Staying Anchored and Marking Time

The Meaning of Routines

William Sundwick

About two years ago, I wrote a post for Warp & Woof called “Celebrating Banality.” It was a defense of the banal, quotidian routines in life. They were contrasted with the relatively rare moments of exhilaration from new experiences that our culture tends to equate with creativity or a “meaningful” life.

I’m now two years older, seems like it might be time for an update. Much of my beloved banality has survived. I still eat the same breakfasts and lunches I did two years ago, sleep patterns remain the same, and watching TV late at night with my wife continues to be a hallowed tradition. I still play games by devising alternating patterns on a complexity continuum for executing my routines. I will always do my neighborhood walks in the same order (counterclockwise from my house) for the complete eight-day circuit of my eight different routes, then start over. Gym workouts include back strengthening on nautilus equipment for two of the four sessions each week, but not a third day – unless I anticipate play dates with grandchildren which require lifting and carrying them. Other contingency patterns work for other routines, depending on the number of choices available for any given task.

But there have also been some changes of routines. I am now off the Board of Deacons at my church (3-year terms), hence have fewer regular evening meetings to attend, and fewer joint projects with folks at church. A replacement for that, however, is that I have gone “all-in” with my Daytime Writers Group, making blogging nearly a full-time pursuit. And, the routines around grandfathering have also changed. Parents’ work schedules no longer require frequent afternoon babysitting. Although more independent now, Owen has a new baby sister!

Staying anchored via routines is what others expect of us. They’re our real world. Marking time is what we do when we “recharge” for the next new thing. But those new things often have obstacles in their path – at our age, old routines often die hard. As much as I love my neighborhood walks, losing one of the eight different routes recently due to park maintenance in Falls Church caused real discomfort when I had to reconfigure that route! It’s always easier if routines remain unchanged when you get old.

And, because I am generally slower to react to new stimuli, I may not even recognize when an old routine is no longer working for me. I spend too much time on Facebook. Social media surfing has grown rather than subsided over the past two years, and now consumes much of my day – despite warnings from many pundits about its addictive properties. It’s marking time, but not in a good way.

Physical mobility is even more important to me now than two years ago. My stretching exercises and weights at home, as well as my cardio-intensive gym workouts, have become more critical – at least in my mind. I’ve experienced no decline in mobility but am more afraid of it for the future. Exercise helps me stay anchored.

It’s also possible that the range of future possibilities is greater now than two years ago. At least, I now look forward to developments that were less clear then. Maintaining the status quo of a democratic society has become a greater challenge, seemingly more threatened than even two years ago. I anticipate seeing at least two grandchildren growing up (well, getting bigger). I want them to have as many of the fruits that I was privileged to share as I can provide. Two years ago, I was still enjoying the freedom from the social constraints of my pre-retirement work environment. Today I place social interconnection at the top of my list of desirable traits in society.

My writing for Warp & Woof, as well as micro-blogging in Facebook discussion groups, has taken the form of a meta-analysis of reality. More than any other activity in which I engage, it keeps me anchored. Each post marks time until the next one. And, I think I don’t really care if anybody reads my writing (I do get feedback from Facebook friends and discussion group members, as well as Daytime Writers). At least I’ve put it out there. Anybody can discover it. And, listening to podcasts while on my neighborhood walks helps me explore that meta-analysis for later use in my writing.

Establishing routines, whether writing, exercise, or social interaction, is like a toddler learning to walk. Place one foot in front of the other, while maintaining balance. With practice comes greater confidence. And as you get good at the routines, you can even learn how to fit other people into them. They can support your routines, rather than interfere with them.

What happens when you must stop a routine? If physical difficulty, or danger, requires a replacement for the old routine, then you unlearn the old behavior, as painful as that can be as we age. The replacement therapy may take the form of help from others in your life, or systematic re-education. Ultimately, you will ask yourself the question: why do I need to change?  The answer will likely be you are harming your health, or others are making new demands on you, or that you’re simply missing something in your life, even if you can’t quite identify it. If none of these apply, maybe you don’t need to change!

