by Donovan Baldwin
http://nodiet4me.com

I am 65 now, and, on Sundays, I take my 92-year-old mother, who no longer drives, to church. Normally, I dress well, as one should when going to church with his mother, no matter what his age, but today I have chores elsewhere afterwards and will not have an opportunity to change, so I made some concessions.

One concession was the shoes.

The ones I was going to wear this morning looked a little bad. They were supposed to be black, but had acquired a patina of age and disuse, plus a smattering of some unidentified white liquid from some previous task.

So, I got out the little shoeshine kit.

That was the first memory.

The first thing I saw was my father's "black" shoe brush. He died back in '81, but I still have all his shoeshine stuff. I knew it was his "black" brush because the label said so!

It was probablhy sometime back in the early 60's when my mom gave my dad the Dymo LableMaker for Christmas. He proceeded to go around the house labeling things. Until my mother moved out of the house in 1983 after his death two years earlier, one kitchen cabinet still had a label which told the world, with a proud red, though fading, label, that it was, indeed, a "KITCHEN CABINET".

Not all his labeling was done as a joke, however. Two things I still have are his two shoe brushes labeled "BLACK" and "BROWN" so he wouldn't accidently pick up the wrong one and ruin his shine.

However, that wasn't the extent of my memories. As I thought of the home where I grew up at the corner of Cary's Lane and Bayshore Drive in Warrington, Florida, and my normally staid and stolid father's sometimes whimsical humor, I smelled the shoe polish itself.

The smell, the spreading of the polish, and the buffing of the shoes triggered a kaleidescope of memories of an unknown number of shoes and boots shined during my 21 years in the military. Attached to those memories were places I have been, sights I have seen, and people I have known over the last 44 years.

In seconds, I traveled to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, to Monterey, California, to San Angelo, Texas, and from there to Bad Aibling, Germany. I crossed the ocean four times, went back to California and Germany again, and eventually returned home.

I saw the faces and heard the voices of Kevin, Bill, Frank, Olga, Wanda, Danka, Alex and a myriad of others whose paths had crossed mine on the way to wherever they are now. I remembered snow and sunshine, orchards and deserts, oceans, lakes, rivers, streams, and roads...lots of roads.

So much had happened in my life.

It only took a few minutes, and the memories began to fade as I finished shining my shoes and sealed polish, brush, and dauber back in the plastic case and put it back in the closet.

It had been a pleasant trip, a sad trip, and more interesting than anything I have seen on TV for years.

Later, when I took my mother to Mass, I thought of all the Masses I had attended and served as an Altar Boy at St. Thomas More in Warrington..and the funerals.

Time to change the channel, I guess, but who needs TV if you have shoe polish and some memories?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Donovan Baldwin is a freelance writer currently living with his wife, dog, and memories near Dallas, Texas. He is a University of West Florida alumnus (BA Accounting 1973), and is retired from the military after 21 years of service. He has been an accountant for the Florida State Department of Education, a Fiscal Consultant, a Business Manager, and has held various other positions, including being a trainer for a major national company. He offers a line of do it yourself legal software which can be seen at http://legalhelp.xtramoney4me.net.

Originally published on SearchWarp.com for Donovan Baldwin Sunday, July 04, 2010
Article Source: A Simple Act Breeds a Sea of Memories

Decisions

The "bad" thing about most decisions is that we will often not know if they were a "good" decision or not until some time after the effects of the decision have been fully felt.

In fact, we may never reach the end of those effects.

While not every decision is earth-shattering, some can have a lifetime of repercussions, and taking the time to determine what we truly desire to achieve can be of paramount importance.

For example, if you had asked me back in the 60's, 70's, 80's, and even the 90's what I wanted out of life, somewhere in there would have been "a lot of money".

However, when I finally got around to examing my true desires, wants, and needs, I discovered, that I didn't really want the money. What I wanted was what I perceived money to be capable of getting for me.

