places and things; memory embeds in the form and weight and texture of real objects…” In other words, it’s not the value of objects that keeps us attached, they are anchors helping us hold on to our memories. I’ve often wished I could play that on a loop whenever someone dismisses sentimentality. Being sentimental turned the Hall family (of Hallmark fame) into billionaires, so clearly I’m not alone.

Next is a quote from Stephen King’s Different Seasons, a book with many invisible X’s in the margins. I’m not a huge fan of his scare‑you fiction, but I adore his nonfiction. (Give me his writing advice and his reflections on childhood and keep the clowns and haunted hotels.) This line has stayed with me for years: “The most important things are the hardest to say… words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head.” If you’ve ever tried to explain something tender and been met with a blank stare, you know exactly what he means.

King’s book On Writing is practically a forest of metaphorical X’s. Another one of my favorites: “Come to the act of writing any way but lightly… you must not come lightly to the blank page.” I’ve carried that with me through every blog post, every essay, every attempt to tell the truth without flinching. He's also been influential in helping me develop a style of writing where I hold nothing back.

Moving on. Somewhere along the way someone told me my writing style was like Erma Bombeck’s, which sent me on a mission to read everything she ever wrote. Her self‑defeating humor and sharp observations nudged me deeper into my slice‑of‑life memoir style writing, while King reminded me to be honest — even when it’s uncomfortable. Over the years I’ve exposed all my foibles and quirks, the good, the bad and the ugly, because Bombeck was right: “There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.”

If I’ve done my job as a blogger, somewhere in this long, April trail of posts there’s a line you’ve marked in your own mind—a little mental X beside something that made you laugh or cry or feel less alone. I can only hope. ©

This Too Shall Pass but Can we Get a Confirmation on That?

 

I’m not sure I can do this anymore. And to make matters worse, I don’t even know what “this” is that I want to stop doing. The pandemic? The loneliness it brings with it? The constant focus on moving related activities? The worrying about the direction our country is going in? The pandemic related weight I’ve gained? The guilt of reading too much thus avoiding other things I should be doing? One thing I am sure of is that I’ve entered into another winter of discontent and by “winter” I’m using the word metaphorically and not referring to the season fast approaching my part of the world.

“When a condition or a problem becomes too great, humans have the protection of not thinking about it. But it goes inward and minces up with a lot of other things already there and what comes out is discontent and uneasiness, guilt and a compulsion to get something--anything--before it is all gone.”

John Steinbeck

 The Winter of Our Discontent

I’ve always loved John Steinbeck’s title, The Winter of Our Discontent. It rolls off your tongue so smoothly and paints an image of bleakness with so little effort. But I don’t like the feeling of living in a winter of discontent. I’ve been restless lately and when I’m feeling this way I ramble-write, not knowing where I’m going to end up but hoping it leads to clarity. And ramble writing usually leads me to rereading a favorite John Steinbeck quote from In Awe of Words: “A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say—and to feel—‘Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought.’”

Steinbeck wasn’t the first to write about the winter of discontent. I’ve never studied Shakespeare but it doesn’t take much research into Steinbeck’s book title to run across a play of Shakespeare’s that starts out: “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York…” spoken by Richard, the future king who was not complaining, as I’ve been doing here, but was rather celebrating the turning point in his family’s fortune. In Steinbeck’s novel, however, the turning point was the opposite---of a family who was once great and went broke thus giving the main character a plot purpose to regain the family riches, power and influence. But the bare bones theme of the book, according to one reviewer, is it's about “the effect of societal pressure.” Geez! There's no maybe about it, that’s the cause of my discontentment right now i.e. there is so much social pressure to do this or don’t do that or to embrace this and reject that. I hate when the world around me seems to view everything in blacks and whites with no grey nuances in between. That's the kind of social pressures that makes my head spin.

“You know how advice is. You only want it if it agrees with what you wanted to do anyway.”

