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Posts Tagged ‘Ohio’

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Fair Play

In Entertainment, history, Local News, Opinion, Uncategorized on August 5, 2023 at 7:27 am

Deer In Headlines II 

By Gery Deer

The onset of fall means fair season here in Ohio, and my visit to our county fair this year was simultaneously familiar and foreign. When I was a kid, the county fair was the grand finale of my summer. At the time, I was probably annoyed with how much work it was. But what I wouldn’t give to walk through the fair of my youth. I didn’t appreciate it then, but those were some of the best days of my childhood.

As a young 4-H’er, I always had multiple projects to exhibit each year. If you had livestock (I showed cattle) you generally camped on the grounds to tend to your animals and get show practice in the arena more easily. My Dad always brought our small motorhome for me, so I had a nice place to sleep and some privacy. But sometimes, just to be closer to it all, I tossed my sleeping bag on the bales of hay next to my calf’s stall in the cattle barn. At night, the summer heat gave way to a cool breeze that flowed through the open sides of the barn, and I’d fall asleep to the sounds of the fair all around me, and some occasional mooing.

In the morning, I’d feed and water my calf (I only ever showed one at a time). Then breakfast at my favorite food tent where a youth group sold Bob Evans sausage, biscuits, pancakes, and all the trimmings. A kid’s gotta eat, right? We didn’t have money for it every day, but it was really great on the days I was really busy. 

Later, it was exercise time, for me and the cattle. I walked a 900-pound steer as if I were strolling through a park with a poodle. Showing an animal at the fair meant a great deal of training – for them and me. So, my calves behaved more like someone’s pet than a half-ton farm animal.

I showed in the dairy beef class and on show days, I had to wear white. I know, right, white clothes in all that muck and dirt? But we weren’t allowed to be dirty and neither were the animals. After a bath came a good brushing and a polish of the hooves. Finally, I had to “bob” their tails. It was a weird practice of teasing the hair at the end of the calf’s tail until it fluffed out like a ball, then folding the ends under and rubber-banding it, upside down, to the tail. Believe me, even if there was a picture, it wouldn’t make sense. 

Along with all the work, there was plenty of play. Many of the kids stayed on the grounds without their parents and no one ever seemed to worry about us. In between chores, we were normal kids, playing games, eating cotton candy, and riding on those rickety carnival rides. Once there was even a woman in a cage who turned into a gorilla! How did we survive all that? For one week every summer, I was in my element, one place I didn’t feel like a misfit.

Amidst all the fun, however, I had responsibilities. So, every kid had to keep one ear tuned to the dreaded public address system because, in the middle of a ride on the Scrambler, a garbled announcement would echo across the entire fairground sounding something like this. “Gery Deer, meet your mother at the FFA tent, immediately. Gery Deer, go to the FFA tent.” You see, before mobile phones, if parents needed the kids to somewhere during the fair, we got paged – very publicly. Talk about embarrassing, I can still hear the other kids. “Ha ha, Gery, your mommy wants you!” Oh, the humiliation.

I still miss those days and even then, I had some appreciation for the role the experience played in my young life. One night, just as the fair was closing, I shut my eyes and just listened for a moment as if storing the sounds for later, maybe when I couldn’t go back there again. I remember every moment of my time there. It’ll always be a part who i am, and I will always be grateful.

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Aim for a high mark.

In Children and Family, Dayton Ohio News, Education, Entertainment, history, National News, News Media, Opinion, Uncategorized on July 28, 2023 at 12:00 pm

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

For the last 20 years, I have had the honor of leading a performing troupe of authentic Wild West arts practitioners in the American Western Arts Showcase during the Annie Oakley Festival in Greenville, Ohio.

Every year, whip handlers, knife throwers, trick ropers, and even shooters have gathered to compete, perform, and share our skills to the delight of crowds from all over the country. Of all the things I’ve learned from my time producing this event, my favorite part has been getting to know Annie Oakley, one of the most famous female performers in American history.

Anyone who studies women’s rights should really learn everything they can about Annie Oakley. In short, she was ahead of her time. Most people know Annie was a skilled markswoman with a rifle, a Wild West show performer, and a savvy businesswoman. But she was also the first American woman to brand herself and protect and defend her public image. To truly appreciate how special she was, it’s important to understand the difficult life she led before.