I wanted the freedom to live my days as I wished. I wanted the liberty to do what I wanted to do, and not have to go to some job which held little interest for me and function as told by someone who I had little or no respect for, but whom I had to please in order to get the few things I could get with whatever was earned by my subservience.

As an accountant, I was trained to view profit and/or loss as a factor of revenue and expense. If you wanted to increase profit, for example, you could either increase revenue or decrease expense.

For some reason, that lesson took a while to be understood as it related to happiness, freedom, and the joy of living.

Many people, as I once did, take the attitude that you need to get more in order to be happy, successful, or "rich".

However, if being happy, successful, or rich is examined deeply, you begin to realize that these things do not depend on a quantified amount of how much of something that you have. They depend on having enough of what you need to get what you want.

This is where decisions can come in.

If you decide that you must "have it all", or as much of "it" as possible, you run a good chance of being disappointed and living a lifetime of regret for the decisions you have made which have not delivered your heart's desire.

However, if you realize that you can be happy, successful, or rich with less because you use whatever you have more wisely and make decisions which allow you to live in a manner of your own choosing, you will enjoy life much more fully and fulfillingly than the richest millionaire who depends on the amount of money available to him to provide cheap imitations of the rich reality you truly possess.
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Making decisions

The Walls of Life

Anytime you start to place philosophical boundaries on something, you become a target.

In this article, for example, I going to discuss what I call the three walls of life. It is within these walls that we live our lives, and the very existence of these walls influence our decisions.

Some people will say that they see four, five, six, or twenty-five walls. some will say that they see only two. Some will say that while maybe there are three, they believe that I have named them wrongly and should have called them....

Well, maybe they will be right, or maybe they will simply be seeing things a little differently than I do.

As my friend, Al, use to say, "It's all good!"

At least in this case.

After all, it is just a discussion, and I am just presenting my viewpoint. I hope I am right. I like to think I am right.

I have been wrong before, however, and will be again. Maybe this is one of those times!

Anyway, as I see, there are these three things which have been erected around us and which influence our decisions and progressions...and regressions.

Either we turn away, try to climb them, attempt to push them away, gather them to our bosom, or carom off them. The surround us and by their existence define ours.

They are:

1. Who we are
2. What we have to work with
3. Mortality

We are man or we are woman. We are old, or we are young. We are brave, or we are cowards. We are educated, or we are ignorant. We are believers or we are infidels. There are many such factors which help decide who we are.

One word often used to describe at least part of this is "paradigm".

A paradigm could be defined as our view of the world.

The first time I heard of the word, "paradigm", the speaker told the following joke to illustrate its definition.

One Autumn day, a cab driver from the city, tired of all the furor and uproar of his daily existence, decided, on his day off, to take a ride in the country.

As he was enjoying his peaceful jaunt on the back roads amid the woods full of trees with leaves of red and gold, he approached a curve.

Suddenly, a car came around the curve apparently out of control and headed for his car. At the last moment, the other driver regained control and passed by, barely missing the cab driver's vehicle. As she passed, the female driver stuck her hand out the window and yelled, "Pig!"

The cab driver, trained by hours in city traffic, immediately stuck his hand out his window and, giving the universal gesture which means "you are number one" yelled back, "Cow!"

With that resolved, and his peaceful day in tatters, the cab driver rounded the curve and ran into a 600 lb. pig.

The cab driver was a man who assumed, based on his knowledge of life. the manner in which he lived, and his own experiences, that someone narrowly missing him and yelling, "Pig!", could only be a total idiot who needed to be put in his or her place. The cabbie had no paradigm which allowed him, a city feller and a stranger in the country, to imagine that he was actually being warned of imminent danger by someone who cared about his safety.

I often hear people say, "It is what it is." He was who he was, and that established a boundary.