Will I have another update in reporting my routines? It may depend on other people in my life forcing change on me. Or, it may be because of something I see as a “decline” – I hope not! Change when you’re over 70, not to be taken lightly.

Who Am I, and How Did I Get Here?

Rare Reflection on Origins and Motivation

William Sundwick

What is my earliest childhood memory? It’s hard to say. Experiences from early childhood can sometimes be counterfeit. But one that I identified years ago, when my parents were still alive to confirm its authenticity, is standing in our driveway on a warm summer day, looking at the sun glinting off a sparkling two-tone green 1950 Chevrolet.

Both Dad and Mom agreed, as the memory flashed unexpectedly into my consciousness, it must have been when we had just gotten a new car – right about the time of my third birthday. My mind’s eye saw not only the car, but the red brick house on one side, the side door to the kitchen, the green grass of the front yard. It was real to me. No photograph was found, and the family photo album was intact at that point. Why did it appear to me just then?

Had the memory been somehow implanted earlier by my parents? Or, was it truly experienced, suddenly disgorged from my subconscious? Does it matter?

Here to Please

Pleasing my mother and father was one of my most important goals in early self-awareness. I remember the emotional distress of that struggle (especially pleasing my father). I remember my mother being forced to “run interference” between my father and me from a very early age. I had no siblings.  A fils unique has a special burden since his parents’ entire legacy is embodied in him! Yet, he also has the advantage of a simple family structure to master. He is there to please his parents, full stop.

I don’t remember any pain in childhood. Anxiety, for sure. But, actual physical pain, no. If asked today, I’d say my childhood was a privileged and comfortable one. Yet, another early memory (vague compared to the car in the driveway) is my mother telling ME, age 4 or 5, that it was wrong of my father to spank me -- although I don’t remember the spanking.

As I grew older, loneliness became palpable. Another bit of collateral damage from singleton status? Again, it was emotional rather than physical pain. There was always a wall between me and my neighborhood and school friends, even between my cousins and me (three of them my age). The cousins had different parents -- and siblings. I retained no connections in adulthood with any childhood friends, and little with the cousins for that matter (except for polite Christmas cards).

As I progressed through school, the drive to please was seamlessly transferred from parents to teachers. I did well. My learning style seemed to favor logical discourse, more than analytical experiment. Sciences were okay, especially physics and astronomy, but math needed to stop before it got too abstract – no calculus for me. People did interest me, however, and studying their behavior was fun. I loved to draw, then write. Mostly, I drew cars but wrote about people.

There were conflicts. I believe I was bullied – but, do not remember details or assailants. Again, don’t remember pain, only anxiety. I relied on authority figures to protect me from bullies. It usually worked.

The Sundwicks and the Chambers

Extended family filled the void left from limited immediate family. The Sundwick clan, especially, was a powerful force. They came from Swedish-speaking Finland in the late nineteenth century, settling in Michigan’s Keeweenaw Peninsula – Houghton and Hancock, the UP “copper country.” My paternal grandfather was a piano tuner by trade, and violin maker by art. He sold his violins in the area, and several have been recovered by the family.  He had eight children -- my five aunts, my dad, Uncle Bob, and a third boy, David (who died in my childhood, never knew him well).

The Chambers family of Wisconsin, by contrast, was largely a mystery to me. My mother told me of her eleven siblings (yes!) and itinerate Methodist minister father (circuit riding?). But, she left her family when she married my dad. I’ve had no contact with any of the Chambers family, not in childhood, not in adulthood. One sister-in-law showed up only at Mom’s funeral in 2007. It was a very sad story. Why?

My mom and dad met during World War II in Detroit – the war industry (nee automobile) employing both. My father had an occupational deferment as an engineer. Mom felt she was “adopted” by the overbearing Sundwicks; did her own family even miss her? What dark stories lay under the surface?

The Sundwick family dynamics placed the two oldest sisters and my father as titular (but squabbling) family heads.  The younger siblings were always the “children” – this seems to have taken a toll on Uncle Bob, in particular.