Annie Oakley

Annie Oakley was born Phoebe Ann Moses on August 13, 1860, just a few miles north of the city of Greenville, in Darke County, Ohio. At age 6, her father died, leaving the family impoverished. Her mother was forced to move the family to a rented farm. Later, when a sister died of tuberculosis, she and her siblings were separated, and Annie was moved to the county infirmary. Annie eventually ended up with a terribly abusive family where she struggled through her early teenage years in what she likened to slavery.

Annie learned to shoot at the age of eight, a skill she later used to earn money and goods by trading with local merchants. Discovered at a Cincinnati shooting contest by her future husband, Frank Butler, Annie experienced unprecedented global fame as a performing markswoman. She joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show in 1885 and traveled the world with them until her retirement following a train accident in 1901.

Annie spent her later years at the New Jersey shore with her husband. She occasionally attended public shooting events for charity and was also a vocal and active advocate for women’s rights to hold paid work, equal pay, play sports, and practice self-defense.

In 1908, her public image was devastated by an article published by William Randolph Hearst in the Chicago Tribune claiming she had been imprisoned for stealing to support a cocaine habit. Dozens of newspapers nationwide carried the story which was, it goes without saying, a complete lie.

With Hearst refusing to retract the story, Annie would not stand for such defamation and sued all 55 newspapers that printed it for libel in the largest suit of its kind in U.S. history.

She won all but one case because that defendant cited the newswire as the “trusted resource,” indemnifying the paper. Her victory still resonates through libel law today.

After traveling the globe and performing for the crowned heads of Europe, Annie Oakley died in 1926 in a small house in Greenville, only a few miles from where she was born. Her husband of 50 years, Frank Butler passed just eight days later. She was inducted into the
National Women’s Hall of Fame in 1993 for her charitable support of women’s causes. She was, and is, an inspiration to people all around the world.

I am fortunate to have met members of Annie’s family, studied her professionalism and showmanship, and performed in modern Wild West shows, albeit with a bullwhip instead of a rifle. No matter how tough things get, her most famous quote inspires me to keep trying. “Aim at a high mark and you will hit it. No, not the first time, nor the second, and maybe not the third. But keep on aiming and keep on shooting for only practice will make you perfect. Finally, you’ll hit the bullseye of success.”

As for myself, after two decades 2023 will mark the final season for our showcase performance at the festival that has honored Annie Oakley for 60 years. It’s been an honor and I will greatly miss it. But, no matter what I do, Annie’s wisdom and fortitude will always be with me.

(The gallery shows some photos from the American Western Arts Showcase – originally named the Ohio Regional Wild West Arts Club Convention).

The Masked Man will make an appearance on Saturday during the contest events from Noon – 2 PM!
Gery Deer (left) with Jim Karns in “The Vanishing Bandana” – The Brothers & Co. Variety Show
gldold04

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Award-winning local Wild West performers headline the 20th Annual American Western Arts Showcase at Annie Oakley Festival July 28-29.

In Local News on July 24, 2023 at 6:56 pm

Greenville, OH – The 20th Annual American Western Arts Showcase is slated for July 28-29, 2023, during the Annie Oakley Festival at the Darke County Fairground, 800 Sweitzer St., in Greenville, Ohio. Each of the stage-style Wild West shows features whip marksmanship and knife-throwing performances as well as some trick roping, stunt demos, comedy routines, and audience participation. The showcase event is free and open to the public.

Presented in the spirit of the stage-style Wild West shows of the late 19th Century, each production will include some detailed history of how these arts came to be and who still practices them today. Award-winning bullwhip performer and coach, Gery Deer, of Jamestown, Ohio, is the show’s founder, emcee, and producer.

“This is a one-of-a-kind show in this region,” Deer said. “We have some of the best Wild West arts entertainment anywhere in the Midwest with real practitioners of each skill.”

Deer started the event in Jamestown, Ohio, in 2002 but has been a regular presence at the Annie Oakley Festival every year since. “Our goal has always been to educate as well as entertain, ours is a dying art form,” Deer said. “These are talented performers with genuine ability, no fakery, no tricks. Everything you see in our show is real – and all of our shows are in 3-D and high definition!”