Sometimes, in spite of being a certain person with a certain point of view, training, education, mental ability, or some other attribute allows us to modify or even transcend the basic "who" we find ourselves to be. Sometimes, the skill is actually physical, as in the case of an athlete whose life would be bounded by ignorance, or some other limiting factor, but who is able to escape because of something that genetics, hard work, or plain luck, has placed at their disposal.

It works the other way as well. Perhaps the person has the seeds of greatness in some field of endeavor but they are never allowed to come to fruition because some skill, art, or aptitude leads the person along another path.

However, sometimes, greatness intervenes and attribute combines with ability to create something wonderful and fine which gives the human race a luster it often fails to achieve.

Unfortunately, who the person is and what they have to work with, no matter how they lie in relation to each other, will eventually touch mortality. That cold side of the triumvirate which molds the destiny of mankind will cause the good, the bad, the indifferent to suffer the same fate...cessation of existence.

Unless, something within the triangle is passed on to another.

That is the one way to escape and evade the walls of life which bind and confine us. Sometimes it happens by chance. In that case, we, or a portion of who we are, becomes a building block of the future. Sometimes, we choose to pass on something within the walls of that triangle. Sometimes we choose to pass on something great and good, sometimes small yet fine.

What would you choose?

I guess it depends on who you are, what you have to work with, and when mortality ends the game.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Donovan Baldwin is a 65-year-old accountant, amateur bodybuilder, freelance writer, certified optician, and Internet marketer currently living in the Atlanta, Gerogia area. A University Of West Florida alumnus (1973) with a BA in accounting, he has been a member of Mensa and has been a Program Accountant for the Florida State Department of Education, the Business Manager of a community mental health center, and a multi-county Fiscal Consultant for an educational field office. He has also been a trainer for a major international corporation, and has managed various small businesses, including his own. After retiring from the U. S. Army in 1995, with 21 years of service, he became interested in Internet marketing and developed various online businesses. He has been writing poetry, articles, and essays for over 40 years, and now frequently publishes original articles on his own websites and for use by other webmasters. He has posted a series of articles on The Law of Attraction , and other self-improvement issues at xtramoney4me.net/internetmarketing/reviews
/law_of_attraction_articles.

Accepting Criticism

By Michael Angier

There's an old adage that goes like this: to avoid criticism, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing. If you want to get ahead in the world, you'll have to do all three. So you should expect to be criticized.

The key is to discern what is helpful criticism (most isn't) and what you need to shrug off.

The ability to be unflappable in the face of criticism requires a healthy self esteem, self confidence and a tough outer shell. I call it having a thick skin and a soft heart. The trick is to never mix up the two.

If you're never being criticized, judged or disparaged in any way, you're likely not doing all that much and you probably need to move up a few notches on the "Go-for-it-Scale'.

All criticism should be listened to, but not all of it is valid.

A friend of mine used to say, "If one person calls you a horse, well that's just an opinion. If two people call you a horse, you may want to stop and think about it. If three people call you a horse, you may want to start shopping for a saddle."

Action Point: If you trust the source-or you're getting the same criticism from several people-consider the validity and take corrective action when it's warranted. If it's not, thank the person for sharing, and forget about it.

Recognize that everyone has their opinion and that you don't always have to defend yours. "Let the dogs bark; the caravan moves on."

Michael Angier, founder of SuccessNet.org, recently released the New SuccessNet Resource Book--the Top Must-Have Tools, Products, Services and Resources for Running Your Business Effectively

This $27 eBook can be yours now at no-cost. And most of the over 100 resources are FREE to access and use.

Order at no-cost from http://SuccessNet.org

Article Source: Accepting Criticism
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Accepting Criticism and the Law of Attraction

The Big Red Dog that Owned Me

In the mid 1950's, the diocese of Mobile deicded that a new parish was needed in the Warrington, Florida area. It would be located between Barrancas Avenue and Bayshore Drive, just a few blocks west of the old Bayou Chico bridge, which no longer exists.

