Life Lessons, Sunsets and Growing Old In America

Sunset At The Hospital Last Week

I am a proud Baby Boomer, born in 1956. My parents were in their mid-forties when I arrived—much older than the parents of most of the kids I grew up with. My grandparents were older too, and my sister and I were born into a family that had survived the Great Depression and World War II, a generation that watched the world change from radio to television. They had learned to count on one another when times got tough, because they often did.

My dad was a mailman. He knew everyone on his route. He was also active in local and state politics, so he seemed to know people everywhere. Within our family and his circle of friends, he was the one everyone called when someone needed help. Whether they were elderly, sick, or nearing the end of life, Dad made sure they had what they needed—groceries, medicine, a ride to the doctor, or simply someone to check in on them.

As a young boy, I often rode along with him. Those trips taught me lessons that no classroom ever could. Those lessons became values, and those values eventually became actions. Helping other people wasn't simply an obligation of faith; it was how healthy communities survived and thrived. People looked after one another. They offered helping hands along the way to make sure no one fell through the cracks.

When my dad passed away, something unexpected happened. The phone calls that had always come to him started coming to me, even though I was only 33 years old at the time. It felt like a role that required more wisdom than I possessed, yet somehow it had been quietly passed from father to son. I don't know exactly how people made that connection. Maybe they had simply seen me with Dad all those years and assumed I had learned what he knew.

As the years have passed, I've watched our culture grow a little colder and a little more distant. Perhaps computers and cell phones have too often replaced actually spending time with people. The relationships that once held families and neighborhoods together seem to be fading. I've heard it said that loneliness now claims more lives than cancer. Whether that's literally true or not, loneliness has certainly become one of the defining problems of our time.

These days, I spend a great deal of time with my mother-in-law, Alice. She's 86, and it seems her body discovers a new way to betray her almost every week. My wife, Denise, and I share the responsibility of caring for her, which means more doctor appointments and hospital visits than either of us ever imagined. Some days are hard. Occasionally I resort to sneaking some ice cream into her hospital room or taking her to a window to see a sunset. We discuss all sorts of things, some serious, some not, and a lot in between. The nurses scold me occasionally.  Guilty as charged, I guess.

Like my dad, Alice continues to teach me lessons about life—the kind you don't learn in school and certainly don't learn staring at a phone. She teaches me to slow down, to be patient, and to listen to a story I've heard more than once because, to her, it's still worth telling. She has taught me to observe carefully and understand what she's feeling, especially when she struggles to explain herself to nurses and doctors. Most of all, she's reminded me that sometimes what people need most isn't advice or medicine. Sometimes they simply need someone to listen, someone to care, someone to be there. Those are exactly the same lessons my father taught me when I was a boy.

I'm not sure modern culture truly values the wisdom and experience of its elders anymore. Many times when I'm with Alice at the hospital, I notice other patients who seem painfully alone. I can't imagine how frightening that must be—to be elderly, sick, and sitting in a hospital room, a nursing home, or even your own home with no familiar face beside you. Surely we can do better than that.

I once read about a program in Europe that paired older adults with children who had no grandparents or stable family connections. The children gained mentors and grandparents. The older people found companionship, purpose, and joy. Both groups benefited in remarkable ways. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we found more ways to do that here?

I'd genuinely like to hear your thoughts in the comments. Do you have older friends, neighbors, or relatives whom you help? If so, how has that experience affected you? Has it been a burden, a blessing, or perhaps a little of both? And someday, when you're the older person who needs a little help, what do you hope your community will look like?

Most of us will eventually need someone to slow down, listen, lend a hand, or simply sit beside us for a while. Perhaps the kind of society we become tomorrow depends on how we treat those people today.

Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select "Anonymous" in the "Comment as" field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

How Do We Find Our Way Back?

John Prine's first album - I've owned this since 1972

Like many people, I spend a lot of time wondering how we got to where we are as a nation. I'm not talking only about politics, but about our culture, our economy, and the way we relate to one another. Constant wars. Cell phone addictions. Growing social divisions. It often feels as though we're all pulling in different directions, and I find myself asking the same question over and over:

How do we find our way back?

    Last night, while talking with a younger friend about philosophy, wisdom, and the things that shape us, I had something of a revelation. It hit me like the beacon of an ocean lighthouse piercing through the fog on a moonless night.

    Almost casually, I mentioned that much of my personal philosophy comes from listening to John Prine.

    That surprised even me.

    Realizing that not everyone had the pleasure of seeing John perform while he was alive—or of spending much time with his music—I started thinking about why his songs became such an anchor in my own life.

    It began in early 1972 when I walked into Moles Den Records in Joliet, Illinois. I spent a good portion of every paycheck there, always hunting for music that commercial radio overlooked. The owner, Denny, knew my tastes well and often steered me toward artists he thought deserved to be heard. That day, he pointed to John Prine's self-titled debut album. More than fifty years later, it's still the only album purchase I can remember that vividly. From the first spin, I knew I was hearing something unlike anything else.

    John's music wasn't polished. His voice was rough and nasal. The production was simple and understated. His guitar playing wasn't flashy, but it was unforgettable. His Travis-style fingerpicking—with the thumb laying down a steady alternating bass while the fingers carried the melody—became instantly recognizable. Like many longtime Prine fans, I can identify most of his songs within the first few notes.

    But it was the lyrics that completely changed me. John wrote about people no one else seemed interested in writing about.

    Lonely old people.

    Veterans struggling with addiction.

    Middle-aged women quietly longing for something more.

    Ordinary people trying to make sense of an increasingly confusing world.

    He even challenged shallow displays of patriotism long before that became a common topic of conversation.

    Those songs helped shape the values I've carried throughout my life.

    "Hello In There" taught me empathy. I honestly believe it influenced my willingness to become a caregiver for aging family members and friends.

    "Sam Stone" remains, in my opinion, one of the saddest songs ever written—and perhaps one of the most honest portraits of what many Vietnam veterans experienced after coming home.

    "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" challenged the idea that patriotism is something you display rather than something you live. More than fifty years later, it still feels remarkably relevant.

    What amazes me most is that John Prine was only twenty-four years old when he released that first album. Kris Kristofferson summed it up perfectly when he said John was "twenty-four years old and writes like he's two hundred and twenty."

    That brings me to my point. Maybe we'd all be a little better off if we spent less time letting politicians, television personalities, and social media tell us what our values should be, and a little more time listening to artists who remind us what it means to be human. John Prine never told us how to vote. He reminded us how to care and what values really matter when it comes to building a community or nation that truly cares for one another.

    He reminded us to notice the lonely, the forgotten, the broken, and the ordinary people who quietly carry the weight of the world. Those lessons seem just as important today as they were to me in 1972.

    If you've never listened to that first John Prine album, give it an hour of your time. Then share it with a friend.  Who knows? If enough people did that, we might just straighten out this big ol' goofy world. You can listen to the whole album with commentary here.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Are you familiar with John Prine’s music?  If so, how has his music affected your values?  Are there other artists who have affected you in similar ways? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.