Champion knife thrower Kirk Bass, of Xenia, Ohio, is the co-producer of the event. He and his daring wife Melodee are known as “Bass Blades,” a long-running impalement act.  They are among the performers to take the open-air stage for the competition and matinee show beginning at Noon. on Saturday, July 29, following the festival parade. Contests begin with the National Whip Speed and Accuracy Exhibition Competition, the world’s original Bullwhip Fast Draw contest. Plus, there is a contest taken straight from the big screen.

In 1981, a fedora-wearing, leather-clad archaeologist threw the crack heard around the world when he “whipped” a pistol from the hand of a jungle guide. At the beginning of “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” Indiana Jones demonstrated his skills with the holstered fast-draw of a 10-foot bullwhip, all while having to spin around to take aim first.

In the spirit of Dr. Jones’ proficiency, the competition includes a special, “blind bullwhip fast draw.” Contestants must mimic the move used in the film to turn, draw their holstered whip, and crack at a target with speed and accuracy.

“With the popularity of Indiana Jones among western performers, particularly whip artists, it’s odd this hasn’t been done before,” explained Deer, who holds multiple, national whip speed and accuracy titles and is the director of The Whip Artistry Studio, the only permanent whip training facility in America.

The final showcase performance for the weekend will be at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday and features Deer’s family musical group, “The Brothers & Co.,” who were a staple at the event until 2019. They’re returning for this one performance during the weekend. However, Deer will also appear at the festival as a solo performer beginning at 12 Noon on Sunday, July 31, for a series of Indiana Jones-style whip performances, complete with costuming.

The event is sponsored by GLD Enterprises Communications, Ltd., The Whip Artistry Studio, Bass Blades, Sage & Oak Handmade, and the Annie Oakley Festival Committee. For links to the festival and sneak previews of the performers plus updated show times, visit ohiowesternarts.org.

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Ignore the Green Light

In Books, Opinion, psychology, sociology, Uncategorized on July 22, 2023 at 7:38 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

“If it wasn’t for the mist, we could see your home across the bay. You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” – A quote by Jay Gatsby, from “The Great Gatsby,” by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

You may not think of it in those terms, but we all have a “green light,” some undying yet seemingly unattainable desire for something. If you’re unfamiliar with the reference, let me point you toward the classic novel.

The book was written and set in the 1920s during New York’s Jazz Age, a time of prohibition, excess, and the American “consumer culture.” For Fitzgerald’s title character, a green light set at the end of a boat dock represented all that Gatsby desired or deemed of value in life. For across the water were his dreams – a woman named Daisy and her whirlwind, ritzy, lifestyle. 

To be worthy of Daisy’s attention, though, Gatsby thought he had to attain a lifestyle that, in those days, was unreachable unless you were born into it. Growing up impoverished in rural North Dakota, he saw money and prestige as the means to fit into Daisy’s world, and true happiness. In reality, however, Daisy, though from a wealthy and estimable family, wasn’t happy at all. Instead, she saw her place in that society as a stranglehold, a prison sentence.

Gatsby eventually got what he wanted, or did he? I won’t spoil the end for you – go read it. You don’t get the right feel of this from movies. Either way, the moral here is that chasing the green light may not be all it’s cracked up to be after all. I suppose, however, it really depends on what your green light represents, doesn’t it? That begs the question, what is your “green light?”

Is there anything you want so badly that you would change who you are as a person or alter your values just to get it? I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything like that. I’ve never been someone who cared anything about social position, prestige, or money, other than to support myself and my family without too much struggle.

Likewise, I never cared much about how people saw me or where I fit in so-called, “social circles.” If you don’t like me, you know where the door is, I’m not changing to suit your sensibilities. No one should have to do that.

To me, the green light represents something out of our reach, not so much because of socioeconomic status, but who we are as individuals. But, if I have to be something artificial in order for people to accept me into some popular collective, then I don’t want to be around them in the first place. I have never understood those who pretend to be something they’re not just to fit in with a group or climb some social ladder. I guess my ambitions just lay elsewhere.

