Real Possibilities

    © David Greenfield 2015

Baby Boomers strive for youthful aging with a focus on image, fitness, performance (of all sorts), and new experiences. It’s no surprise that ‘Sixty is the new forty’ is now part of our vernacular.

Sexagenarians, septuagenarians, octogenarians, and beyond, find new ways to ‘push the envelope’. The attempts are celebrated, certainly no longer raising eyebrows and, for the most part, feats are accomplished. When former Olympic decathlete, sixty-something Bruce Jenner, re-emerged as Caitlyn on the cover of Vanity Fair, the public paid scant attention to her coming-out image as a bathing suit clad twenty-something.

In another magazine, AARP, the traditionally stodgy organization, now seems to employ only youthful and fit models. The organization wants to keep its raison d’être relevant. That being the case, will it be long before ‘Five is the new fifty’? Is it a Real Possibility?

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Che

Dr. Ernesto 'Che' Guevera

La Rambla in Barcelona, Le Champs-Élysées in Paris, Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, Fifth Avenue in New York, and closer to home, Newbury Street in Boston - a walk down any of these alluring promenades offers a captivating potpourri for people watching. But while strolling down the narrow and lesser known Calle Obispo in Cuba’s Habana Viejo, someone I spotted partially crouched in the shadows brought me to a standstill. I had to turn for a second look.

At best, you might say he was lean. At worst, just a notch above ‘skin and bones’. Although one should not judge a book by its cover, it wasn’t a stretch to believe this guy had limited means and few resources for the comforts of daily living. He was actually among the majority of Cubans on this island vestige of the Communist empire. The minority are those who’ve eked out a better position, having parlayed reforms Fidel Castro implemented following dissolution of the USSR and Cuba’s ensuing Special Period economic crisis. Without big time subsidies from its sugarcane daddy in Moscow, Cuba’s viability was doomed unless a spigot of rejuvenating free enterprise could be turned on. Fidel did just that, but it was clear, however, the guy huddled at the Obispo curb had not yet taken a sip.

This brings me to his attire, specifically the T-shirt strategically torn to expose a pectoral tattoo of Cuba's legendary revolutionary and Fidel’s right-hand comrade-in-arms Ernesto Guevara, better known simply as ‘Che’.  The T's ragged hole flaunted Che’s image suggesting the wardrobe malfunction could not have been random. The tattoo is but another rendition of the most widely reproduced photo of all time, and not just in Cuba. Alberto Korda, Fidel’s personal photographer, captured it on assignment. Che’s mystique resonates with all would be revolutionaries, as well as Cubans of every social stratum. My fascination was a puzzling disconnect between the continued desire to demonstrate such devotion to the Revolution despite what it delivered for this guy fifty years after former dictator Gulgencio Batista was ousted.

Back to Calle Obispo for a moment … Before continuing to meander and see what else my eyes could savor, I gave the guy a few CUCs, each roughly equivalent to a dollar and about twenty-five times more valuable than each peso of subsidy allocated to Cubans for basic commodities. Then I focused to create this Obispo image. It seems to prop up the enigma of Fidel, Che, and the Revolution’s enduring popularity set against a backdrop of rough daily life for most Cubans. But decades after Fidel’s band of guerrillas prevailed, it offers little in the way of answers.

Return to the web site for viewing David's portfolio of Photo Galleries and Essays

A peso, or a CUC, for his thoughts

And just like that, the engine coughed up a quiet growl and the ferry slipped from the dock through muck laden waters on its tack across the bay.

We bid adios to La Habana Vieja, Cuba’s Old Havana, setting our sights on the next stop, the City of Regla. ‘We’, were a tossed salad of passengers; some of the faithful making their way to Santeria Church, some delivering pizza-style cartons of fish stacked and loosely tied on the front and rear of bicycles, some like the legendary chicken, just wanting 'to get to the other side’, and a dozen or so Americans on a people-to-people mission of discovery to this island vestige of the Cold War. We were definitely a mix, but for a few moments in time we were as one, sharing the same steerage-level space.

The voyage was slow, even keeled, and brief. Even so, one face from the grey mass grabbed my attention and held it all the way. It was of a guy, my guess about twenty-something, perched at the open-air doorway. By the downward tilt of his head, stone motionless expression, and half-closed eyes, I imagined him surely to be deep in thought. But about what … the task ahead, who he was meeting, his future, or perhaps regrets for deeds done? If my Spanish was up to snuff, I would have offered a peso, or better yet a valued tourist CUC, for his thoughts. Instead I remained focused on his demeanor, continuously searching for clues and imagining scenarios. In the last moments before docking, I emerged from my trance, moved camera into place as I am accustomed to doing, and recorded an image to at least capture the essence of moments we anonymously just shared.