Family hierarchies tend to last a lifetime. Four of the eight children died early, by my reckoning. One survives (she’s 95). My father’s two youngest sisters, especially, tended to portray Dad as a demi-god. He was revered, and fawned over, by both. Uncle Bob, on the other hand, was generally ignored – his contributions minimized. He died early of heart disease. His brother David had died even earlier, after crippling war injuries sustained in the Pacific. I knew him only as wheelchair-bound. But, it was cancer that killed him.

Flint

In 1953, when I was not yet six, we moved from Dearborn to Flint. We lived only a few blocks from Uncle Bob and his family of three kids. Flint seemed to me like “Sundwick City.” My mother wasn’t happy about it.

Yet, all my schooling from age six through high school graduation was in the public schools of that fine industrial city.  It was mostly my mother who kept the standards high – and she was class-conscious. She embarked upon a college education for herself, would become a high school English teacher upon completion of her degree in an early graduating class of U of M-Flint, 1960. She was an adult, part-time, student. We had hired help around the house (Thelma, our African-American housekeeper and Boyce Buckner, our African-American yard man). Mom was going to get that college degree! She loved English literature more than anything, but I remember a sociology discussion with Mom about the distinction between middle-middle and upper-middle class. She steadfastly maintained we were middle-middle class. I heard her, but as I look back, it really seems more like upper-middle – at least in that Flint environment. My father’s position in plant-level management, with an engineering degree, solidified our standing -- especially when Mom became a high school teacher. Our country club membership was a marker, too.

I needed to move on. The Flint public schools did nothing to encourage me to stay and contribute to the community. My high school guidance counselor, my teachers, my parents, those aunts, all understood – Flint was no place for anybody like me, the anointed one in the Sundwick family.

My dad always talked of job security, his chief concern – you won’t find it in industry, work for the government, he said. My mother felt that a mind was a terrible thing to waste. And, my friends all received those same messages. We all left. Apparently, that trend only accelerated over the ensuing decades. Flint is now the poorest city of its size in the U.S. Not surprising that it would be forgotten five years ago when planning water supply redirection.

Getting Out

The social milieu of Flint, Michigan in the 1960s was perhaps an extreme case of the opposite of what I sought. Any “Big City” was the draw. It would only be there, I imagined, that I would ever fit – among intellectuals, people who made a difference with their minds and words. Not so much their hands, feet, or backs.

My strategy would be to get established somewhere in the public sector (or academia), then build a life. Unfortunately, the prospect of an end to student deferment after my college graduation forced a decision during those peak Vietnam War years. I postponed graduate school.

I wasn’t drafted, however (high lottery number). By that time, I found myself working in a public library system in Tampa, Florida. It was close to my parents, who had left Flint when I went off to college. The story continues with my pursuit of graduate work in the library field, at the University of Maryland, called “Library and Information Science” in those days, now simply “Information Studies.” From there, I embarked on my father’s dream career, the federal government – at the Library of Congress.

As the anointed one in the family, I was obligated to become a parent.  I had two sons with my wife, and my new role as solid rock, playful pal, and guarantor of their safety, was activated in the experience of parenting.

Now that I’ve “gone the distance’ – the boys are men, self-sufficient (mostly) –retirement has become feasible. Some personal issues remain: how long do I have? What happens when wife retires? When to downsize? But, these are still beyond the horizon. As I ask myself, “does it matter?”, motivation does sag a bit, as I’ve accepted that the world is bigger than me and my family. My contribution to it may be relatively small. But, it keeps growing.

Grandparenthood has given me a slight burst of enthusiasm -- grandchildren do matter, after all. As I replay the rock, the playmate, the safety guarantor, roles yet again, I reflect on those origins. The family line continues.

My legacy could be teamwork. One son sees himself as the natural leader of a team, the other as a contributor to the team. What defines the team? Common bonds and purpose, I think. It’s not as hierarchical as the large family of three generations ago – much flatter organization chart!

I can enjoy that structure.

When It All Comes to an End

… Grandfatherly Affection for a Very Young Grandchild

William Sundwick

I’ve read much about the pros and cons of a late start raising a family. Often, these pieces are aimed at young women, with the best of intentions. There are good feminist reasons for delaying child birth, although not too long, for equally valid medical reasons. And, much research indicates that older parents are often better parents. But, what about dads? Are they also better dads if they are more mature, better established in their chosen profession? There is so much incentive to get more years of education, more secure financial position, better resume – all before becoming “tied down” to a family!