In the novel, I think the problem with Gatsby’s vision of happiness, as with so many people, is how narrow, artificial, and ill-informed it was from the start. He wanted the money and social success so badly, he was willing to be something other than himself just to be with someone who didn’t even want to live in that world. It could be said that Daisy wanted out as badly as he wanted into it.

I’m not saying we should all simply accept our station, especially not if you’re really unhappy. But the life you want and the people you share it with should reflect who you really are, not who others think you should be. Don’t change just to assimilate to some idealistic world that probably isn’t what you think it is anyway.

Where does that leave us – and Gatsby? He saw Daisy’s green light as a beacon, lighting his way to financial and social salvation, but things rarely work out that way. My advice, for whatever it’s worth, is to ignore the green light and concentrate on what really drives you, the “you” that you are now. If you want to change for the good, to grow, that’s amazing! But do it for yourself, not someone else.

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We weren’t always old.

In Local News, Opinion, psychology, Senior Lifestyle, Uncategorized on July 14, 2023 at 6:08 pm

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

An elderly gentleman sat quietly in a wheelchair, hunched and feeble, and his tired eyes peered through thick, smudged glasses. What remained of probably a head full of dark, wavy locks now lay in thin, white whisps. A young woman in a healthcare uniform sat next to him, smiling as she helped him eat some pudding from a small plastic cup. He looked longingly at the family sitting across the room entertaining what he assumed was a grandparent. His thoughts wandered back, 30, 40, and 50 years, to the days of his youth, as a young husband and father.

He remembered the excitement of family vacations, the birth of his first child, his first job and promotion, and buying their first home. So many things had happened, so much time, so much life, so many had gone on before him, so many yet to come. To him, just a moment ago, he was a young man, but now… He glanced again at the family, and around the room at the other residents of the nursing home.

“We weren’t always old,” he whispered under his breath, a single tear sliding from beneath his heavy glasses. The woman continued to give him the snack until the cup was empty. A moment later, he’d dozed off and she was pushing his chair back to his room.

I saw countless scenes like this while I cared for my parents. Life has a way of teaching us things, whether we are willing students or not. As we age, begin to understand pearls of wisdom shared by our parents, grandparents, and teachers. Somehow, the man’s lament of “we weren’t always old,” stuck a chord with me. I wasn’t either.

For some reason, the young seem to ignore the person behind the white hair, walkers, and wrinkles. Somewhere in there is the person they once were, young, vibrant, active, and productive. They were actors, writers, salespeople, teachers, police officers, musicians, mothers, lawyers, doctors, and so much more. They were somebody, and we should never forget it!

Everyone’s got that grandparent, aunt, or uncle, who sits in the corner at holiday dinners telling stories of the old days, but almost no one listens. They’ve heard the stories over and over as if the person’s mind is locked into that point in their life history. I learned a lot about my dad while I was caring for him. He would sit and tell me stories as we worked a puzzle or watched an old western on TV. I tried hard to understand who he was beyond the man I knew as my father. I’m not sure many people ever do that with their senior family.

As we age, we are still people, still individuals. We can still dream, imagine, love, care, create, understand, learn, and grow, but the system doesn’t always let us. Eventually, we will outlive our societal usefulness. We’re parked in Hell’s waiting room as our relatives wait to argue about who gets the junk we leave behind. It’s no wonder our minds retreat to better days. It’s ridiculous, and it’s pretty sad. There is so much to learn from our seniors, so much history, life lessons, and experience, all of which would benefit us to learn and absorb.

It’s strange how we treat the elderly in this country. In government, we routinely elect and re-elect people who stay in power for decades, until they finally age out to illness or die in office. Most are still holding political office many years after corporate America would have shown them the door. But most of the rest of us are “put out to pasture” at what is arguably a very young age. Illness notwithstanding, senior citizens still have a great deal to offer. They should be the schoolteachers, counselors, and mentors.

 Our society might be in better shape if our youth paid more attention to the mistakes and successes of past generations instead of constantly trying to reinvent the wheel. So, my advice to the younger folks out there is simple – spend more time with the older folks in your lives. Pay attention to their stories – listen and learn. You never know, you both may learn something!