A small, snuff-taking priest named Father Jules Keating was assigned to the new parish, St. Thomas More, and took up residence in the new rectory. Until its restoration and revival as a rectory, the dilapidated old home had been the neighborhood "haunted house". It took a brave soul to enter within its walls, and we normally contented ourselves with chucking rocks through the few shards of glass which hung stubbornly in the windows.

Outside the back door was a pile of sheetrock which someone had gutted out of the building, and on this pile grew some of the biggest, juiciest blackberries ever shared by man, boy, and bird.

Father Keating had one worldly possession of which he was inordinately fond...a pedigree Irish Setter bitch named Helen, I believe. Shortly after arrival, she gave birth to a litter of little red fur balls. Two died and were given appropriate burials with all rites due the adopted offspring of a Catholic priest of the Irish persuasion.

Father Keating once asked my mother if she wanted one of the puppies, to which she replied in an emphatically negative manner.

"That's funny," he said, "Both your husband and your son told me that your family wanted one!"

In accordance with my mother's wishes, all the puppies were allotted to other members of the parish, much to my chagrin. However, a few months later, Lt. Commander Ken Lake, one of the recipients, got orders transferring him to Norfolk, VA. He had a chance to take a look at the quarters he and his family would be occupying and determined that he w0uld have to find a home for the puppy he had gotten from Father Keating.

The "puppy" was now several months old and was a big, gangly, happy-go-lucky full blooded Irish Setter named, "Sean".

Sean and I grew up together, and, unfortunately, I was in a dormitory at Florida State University when he finally died.

For many years, he and I wandered the beach near to our home. He was curious about everything. He used to wade out into Pensacola Bay and walk around with his head under water. I finally waded out beside him one day and learned that he was following crabs who were quite incensed at this canine intrusion into their environment.

Sean was Irish through and through. He was beautiful, and he made Big Red look like a skinny punk dog. One day when some scenes from "Wings of Eagles", with John Wayne, were being shot down Bayshore Drive. Cary's Lane, where I lived, was the first major road to Bayshore Drive from Barrancas Avenue, and cars came down to the corner where our house stood, and turned onto Bayshore all day long.

One of the cars which stopped at the corner was a big black limo, and a big man rolled the window down and spoke to Sean for a moment. My mother said the man looked a little like John Wayne. Who knows. Everybody seemed to have a moment for Sean.

The night he died, I was in Tallahassee at Florida State University, and my father was in the hospital. My mother called Father Keating to see if he could send the janitor down to help bury Sean where he lay. The janitor was out that day, but Father Keating said he would get it taken care of. My mother had errands to run, and when she returned, Father Keating had dug a hole in the corner of the yard to hold both him and Sean.

They rolled the body into the hole, and Mom asked if the priest was going to say a prayer for the dog. He replied, "No. I'm going to say a prayer for you. You need it more than he does."

Beach Bum in Training

I grew up in a house at the corner of Cary's Lane and Bayshore Drive in Warrington, now West Pensacola, Florida. Pensacola Bay was only a couple of hundred yards away.

For all my boyhood years, I had full run of the beach and the adjoining woods. I was Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn all in one. No one lived between me and the water except one man and his wife in one house, and he didn't care.

I had a dozen different ways through the woods and to the water, and I knew a few dozen trails and paths within.

The best and biggest blackberries in Pensacola grew in a huge tangle just a few yards from the water's edge. Mullet jumped and the occasional porpoise rolled. Huge mahogany logs would break free of the rafts of logs being towed from ships at anchor to the lumber company which lay off the Bayou Chico.

My paper route lay by the water, and the last paper I delivered each morning was to the man who tended the drawbridge over the Bayou. The bridge is now gone, as is the railroad bridge which used to allow the train to go out to the Pensacola Naval Air Station once a day.

When last I was in Pensacola, there were wall-to-wall homes on the beach, and the woods were gone. My boyhood home has been remodeled, and a high fence prevents me from even seeing the window of what used to be my bedroom.