John Steinbeck

The Winter of Our Discontent

I’ve always loved living in an area of the world where our seasons are so clearly defined. With our winters comes both gentle and harsh storms followed by blinding white beauty blanketing the earth. Our springs warm the earth bringing forth the fragrant flowers and the return of plump robins. Our green, sultry summers with their long, lazy days are followed by cooler falls that turns the landscape into a blazing, artist's palette. A season that after the colors have detached from the trees gives way to brown, bare-bones visas waiting to start the cycle all over again. As humans we adapt. We fail and start over again. We grow stronger again. I may be in another winter of discontentment, but I’ve been here before and fortunately (or unfortunately) this time I’m not alone. The pandemic and the political climate has made strange bedfellows out of a lot of us. No matter who we voted for yesterday we are all deeply invested in the outcome of the election. God help us all if we can't come together when the dust settles, if our winter of discontent turns into a decade of discontent. Fingers crossed that doesn't happen.  ©

The Invincible Widow

After dropping Levi off for his grooming appointment on Monday I had an hour to kill before The Gathering, a monthly event at the senior hall for people looking for friends. Starbucks Double Star Day was calling my name so I stopped. I usually take advantage of the drive-thru window but I felt like doing my John Steinbeck impression so I went inside where I thought the seven busy employees could keep me entertained as they did their mixing and blending. All summer I’ve been drinking their Ice Coconut Milk Mocha Macchiatos but fall is officially here which means out with the old and in with the new featured drinks made with pumpkin, chili and salted caramel. I’ve been drinking a lot of soy milk lately which I credit for keeping the chin hairs away which inspired me to include it in my Starbucks order and for the first time ever, I became one of those people whose drink order sounds like an essay, “I’d like a tall Salty Caramel Mocha Frappuccino with soy milk and, yes, to your next question regarding the whipped cream.” I’ve tried the pumpkin drinks and they’re good, but I can’t wrap my brain around having coffee seasoned with chili powder.

After sitting at a table where I could see everyone in the place I took out my notebook---not the kind that has a keyboard---to use as a prop for my struggling writer act. I was the only person in the place over thirty and I was surrounded by others using notebooks---the kind that doesn't require an ink pen or pencil. None of them were doing anything remotely interesting and I decided the next time I want to people watch I’m going back to the Guy Land Cafeteria. At least there if the other customers ignore me I’ll know it’s not age discrimination.  

I’m crazy about Starbucks. I like the seasonally drinks and more importantly l love their commitment to ethical sourcing and verifiable fair treatment of 3^rd party workers. I like that Starbucks takes a holistic approach and teach classes in small farm communities around the world about long-term sustainability of land and water sources. I like that they pay their baristas’ tuition for any online college courses they complete and that all their baristas look smart enough to wash their hands after using the bathroom. And I don’t mind paying a little more for all those things. 

After The Gathering when seven of the fourteen in the group went to Tim Horton’s, I felt like I was cheating on Starbucks. Drinks were cheaper but their two employees struggled with our orders. Two of us got bowls of chili instead of the smaller cups we ordered. The cashier didn’t know how to process a gift certificate and when he was reminded that bread came with the chili, he handed out slices without a plate or napkin. But we had a good time and I think a couple of the ladies are going to start going to The Movie and Lunch Club next month. Slowly but surely---cross my fingers---we are working our way out of the friendly acquaintance zone into new friends getting to know one another. 

At The Gathering a man came for the first time. When I saw his name tag, I started to laugh and I made a comment about the facilitator labeling him “guy” because there are so few men who come to the senior center. Guy had no sense of humor and did not laugh but four of us turned bright red trying to quit. Where is a mother with a bar of soap when you need one? He’s veteran who recently went through a “nasty divorce that took all his money, his house and his dog.” All that came out when we played a game where we each drew a penny out of a dish and had to tell the others something that happened in the year that matched the date on the penny we drew. I lucked out and drew the year Don and I moved into our brand new house, a happy memory after two years of extreme hardships and stress that included Don’s massive stroke and 9/11.  