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My Closest Calls

In Health, Local News, Opinion, psychology, Technology, Uncategorized on July 9, 2023 at 10:27 pm

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

One bright, sunny summer day almost 30 years ago, I was driving my brother’s grain truck along a quiet country road near Spring Valley, Ohio. About a quarter mile ahead, my Dad drove his own truck, leading the way to where we would be collecting a load of hay. Our trucks were big, 6-wheeled, lift-bed grain boxes, about 10 tons each, and Dad was always leery about moving too fast on those old back roads, so we were just taking our time.

Just a few miles from our destination, a cement truck whizzed past him in the oncoming lane. It was the big kind with a small, metal cage for a cab, a long barrel with the engine trailing behind, and large balloon-like tires. I heard his voice over the CB radio warning me to beware as it approached. Barely a moment later, I was eye to eye with the driver as suddenly an explosion of glass, tearing metal, and a cloud of dust engulfed me. Our two massive steel machines had collided, left front fender to left front fender, and the sound was like nothing I can adequately describe.

It was over as instantly as it had happened. What only seconds before had been a clean, powerful machine, and the center of my brother’s livelihood, was now little more than a pile of scrap. I had done what I could at the instant of impact to stop the vehicle. But, it was no use, the pedals were no longer connected to anything – neither was the steering wheel. As it came to rest, the truck’s lower frame plowed into the asphalt, like the Titanic’s bow crashing into the ocean floor. The cab and running board were severely damaged, the mirror shattered, and the door was caved in. The front axle and wheels were gone and the steering shaft snapped off. Moreover, there was no sign of my assailant. The cement truck was gone!

Behind the motionless, dead hulk of my truck, in a hay field, nearly a quarter of a mile away lay the twisted wreckage of the cement truck. It had telegraphed off of my truck, slamming into my frame multiple times, rolled behind me at full speed, and snapped off a power pole at its base – leaving a transformer suspended in mid-air by its cable. Then it spun out of control, careened down a long hill, and came to rest, upside down and backward. By some bizarre miracle, the driver, wearing no seatbelt and, according to the police investigation, moving twice my speed, had managed to survive relatively unhurt, as did I.

This is the truck … after.

Oddly, the casualties were limited to the two trucks and my Dad’s wits – as in frightened out of. He had to watch it all happen to me in his rearview mirror. By the time my truck had come to a stop, he’d bailed out of his and was running toward me yelling my name to see if I was OK. I was far more worried about him, though. 

I’d never seen him that shaken, out of breath, pale. When he saw I was unhurt he seemed to calm down. I was busy tossing my belongings out of the open, or rather, shattered, window, and trying to figure out how to get the door open. Once I was sure both Dad and I were OK, I told him to go check on the other driver while I used my cell to call for help. A few minutes later, I heard sirens coming up the road, and within moments the county sheriff’s deputies arrived. All would be OK – at least until my brother got there. Yikes! But that’s a story for another time. 

I will forever appreciate how fortunate I was that day. I can’t imagine what would have happened had either truck been a few inches one way or another. Life’s a gamble, every day. I think we always need to recognize how quickly things can change direction – through no fault or action of our own. Appreciate the positives, stay strong through the negatives. And remember, to live your best life. You never know what turns it might take one day.

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The First 10 Miles

In Children and Family, Education, Health, Opinion, psychology, Senior Lifestyle, sociology, Uncategorized on July 1, 2023 at 1:40 pm

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

I took up long-distance tour cycling in 2017 to give some direction to my fitness routine. I am definitely no gym rat, but I needed to improve my health, and exercise for its own sake was, at least to me, mind-numbing. Preparing for long bicycle tours provided a tangible goal and kept me more engaged.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, a bike was the only way I could get around, especially when the nearest neighbor kid was a couple of miles away. But this was a different challenge. With higher speeds, longer distances, and greater safety risks, I had a great deal to learn. 

I took the time to learn everything I could about endurance cycling, from choosing the right equipment to managing my food. The first year, I rode about 5 days a week, covering anywhere between six and 12 miles per day, while also maintaining my core and strength exercises.  