All my friends are gone and the beaches all have high-rises on them. I cannot even find the spot at the Santa Rosa Island end of the bridge over the sound where my father hung his cast net on a sunken boat.

Yet, I still long to wander. The army sent me to Europe and across the country. My job as a truck driver allowed me to cross and criss-cross the country many times. For the moment, I am tied to a reality, but someday, I will walk the beach again, if only in my mind, and ride the trees in the eye of the hurricane.

The Self-Made Millionaire

People who "become" millionaires, other than those who win the lottery or have a rich relative die, usually follow some pretty simple models. In Who Makes a Self Made Millionaire, I discuss this subject.


Suggested Reading
The Millionaire Next Door
Rich Dad Poor Dad: What the Rich Teach Their Kids About Money-That the Poor and the Middle Class Do Not!
The Richest Man in Babylon: Now Revised and Updated for the 21st Century

Andy Griffith Tomorrow

My wife has taped (DVR'd) "No Time for Sergeants" with Andy Griffith. I know what I'll be watching tomorrow.

My Assault on the British Empire

In the 1980's, I was stationed in Karlsruhe, West Germany. It was an easy drive into France, and my wife of the time and I often dragged the kids over there, usually to see a small town whose main attraction was its pottery.

One day, we realized that it was not that far to drive through France to Calais, and from there to London. I have loved English literature with a passion since high school, and was also a dyed-in-the-wool Sherlock Holmes fan as well.

Having once had the opportunity to attend a presentation by Basil Rathbone had helped cement that link. Someday, I'll comment on that day. It's worth it.

However, back to 1981+/-.

In order to get a longer visit in, we decided to leave on a Friday after I got off work. After all, it was not that far from Karlsruhe to Calais...at least in our minds. Therefore, on Friday evening, we loaded the kids in the little white Opal Kadett and headed out.

The plan was to drive through the night, northwest through the city of Saarbrucken in France and on to Calais. The problem was that I got confused and headed southwest towards Strasbourg instead. The fact that Strasbourg was also in France didn't help much when we finally figured we (I) had been driving the wrong way for several hours.

We picked the fastest route we could find and headed northwest. At first, we made good time on the French version of the Autobahn or our Interstate system. After a while, however, we came to realize that every now and then, the French expected you to pay a toll for using their highways!

We only had a few Francs with us, and these began to rapidly diminish. To make them disappear faster, I had to buy gas at a Shell filling station in the middle of the night. The station was closed, but the owner lived in the building and I was able to awaken him and somehow informed him of my plight, and he sold me some petrol.

I figured out that you could get off the toll road from time to time and drive through small French villages and get back on for long stretches to save money. Going through these villages at night was like going back in time.

We arrived in Calais just barely in time to catch our ferry to Dover.

I had read Caesar's Gallic Commentaries in Latin class in high school, and was historically impressed at the fact that the ferry stopped to turn around in sight of Dover's cliffs. I could believe that I was seeing almost the same sight that Julius Caesar had seen so many centuries before, and from almost the same spot in the English Channel.

The drive on the motorway from Dover to London was relatively uneventful, and I even got used to driving on the left...until we exited into London itself!!!

Every brain cell involved in the left lane vs. right lane problem quit and was not seen again until we were back on the Continent.

We did not know where we were going to stay in London (with three kids), and finances were very limited. After driving around long enough to nearly cause a dozen accidents (sorry...American), I finally parked the car in a garage under Westminster Abbey.

We walked around for a while and saw Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, but we were hungry (I was also exhausted as I had driven all night), and we went into a sandwich shop, possibly on Tothill Street. The proprieter let us know that there was a small tourist hotel run by the Salvation Army a few blocks away which was clean and neat and very reasonable.

The hotel was exactly what we were looking for, and I walked back to Westminster Abbey to claim the car and drive around to the hotel.