After leaving Tim Horton’s and picking up Levi, I felt a sense of pride in myself. Yes, I still miss my husband---not a day goes by that something doesn’t remind me of Don. But I am a woman who has not let forces beyond my control rob me of my sense of humor. I’m still standing and the only real dilemma in my immediate future is if I’m going to try the Chili Mocha at Starbucks. I am strong and I’m in danger of belting out the chorus of Helen Reddy's song about being invincible, so I need to quit writing here.  ©

Busy LIttle Widow

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing on Sunday. Snow was coming down fast and furious and I could barely see the pine trees twenty-five outside my kitchen windows. Everything was blanketed in white and I learned later from the news that the last time it snowed here this late in May was in 1953. It didn’t last long or stick around for more than a few hours but it stayed cold and got even colder inside the house when someone hit a power pole, knocking out our electricity for the next five hours. On the good side, I had just put the outage app on my new smart phone so I was kept well informed which cuts the stress level that comes with the unknown. I put a sweater on the dog, gloves on me, burrowed myself under a blanket and spent the time reading Nicholas Sparks’ The Longest Ride. The movie was ten times better. I won’t have a bit of trouble donating the book to the senior hall where it will get sold for a quarter a zillion times over. I couldn’t find a single sentence in the book that I wanted to mark to savor later unless it’s the one that gave the book its title: “His voice, even now, follows me everywhere on this longest of rides, this thing called life.” I do like looking for those lines that sums up what a title means to an author. The line was delivered by an elderly man talking about his father---the lessons he taught---and I could identify with that as a daughter and a widow both. 

Mammogram day came and went this week and I learned something about implants. I don’t have them, by the way, but I wanted to know how they do a mammogram with ladies that do. The technician said they have to do two sets. One with the implants riding in their normal place and a second set where the technician has to pull the implants off to the side so they can get good shots of the breast tissue. “Ouch,” I said, “that sounds painful!” and she replied that they don’t feel a thing because all the nerve endings are cut inside when the implants are put in place. So now I’m in the waiting pattern where you don’t know if you’ll get the call-back because the radiologist wants more images or you’ll get the post card that everything is normal. I usually get the call-back because I have scar tissue from decades old biopsies.

After getting the mammogram I had some time to kill before I was due at the senior hall for a lecture about the local zoo’s 125 year history so I stopped for lunch at the Guy-Land Cafeteria. I like to people watch there while pretending I’m John Steinbeck writing my version of Travels With Charlie. He was taking a trip across America with his dog when he wrote that book and it describes the people he met along the way, capturing all their regional mannerisms and foibles. Unfortunately, my travels are confined to a 75 mile radius and the Guy-Land Cafeteria, that day, only held on a collection guys who were far from eye candy. Some had potbellies. Some were bald. And some sported both potbellies and bald heads. One old gentleman who didn’t fit in those pigeonholes was so pasty white he looked like he belonged down the block at the funeral home. Only one guy caught my eye in a he’s-cute-for-an-old-dude way. I loved his Santa Claus glasses and his easy smile. So what if he was wearing navy suspenders to hold up his mom jeans. I was wearing orthopedic shoes and I needed a manicure. We all can't be Brad and Angelina. 

At the “zoo lecture” we heard about the first animal they had on exhibit, a bear who loved its beer and got excited when he’d hear the beer wagon coming down the cobblestone street for its daily stop that kept the animal thoroughly happy and drunk for many years. We learned how early zoos were “encyclopedia zoos”---striving to have one of everything---but today they have fewer animals but try to keep them in family groups with the goal of preserving the species through breeding programs of animals that may not survive in the wild due to their natural habitats being encroached and poached and interbreeding weakening the lines as a result. By the way, one of the Chimps in the photo above is diabetic and is trained to pee on a stick each morning followed by presenting an arm for an insulin shot and a sweet treat. 

The next day I had to go back to the dermatologist to have the cancerous moles dug out deeper than he did on biopsy day---and just when the dime-sized holes were healing up. I’ve got to go back in two weeks to get the stitches out. Moles are troublesome and expensive little buggers!

I'm so over scheduled this week that by Saturday night I'll feel like I’ve worked a full time job. Still to come: a travelogue, lunch out with the Red Hat Society, a field trip to a lamb farm, my Movie and lunch Club and the dog’s date with the vet after which he gets to go shopping at Chow Hound. ©