With practice, study, and the right workout regimen, my speed, distance, and endurance all improved. That first summer, I completed two, 100-mile, or “century,” rides. Since then, I’ve done six more, averaging two per year. 

I’d never been so driven to accomplish something that physical. I basically became an athlete, and that was never on my radar. Plus, it was as much mental as physical, maybe more. My friends and family probably thought I’d lost it. At 49 years old, I was in the best health of my life and broke physical barriers put in place from the day I was born. It required careful planning, long hours in the saddle, conditioning, and determination.

Any challenging goal always has prerequisites. Maybe you call them milestones or baby steps, whatever. The point is that these smaller goals help measure your progress and keep your eye on the prize. There are no “hacks” to anything worth doing and, if you find one, it’s probably going to rob you of valuable lessons and potentially derail the whole effort. 

The problem with most long-term goals is that people sometimes try to jump to the end, skipping vital steps. People who quit smoking cold turkey, for example, often fail because there are no step-downs to help eliminate, not just the addiction, but the habits that feed it. With cycling, you have to learn to ride 5 miles before you tackle 10, which leads to 20, and so on. More importantly, it might take time and practice to recognize each stage of achievement and what it means to your overall success.

For instance, my average training ride is around 20 miles, but even now, I struggle a bit in the first 6-8. I feel awkward, uncomfortable, and unfocused. It can be discouraging, sometimes even painful. But, as I push ahead, everything starts to smooth out around the 10-mile mark. My body settles into the bike, my cadence has a rhythm, my speed and efficiency improvements, and I become more mentally focused. 

My typical goal is generally far more than 10 miles, but I’ve learned to value that milestone because of its significance to my final goal. When you understand which smaller steps have the greatest impact on your final goal, each subsequent step becomes easier and more valuable. 

Recently I participated in the shortest organized cycling event I’ve ever ridden – 21 miles. There is no fanfare for a ride like this, just people who want to ride in a supported event with fellow cyclists. As expected, the first half of the ride was a little slow and clunky. 

I didn’t have the speed or rhythm I wanted, and the distance didn’t give me much time to “get into it.” But I pressed on, and, just like always, around the 10-mile mark, everything shook out and I even managed to set a speed record for myself. But I learned something different from the experience.

My “first 10 miles” could also be a metaphor for recognizing our strengths or shortcomings as we work toward any goal. Manageable, short-term accomplishments make the overall effort more rewarding. Hopefully, moving forward we learn and adjust, keeping a clear vision of the finish line. Before too long you’ve met your goal and your obstacles are in the rear-view mirror.

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A sharper image

In Children and Family, Education, Health, Opinion, Uncategorized on June 23, 2023 at 4:36 pm

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

When we meet someone, we form mental and emotional impressions of them based on personal behavior, past experiences, and other characteristics. That collection of impressions, what I call their “image,” becomes who we know them to be and there’s a lot riding on it. It defines how we relate to them for the duration. But when there is a serious conflict, that perception can be radically altered, forever.

Unfortunately, the perceptions we have of people are incredibly fragile. It takes very little to destroy how others see you, transforming you instantly from a cherished friend or family member to persona non grata.

A mean-spirited word, a slammed door, or even a disconnected telephone can escalate things, and then we start to fight back. Whether or not we are in the right, it’s pretty natural to become defensive when words are weaponized, our character is put into question, or our feelings get hurt. Of course, that just makes it worse.

Amidst such a vehement exchange, personalities may seem to alter as you each posture for a fight. All at once, a person with whom you have had a long, trusting connection no longer recognizes you, nor you them. Their understanding of who you are is suddenly and forever changed and any safety within the relationship is seemingly lost forever in the heat of the moment.

So how would they see you then? What happens to the relationship? Can it be salvaged, or, some psychologists might ask, should it be salvaged? That depends on how often such things occur, the depth of the emotional injury, and the circumstances.

When these conflicts occur between the same people, it becomes harder for them to see each other in the same light as before. The previous state of the relationship may never be recovered. The only hope may be that both people are willing to work together to prevent it from happening again.

It should go without saying that everybody needs to be on the same page, they must know what they want out of the resolution. Are they trying to rebuild the relationship and see each other the way they did before? Or are they merely patching it, hoping the problem doesn’t resurface, but without any real strategy to prevent it?