Ever driven in London? Forget the left-hand thing. All streets had once been cart tracks or cattle trails, and apparently none of the cows or their drovers had ever been to my hotel. Eventually, I gave up, parked the car back under Westminster Abbey again and carried the 200 lbs of luggage the three-quarters of a mile to the hotel...where I collapsed.

The next morning, after a pretty good English breakfast, included in the price of the room, of course, we gathered our courage about us, walked the mile-and-a-half back to Westminster Abbey, reclaimed the car, and set out to see the city.

After about an hour of driving and with absolutely NO IDEA of where we were on the map...or even how to get back to Westminster Abbey, we asked a London Bobby for assistance.

Really, they out to require that cops speak English in that country!!

We drove on as lost as ever, but eventually ran into a road (and nearly several other drivers) which we recognized. We drove in front of Buckingham Palace and I made a left turn into oncoming traffic...for the fourteenth time.

Once all the shouting and cursing subsided, I carried the car on my back to the parking garage at Westminster Abbey where it stayed until our departure.

We walked along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and walked over to Buckingham Palace where we were ripped off by a con man, and a lovely gentleman he was. We wandered up Baker Street, past 221B, the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes. We visited Madame Tussauds Wax Museum and a department store near Piccadilly Circus.

Finally, the morning of departure came.

Bravely, I walked the two miles back to Westminster Abbey to fetch the car and pick up the luggage and the family at the hotel. You know, I think I actually saw it, the hotel, down a street as I wandered cursing and muttering to myself up and down streets which never reached MY destination.

Finally, in defeat, I parked the brave little Opal Kadett under Westmister Abbey and walked the three miles to the hotel and carried the 400 lbs of luggage back to the car.

We only got lost two or three times and only had one or two near fatal crashes on the way back to Dover. Being once again in France, where I did not speak the language, I felt at home because I could at least drive on the "right" side of the road without endangering life and limb of all concerned.

The trip back to Karlsruhe was uneventful and I am glad that I went. My first trip to London is still one of the high points of my life and my experiences there inspired me to write a poem.

In London a driver,
Must have endurance,
Insanity in his family,
And lots of insurance.

Donovan Baldwin

A Hick in 'Frisco

It was 1966 and, after two months of army basic training at Fort Jackson, SC, I was sent to heaven. Actually, Monterey, California, which remains one of my favorite places on earth to this day.

There I was, a kid from the sticks turned loose in Babylon!

Having read ever issue of the teenage boy's version of Boys Life, i.e. Playboy, I was aware of the existence of a hedonistic, modern version of Sodom and Gommorah a few miles north of where I found myself. Even the words which formed its name conjured up dreams of freedom...which, of course, included free sex!!!

After all, the topless craze, and the hippie craze, was in full bloom right there in San Francisco.

"Are You Goin' to San Francisco", was a popular song. All the big names seemed either to be from there or appeared to consider the city by "the bay" some sort of Mecca for fun, expansion of one's self, and free love.

Sure, there were all kinds of things to see in San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, Chinatown...the list seemed endless. However, for a hormone ridden kid from nowhere, Pensacola, Florida, there was only one place to go...

NORTH BEACH!!!

That's where the topless bars were. That's where the women performed, the women I had already seen bare breasted in the pages of Playboy.

I already knew the names of the clubs; Big Al's, The Condor Club, and Off Broadway. I also knew the names of some of the women who performed there...women who not only had their naked pictures shown in Playboy, but who had been written about in Time, Newsweek, and other, more respectable publications.

Hey! I was a kid whose biggest moments had been shaking hands with Doc and Kitty from Gunsmoke (Milburn Stone and Amanda Blake), and watching live performances by Ace Cannon and the New Christy Mintrels. My sexual experience was a little slap-and-tickle with a couple of girl friends. I had seen New York City, thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, who lived on Long Island, and driven past the hotel in Manhattan where the Beatles were staying.

I was ready for some real life adventure!!!