As a result, dads get old before they become grandfathers. 

And grandfathers, especially if they have raised their kids to also start late, can be very old! What may be gained by providing that steadier hand for their children, is offset when it comes to generational continuity as grandfather. I’m not saying that I should live to be a great grandfather, but it would be nice to see your grandchildren (at least one of them) grow into a man, graduate from college, meet a spouse --whatever.

Sigh. I have a 20-month old grandson. There may be more coming, maybe not. But, I know I’m not getting any younger -- despite the rejuvenating effect of babysitting a toddler. Actuarially, I’m not likely to make it very far into his adulthood. I’m 70 now.

 He will soon learn my name -- I hear attempts to say something approaching “appa,” but usually he gives up and just shouts “daa-daa” (even when his own dad is not present).

But, will he ever know me? Since we live in the same area, theoretically there is every chance that we can become very familiar. I am, so far, in pretty good health. No obvious infirmities, but that may change by the time he reaches a more impatient stage in his own development (adolescence).  Grandma seems more playful, less reserved, than Grandpa – perhaps Grandpa is intentionally withholding that playful side, for fear of it being unrequited?

What common experiences will we share? Right now, his world consists mostly of exploring his new-found autonomy and agency -- everything is new. He’s fascinated by all of it, but certain behaviors have longer-lasting appeal, it seems. He loves placing things in containers, and tries endless combinations of different things being placed in the same container. He also assiduously mimics kitchen behavior -- “cut, cut” with a plastic knife or fork is downright compulsive. It is always followed by “eat” or “food” o “hot” -- among his earliest words. Both parents are die-hard hipster foodies! His mother maintains a vegetable garden … and often works there with him. And, his other grandfather gave him a kitchen play set which has been sitting in the dining room since before he could stand at its mock sink and oven. Now he prepares full meals there – placing pots on burners (“hot”), offering plates of fake soft pillow fruits and vegetables to his guests (“eat”, “food”). 

Eventually, I must accept that grandpa will mostly be known by his legacy, not by shared experiences. When it all comes to an end, that legacy will hopefully be transmitted by his dad. His dad knows me, for sure. And, whatever family history is conveyed to my grandchildren, I trust my two sons will relay the appropriate mix of myth vs. reality.

How can I protect him from the future, after I’m gone? I’m convinced that things will get increasingly difficult during his lifetime. By the time he’s my age, much of the planet may well be uninhabitable. Even if apocalyptic climate change is somehow averted, there is still the ever-present danger of social collapse. Migration to another country may be necessary, to escape the inexorable drift toward civil war in the U.S. Then, what about other dangers -- disease, accidents, economic dislocation? I don’t want him to endure any of these afflictions. Can my legacy provide him security? Probably not, alas.

As I contemplate human history, however, I ask myself: isn’t this the universal condition of civilization? One generation passes its legacy to the next, nobody lives forever. That legacy is always a skillful blend of storytelling, part myth, part documented events. Teaching a younger generation “life’s lessons” has always been a dicey proposition, at best -- it makes more sense just to tell a good story!

My grandson doesn’t know any of this yet. He’s too busy finding things that fit inside other things, and mimicking kitchen behavior of his parents. But, he is learning at a phenomenal rate. So long as he is protected from disaster, we’ll tell ourselves, “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” And, his parents both believe they do know it -- all! -- a bonus for him. Their confidence is truly amazing. They are among the lucky few who may be right about that, too!

As for myself, Grandpa, I remain optimistic that my wisdom will be accepted, if offered in small doses. Perhaps it will even be sought at times. Grandparents are, indeed, helpful -- babysitting in a pinch, allowing them escape from the crushing burden of 24/7 toddler parenting duty; or, those errands run for overworked, ambitious parents. And, then, there’s that Virginia 529 college savings plan … 

Fingers crossed, my grandson and I are poised to explore many new things together -- for a while, at least. And, when it all comes to an end – there is that legacy!