When perceptions change significantly, it may not be possible to see each other as before, reducing any desire to resolve the problem in the first place. It might not seem worth it at that point. The question is, can you accept the other person for how you see them now and start over?

More importantly, were you seeing them accurately in the first place? How much of who they are in your eyes is based on who you wanted them to be? An argument might simply have revealed a side of them previously unseen. Then again, that could be your incomplete perception.

Reading back through these paragraphs, I realize I’ve given you a lot of questions and very few answers. That’s because each situation is different and the outcome depends on personal dynamics, emotions, and circumstances, there is no cookie-cutter solution. That said, as with so many things in life, communication is key.

Effective communication must be a two-way street with dialogue, understanding, and, most importantly, patients. Each person must be willing to do their best to understand the other’s point of view and work toward a positive resolution. A word of warning also, avoid dredging up old arguments because it will kill any hope of saving your relationship – let it go! And never underestimate the power of a sincere apology.

If you do manage to work things out, understand first that any relationship is an ongoing process requiring practice and patience, and it will be different than before, changed for the better. You’ll be moving forward from a more solid foundation.

I’m the first one to say this sounds like a bunch of self-help chicken soup. It certainly does, but sometimes that’s necessary. Still, I know that I’ve ruined my share of relationships because I was so worried about defending myself or being right that I forgot how much the other person meant to me. You can avoid that same stupid mistake.

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The Unexpected Banana

In Economy, Health, Local News, Opinion, psychology, sociology, Sports News, Uncategorized on June 19, 2023 at 8:17 pm

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

Did the headline of a news story ever leave you scratching your head, at least until you read the whole thing? Well, this is probably one of those stories and it begins, however odd it may seem, with a banana.

Once a week, I play basketball at the local YMCA, not with a team or anything, but just for exercise. On one of those days, a particularly nice, spring day, I was approached at the front door by a woman with a crate of bananas. “Would you like a banana?” she asked, cheerfully presenting the open box as if it were something from a jewelry counter display.

I honestly didn’t have an answer right off. It really wasn’t the kind of question I was expecting on the way into the gym. The more poignant question that immediately consumed me was, why is there a woman with a crate of bananas at the entrance to the YMCA?

A bit thrown by the random offer of fruit, I finally realized there were a half-dozen other people with her, all in athletic attire, and carrying signs and tables into a truck. As it turned out, I arrived just as a running event was closing, a 5K or the like. The box of fruit was what remained of the bananas provided to the runners at the support stations. So, never one to look a gift plantain in the peel, I gratefully accepted.

To most, a free banana might not, at first glance, seem like a life-changing incident. But, to me, it was at least thought-provoking; not because of the banana, but the spontaneous gift it represented. It’s not like I was having a particularly bad day in the first place, but that one, small action changed it, lightened my thoughts, and gave me a feeling I couldn’t quite express at the time.

As I settled into my basketball routine, I dropped the banana into my gym bag and set it aside. But I kept thinking about the randomness of having received such a thing, in such a random way, at such a random time. So, after a few minutes, I went back to it.

Strangely enough, I opened the banana and proceeded to eat it, while simultaneously dribbling and shooting a basket here and there. I would imagine I was a pretty strange sight, but what did I care? I had a banana – an unexpected banana.

I have to say, I never considered a piece of fruit as what might generally be considered “comfort food,” but that’s how it felt at the moment. There was something about this curious food, botanically categorized as a berry (I know! Weird, right?) that generated a strange and calm feeling of gratitude. What I felt was a level of contentment as I wandered around the court, shooting the ball, and munching away, oblivious to pretty much anything else – at least until the banana was gone.

I’m fairly certain the lady who gave it to me had no idea what an impact she made on one person’s day. I mean, it was just a banana, and she was trying to unload a box full of them so they wouldn’t be wasted. Still, there I was, my day lifted, my jump shot better – don’t be too impressed, it’s a low bar – and I was just happy. I had a banana.

So why should my banana story, umm… appeal to you? Come on, you knew I had to, right? Because something ordinary can be special if you let it. Because in the chaos of daily life, all the noise, distractions, and stresses, unanticipated treasures are all around us. We each have the power to let them move us, even if only for a few moments.