My mom had sent me some of my clothes, including the ghastly, brown, hick-from-the-sticks, three-piece suit off the rack at Sears on Palafox in Pensacola. Now, thinking back on that suit, I am reminded of Red Skelton's character, Clem Kadiddlehopper.

However, in those days, I thought that suit portrayed a worldly, sophisticated, individual...somewhat like the Simon Templar (The Saint) character I had been reading about for years.

Let's not even mentio the basic training buzz cut which was still growing out when I finally took the Greyhound (got that...sophisticated guy, three piece hick suit, buzz cut, greyhound bus), and headed for San Francisco.

I did get to see the Golden Gate Bridge, and I found a hotel room near Chinatown and took a walk through that famous area, but I was waiting for the night.

That night, wearing my heavy brown wool suit of armor, and carrying a few bucks, which rapidly disappeared as "covers" and "minimums" were met, I made my way through Sodom, excuse me, San Francisco, and turned dreams into reality...which, as usual, did not match the dreams.

Oh, I got to watch Yvonne D'Angers' act (term used loosely) at Off Broadway, and almost tripped over Carol Doda as she came out of The Condor Club pursued by reporters asking questions. I apologized for almost stepping on her, she smiled, but did not reply. I saw various young (again used loosely) ladies (ditto) in various states of undress undulate entertainingly, or not, and even had a topless shoeshine, which I had seen written up in some magazine or another.

I had no real adventures, other than satisfying a young man's lust for the view of acres of female flesh, and, on the bus ride back to Monterey the next day, I decided that I was glad I had gone, but wouldn't do it again.
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Thinking of traveling to San Francisco? I have started a small travel website. Click here to check it out.

Ich bin nicht faul, Herr Porzig!!

In grade school and in high school, my teachers regularly complained to my parents that I "did not participate", did not do my work, came to class unprepared, and did not perform to potential.

Sometimes when I did "participate" or try to perform to "my potential", I was told that I should sit down and shut up because I wanted to talk about something that was not under discussion at the moment. On one occasion, a nun told me that I was wrong about something, and, when I looked it up in a dictionary and tried to show her that I was right, she refused to admit that I had been right and she had been wrong.

I learned that I was smart but not very good at learning, at least not in a classroom setting. I learned that most people did not want to hear what I had to say, especially if I was right.

I also figured out that I wasn't the usual student.

Eventually, I wound up in the army and they decided that I was smart enough to go to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California to learn German (1966-67). It was great being in Monterey, but the learning part was hell. I managed to get through, but was lousy at German. Just barely passed.

One German instructor, Herr Porzig, a one-armed Prussian, often said to me, "Du bist faul, Herr Baldwin. Du bist faul." when I did not have my assignments memorized to his level of expectations.

I don't know what I could have done if things had turned out differently, but I do know that a few days ago, a doctor diagnosed me, at age 65, as having ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, a condition which can cause great difficulties in learning. It can be traced back to my childhood, and I have wondered for years but never discussed it with a professional.

I just assumed that everybody was right...I was a dreamer and somehow just lazy, even tho' I have received several awards for my actions over the years.

The doctor put me on a low dose of medication (Adderall) for ADHD, and I have noticed almost immediately that my mind is clearer and my reaction to life is more definite and certain.

Herr Porzig died a few years ago, I hear. I wish I could tell him, and several nuns, that maybe I wasn't just lazy.

Recent Diagnosis Explains a Lot

I have been meaning to ask a doctor about a particular condition for years, but always forgot. That was part of the problem. I forgot a lot of things...all my life. I hated being in classrooms even tho' I loved learning. I would zone out of important meetings, even interviews, in just a few minutes. I started project after project and the next day couldn't even remember what I had intended to do.

I once had to explain to my first wife why the garbage can was in the bedroom. I was taking out the garbage and something else captured my attention. I forgot about the garbage can until she brought it to my attention!

