Up In The Air by Cheryl in Roseville.

My late father-in-law had fully fossilized into himself by the age of 40 and, with the notable exceptions of CDs and a digital camera, never dipped a curious toe into late 20th or early 21st century culture and technology. I teased him once about his not liking modern music and he responded that he was quite fond of the Beatles. I noted that John Lennon had been dead for 25 years by then and he changed the subject.

In retirement, he read books for six or seven hours a day. Occasionally, he did a bit of watercolor painting and simple woodworking. My mother-in-law kept him fed and socialized. If that makes him sound like a high-functioning pet, well I never actually saw her scratch his ears but I never heard her deny it, either.

My own father is better with technology—he owns and uses both a computer and a cell phone—but has fewer interests and no hobbies. He reads only his local newspapers. His TV is tuned to one of three programs: news, old western series, and college football. His social life is mostly chatting with the staff of stores and restaurants he frequents. So, while we can text, there is rarely enough content to warrant a single emoji.

I worry that I might follow in both men’s footsteps as I age. I am terrific at trivia up to about 1992. Ask me about anything later and you’d think I’d been comatose for a couple of decades. Worse, my tastes stopped developing in that time. I’ve hated the few wildly popular movies and shows I’ve tried. Streaming shows are both slow-paced and too convoluted for me. Surely somewhere there is a main character without a tragic backstory and a serial-killer archenemy, a likable protagonist who does not deal with the undead, space aliens, or Real Housewives.

Whoops. Sorry for the you-kids-get-off-my-lawn, fogey-like digression.

I’m not sure much can be done about aesthetic atrophy. What about getting out and experiencing new things, though? Kurt Vonnegut once told an interviewer about a day he left home to buy a single envelope. His wife told him he could buy envelopes by the hundreds and even get them delivered to the house. No, he said, that wasn’t the point. First, you have to find a place that will sell you just one envelope. You have to walk around and talk to people and listen to their stories and pet their dogs, etc. By the time all that is done, he said, “I’ve had a hell of a good time. I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.”

I recounted that story for my classmates last weekend. All of us had taken a bit of ribbing from friends for our enrollment. If we’d gone for Pilates or Wine-n Canvas we wouldn’t have heard a peep. But no, we were teased.

Because we’re spending our Sunday afternoons learning to juggle.

I’ll argue, though, that “farting around” with scarves and beanbags and balls is at least interesting. Somebody drank a little merlot and made a glorified paint-by-numbers landscape? Bully for them. Somebody else has abs you could bounce a quarter off of? Yippee. Want to hear more than two sentences about either at a potluck? Absolutely not. If someone can keep three condiments in the air in a steady cascade pattern, don’t you want them to? And want them to show other people how to? Darn right, you do.

It’s not even a toss-up.

 

Editor’s note: Darn right, Cheryl, people do. I’ve seen it happen.

When my late husband taught math at St. Olaf (he retired in 1995), the math department had a weekly colloquium for students. One time the speaker was Ron Graham of Bell Labs—a very distinguished mathematician, but nearly as well-known for being a semi-professional juggler. At the faculty after-party that evening, people wanted to see him juggle. He obliged. He also coaxed quite a few of the math people to give it a try, and he taught them how it’s done. The reaction was a mixture of glee and euphoria. Memorable!

Graham died in 2020, and the obituaries gave nearly as much space to his juggling achievements as his considerable contributions to mathematics.

I told Cheryl about meeting Graham, and she thought it was a perfect illustration of her point. True, that. She replied, “His internationally-published obituaries all headlined his juggling along with his academic achievements. For contrast, the NYT obituary of Richard Feynman buries his bongos in the 16th paragraph. UC San Diego also noted that he put himself through grad school with a circus trampoline act. Wow.”