When you think about it, people are always searching for some kind of inner peace, a tranquility that seems more elusive and empty every day. Usually, we scratch our way through life, searching for even a hint of such thoughtful enlightenment by artificial means. But sometimes a quiet moment of unexpected joy and calm can emanate from the most unusual but ubiquitous source. Sometimes all we really need is for someone to give us a banana.

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What we both knew…

In Children and Family, Dayton Ohio News, Education, Health, Local News, Opinion, psychology, Senior Lifestyle, Uncategorized on June 12, 2023 at 9:57 am

Deer In Headlines II – SPECIAL EDITION

By Gery Deer

(Author’s Note: I am publishing this ahead of the normal print schedule because the events took place exactly 3 years ago on the date of this posting. I hope it will comfort people and help them recognize and appreciate that time when it comes – because, sadly, it will.)

While caring for my father, I did some journaling as his Parkinson’s disease advanced. The following is an excerpt from the painful day we both accepted the inevitable and how lonely a feeling it was for both of us.

Friday, June 12, 2020. Dad and I were sitting down to breakfast on the screen porch of my house. He’d been living with me for about eight months and, although he preferred spending his day in his recliner, I did my best to make sure he had as much fresh air and sunshine as possible.

By then, he needed help feeding himself, so I always took my meals at the same time. Sometimes he was talkative in the morning, commenting on a TV news story or counting rabbits in the backyard. But today he was quiet and struggling.

We had a really bad night, which had become the norm over the last several weeks. The insomnia caused by his illness was relentless and he grew increasingly restless and anxious by the day. Neither of us had slept more than a full hour that night. By morning, we were both more exhausted than the night before.

Most people are familiar with the tremors and involuntary movements associated with Parkinson’s. But it can also produce dementia, dramatic personality shifts, and even violent behavior – occasionally, all three. Fortunately, my father’s issues weren’t that severe. Instead, he suffered a kind of subconscious agitation, like a whirring mind that wouldn’t let him rest. As his neurological system decayed, it robbed him of the ability to sleep, often until exhaustion set in. It was as if his body’s electrical system was shorting out from some long, slow cascade failure.

This picture wasn’t the same day as the story recounted here, but it was a couple of days prior. Same spot, same circumstances.

All along, Dad had outwardly rejected his diagnosis, repeatedly asking the doctors, nurses, and therapists questions like, “They tell me I have this Parkinson’s disease. What is it?” He never accepted their answers. I think he was just hoping if he asked enough people someone would say everyone else was wrong and he’d be OK.

By this time, though, Dad was far worse than any of us realized. Although it didn’t register consciously, he was in fact in a great deal of pain which worsened at night. It left him painfully restless, and he couldn’t even tell us why. He had fought hard but was losing the battle – and he was becoming aware of it. So was I.

At breakfast that morning, I noticed he was very quiet and barely eating. When he became aware of my interest, he turned and said, in a raspy, enervated voice, “What’s happenin’ to me, Ger?” His eyes were tired, afraid, his expression pained and desperate. I didn’t know how to comfort him. “I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “But we’re not going anywhere, you won’t be alone.” I rubbed his back a bit, as he’d done for me so many times when I lay in a hospital bed as a child, and I realized how helpless and frightened he and Mom must have been.

We sat in silence for a long moment, both powerless, tired, and desperate to cast this burden on anyone who happened by, just to be rid of it. I helped him finish his breakfast and we stared out at the backyard for a long time as the morning sun poured over us through the windows. I didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything.

After a few minutes, I took our breakfast dishes to the kitchen. When I came back I paused just out of his sight. He was motionless, silent, his head bowed as if in prayer. I didn’t move. I just watched him for a while. My Dad, once a strong, proud man, now reduced to a shell of himself – so alone, tired, helpless, and very sad. And I couldn’t save him. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

He finally raised his head and looked over at me. I sat down with him again and did my best to hide my expression, but I think he knew. We both knew. “Ready to go to your chair?” I said, choking back more tears. “Yeah. I’ll go to my chair.” Just 18 days later, he was gone.