Long talk with the Doctor, tentative diagnosis...ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). She started me on Adderall. I began with the first dose yesterday. It took a few hours, but, for most of the day, I felt more awake, aware, alert....and focused, than I could remember ever being, at least consistenly, since first grade.

Wish I could have gone through grade school, high school, and college feeling like this (took my second dose about an hour ago). I probably would have graduated from FSU rather than flunking out due to lack of interest. Well, if that had happened, I would not have met the woman I love. Just wish I could have had both worlds.

My Sister's Grave

I often think of my sister, Katherine Elizabeth Baldwin. I guess that's a little strange because I never met her. She was born prematurely around 1950, and the methods for saving preemies that saved my grandson, Niko, were not available back then.

She was buried in St. John's cemetary in Warrington, Florida, in an unmarked grave, because my parents could not afford a headstone at that time.

I remember visiting the grave a few times with my parents. At first it was easy to find the small, child-sized mound of dirt which marked the spot where she was buried. With time, we had to search the area where we knew the grave to be to find vestiges of her resting place.

Eventually, nature took care of that and her grave could no longer be found.

I have often wondered what it would have meant to have a younger sister.

Being the only boy between two girls might have been a bother, but having someone else to take the heat of being the youngest kid in the family might have had some positive effect. On the other hand, middle kids often feel neglected.

Who's to say.

Anyway, at the age of 65, I miss this sister I never knew who would be about 60 years old herself. It would have been fun to watch her grow up and, at least for a while, be the older brother.

Oh well. Life does not always answer our desires.

However, if she could not live her own life and make her own friends, at least perhaps a few people might read this and know she passed this way. I'm sure she would have been a good sister.

Lessons from the Army - The Motor Pool Walk

I was thinking about something this morning as I was writing a comment for my blog, Fitness After 40, and it triggered a new line of thought.

I was writing about safe driving for seniors, and that reminded me about when I was a truck driving instructor, then when I was a truck driver, and then when I was in the Army. That led me to the motor pool walk.

My wife and I call this a "rabbit trail". It's more representative of my thought process than hers as she's much more focused than I am, but we both realize that the subject is about to change when one of us looks at the other and says, "rabbit trail".

Anyway, in the Army, I spent a lot of time in motor pools, checking on equipment, training or supervising soldiers, or as an equipment operator myself. They can be dangerous places if you are not paying attention. That is why a company commander I served under, or perhaps it was a first sergeant, stressed what he called "the motor pool walk".

Basically, for safety's sake, you keep your head up, your eyes moving, and pay attention to all that is going on around you.

This was a good lesson for me in many aspects of army life, not just the motor pool. We did a lot of dangerous things, and simply paying attention was worth the effort when you consider the alternative!

Later, in the civilian world, I became a truck driver for a while and eventually a truck driving instructor. Once again, as I moved through equipment yards, strange facilities, truck stops, and even over the road, "heads up and eyes moving" was a good mantra.

When you read or listen to motivational speakers, they too often describe in their own way what I would define as "the motor pool walk". When we as soldiers had to move across an open area, some target or goal would be selected to walk towards, but it would still be necessary to look around to see what was going on and identify any potential threat or danger. The person looking at his or her feet was almost certain to veer off course and more likely to wander into a dangerous situation.

As I aged, I became aware that it was a little more difficult to walk, drive, even concentrate (although that has been an ongoing problem of mine since grade school). However, I reverted to consciously imposing "the motor pool walk" as a condition of any activity, and it helped immensely. I also learned that many seniors who are experiencing loss of balance often have a habit of looking down at the ground in front of them.

Not only does this hamper their ability to move safely and surely at the moment, but studies have also shown that it actually contributes to poor balance and more frequent falls. As the studies of mental exercise progress, it has become obvious to many researchers that keeping your head up, eyes moving, and thinking about what is going on around you actually helps the brain retain its ability to make decisions, problem solve, improve balance and keep you out of trouble.

It's amazing that one little lesson can last so long and have such a profound affect on one's life.