Going, Going...

   It's a classic phrase in the American sport of baseball, that crack of the bat and the announcer following the ball as it arcs ever so slowly into the distant bleachers.  A home run, the base runners gleefully rounding the bases, their team excitedly waiting at home plate, their bodies bouncing and gyrating like popcorn popping, hunks of muscled men forgiven for acting like kids, their antics only echoing our feelings in the stands.  The final word of the phrase of course is "gone," that final clunk when the ball passes the railing and reaches its end, the waiting fans all trying to snag it before it can hit the seats, their hands waving as frantically as their arms, reaching and shoving for that tiny stitched ball that is bound to sting when stopped, a final hurrah, a last burst of it energy before it heads off to a shelf or a pocket, likely never to see again what it once did.  I hesitated to use the final part of that phrase, partially because that ball's trajectory seems to echo life, some balls being played over and over while others are short hits, rough rides on the ground or short fly balls knocked askew, backwards or to the side. "Foul ball," the umpire calls.  There's no predictability.  The ball is tossed and turned and thrown by the pitcher, the batter awaits as does the catcher.  Swing, batter, swing!  Stree-ike, the umpire calls.

   My friend (the one I visited) is in that last arc, her voice now quite weak, her arm tiring at holding the phone even after only a minute.  There was still no goodbye between us, just a call on my part to tell her what a pleasure and an honor it had been to know her.  Her weak reply?...the feeling's mutual.  My brother also happened to call the other day, a "captain" we'd known had passed away, a sailor at heart whose love was the sea, a fish out of water.  He had sailed all his life, crossing the Marquesas Islands on his way back to Hawaii, a journey of 3900 km (2428 miles) on the Pacific, solo, just the "captain" and his 40-foot boat.  His navigation system went out some 300 miles out, he told us, so he had to use the stars for the last part of his journey, no big deal he said.  Got there safely but somehow didn't feel good, as if he were catching the flu...he had actually contacted Guillain Barre, an auto-immune infection that the NIH says: ...can affect anybody. It can strike at any age and both sexes are equally prone to the disorder.  The syndrome is rare, however, afflicting only about one person in 100,000.  Usually Guillain-Barré occurs a few days or weeks after the patient has had symptoms of a respiratory or gastrointestinal viral infection.  Occasionally surgery will trigger the syndrome...The first symptoms of this disorder include varying degrees of weakness or tingling sensations in the legs.  In many instances the symmetrical weakness and abnormal sensations spread to the arms and upper body.  These symptoms can increase in intensity until certain muscles cannot be used at all and, when severe, the person is almost totally paralyzed...Most individuals, however, have good recovery from even the most severe cases of Guillain-Barré syndrome, although some continue to have a certain degree of weakness...No one yet knows why Guillain-Barré --which is not contagious-- strikes some people and not others.  Nor does anyone know exactly what sets the disease in motion.  There's the pitch, the swing of the bat...foul ball.  And now there he was again, using the stars for the final part of his journey.

   The "captain" lived a long life afterwards, as pleasant as could be expected and my brother and I remembering him taking us out for evening sails, the boat often tilting dangerously as it cut through the ocean leaving my brother and I clinging like scared spiders to the outside cabin wall while we braved a glimpse at the "captain."  How's it looking, we would ask, our words actually hiding our thoughts to just make it back to shore.  Oh, this is perfect, he would reply, as coolly and contently as a fish out of water.  My spitfire friend is/was the same, active in 15 sports she proudly told me, college piano teacher (what??) and what would have been my other instrument, she asked.  Uh, the violin, I stammered, not really sure what to reply.  The organ!, she yelled (truly yelled, chastising me as surely as her gaze of disgust). How could I not know that?  Exactly, I thought, but who plays the organ these days?  On to the next topic...

   I was reading in the recent issue of Time that a rather large chunk of people over 60 are burdened with student debt, some from co-signing loans for others but some just wanting to learn another skill in order to get a better job.  Said the article: Altogether, the over-60 set now carries $66.7 billion in student debt...According to the CFPB report (U.S. Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, a part of government that is on the verge of being abolished by the new administration and Congress), more than a third of those age 60 and older with student debt had forgone medical care, including prescription drugs, to afford their loan payments.  In 2015, nearly 40% of borrowers over 65 were in default, which means the government can garnish their tax refunds and Social Security benefits to service payments...And there's no way out: if someone dies with student debt, the balance is skimmed off his remaining assets.  In the same issue of the magazine, it was said that in the 18th century: ...the thinkers of the Enlightenment, men like Voltaire and Adam Smith, sought to free humankind from what they saw as the constraints of religion and tradition so human being could pursue their individual interests.  Both of my friends seem to have done that, to have escaped without any student debt and to have been enlightened; no burdens, just brightness...they were lucky, that crack of the bat sending them high in the air, sailing away.  You could almost hear the excitement in the announcer's (and their) voice..."it's outta here!"