Epilogue: Less than two weeks after that bay crossing, the US announced an end to five-plus decades of embargo, signaling resumption of diplomatic ties with Castro’s Cuba. There would now be much more for that guy, and all Cubans, to ponder … for Americans as well.

Return to the web site for viewing David's portfolio of Photo Galleries and Essays.

How does your garden grow?

garden rows

Growth in the nursery rhyme garden of Mary, Mary quite contrary needed 'cockleshells and silver bells and pretty maids lined up in a row'. You won't find that in the garden I discovered.

It was a pristine New England October day, perfect for meandering along Boston’s waterfront and through its neighborhood streets and byways. My wife and I seized the moment and started our walking journey in the Seaport area then headed to the North End. That’s where we locked our radar on the popular Freedom Trail. Like Dorothy and her Oz companions, we followed, followed, followed the brick road, albeit red bricks this time stopping at the Old North Church. 

In the courtyard just beyond Paul Revere's statue, I froze taking in the sight of the Memorial Garden. This was a garden of a very different sort, not one lush with flowers and greenery. But just as in Mary’s fabled garden there were rows of silver. The rows however were made up of hanging dog tags. A late afternoon sun bounced shafts of light off the polished tags making it hard to decipher names. But there were no names, the tags were nameless. The Old North Church Memorial Garden is dedicated to soldiers of our armed forces and the civilians who lost their lives in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Without inscribed names, perhaps each represented Everyman, or an Every Soldier. 

          More than five thousand Americans have died during combat since these wars were launched in 2001. If troops are reinserted to the region during the current campaign to destroy ISIS, human costs of waging war, as represented in this garden, as well as questions about overall U.S. strategy, will continue to grow.

That’s how this garden grows.

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Boots on the Ground

These boots are made for working

With the term Boots on the Ground back in the news, I am reminded of a previous Boots story.  Having just returned from Israel where boots unfortunately but necessarily had to be on the ground in and around Gaza recently, I offer this 
tale ...

We were advised to bring thick work socks.

Volunteers arriving in Israel to provide essential civilian support services at various army bases had that advisory on their suggested packing lists. 

Here’s why …..

When the olive drab fatigues which serve as work clothes for volunteers are issued, the quartermaster at your assigned base makes an attempt to accommodate body-type diversity in doling out sets of Small, Medium, and Large trousers & shirts. Trouble is, the sets are not necessarily matched, nor do they fit! Boots are supposed to be another matter.

When my group was asked for individual shoe sizes, it sounded like good news and we anticipated a reasonably comfortable fit. In reality few of us knew whether a USA 10 Medium was a European equivalent 43, 44, or 45. So, even with metric precision, our boot sizes were an approximation. Hence the recommendation for packing thick work socks. If adequately thick, the inevitable blisters resulting from an almost fit might be avoided. Luckily my socks met the thickness challenge, adequately handling gaps between heel, toe, and the stiff, unforgiving leather. Overall, the uniform also worked out well …. so long as my belt was made tight enough to hold up my over-sized pants.

Somehow in the end my group actually looked like a unit …. and we performed our assigned tasks admirably.

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Where the flags are

waving the flag of Israel

“ …. and the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air ….” 

Unlike the red glare of Britain’s Royal Navy rockets arcing over Forty McHenry in the War of 1812, the fiery glare this time was from thousands of missiles launched towards Israeli cities by Hamas. Likewise, the flag defiantly flying throughout the current barrage was not our Stars & Stripes, it had only a single star and two blue stripes on a sea of pure white. Israel was under attack. The assault inspired throngs of Bostonians to assemble en masse in solidarity at City Hall Plaza. As hard as it may be to believe, my four year old granddaughter Sylvie, wise well beyond her years, wanted to be there too.  

The backstory: 
At a tender age of ten months Sylvie had already established a connection with Israel during a memorable family trip. She still loves to look at photos from that journey. Although she  "wanted to be there too", attending the rally with a start time of 5:30 PM presented a practical logistics problem, i.e., traveling to downtown Boston from outside the city during rush hour then returning home afterward early enough to avoid really Big Time disruption to her four-year-old’s nightly routines. It would be challenging ... perhaps too challenging. So, despite the imperative and a perfect alignment of head and heart, after assessing the prospects my daughter decided to nix the plan to bring Sylvie to the rally.

Then something happened...

On rally-day morning, while Sylvie and I were pushing her little brother’s stroller trying to get him asleep, I outlined a rally day alternate Plan B for her afternoon. For any non-rally day, Plan B would be perfect, but after barely a moment’s reflection she uttered these transformative words, “But I’m sad, I wanted to go where the flags are.” 
With that, Plan B instantly became history!

So, later that afternoon the family gathered and started trekking - first by car, then by foot, then by Red Line, and again by foot. Soon we were among three thousand like minded citizens at City Center all expressing rousing support for Israel in its frontline battle against a vicious terrorist foe. 

In the end, I know we did the right thing, proving once again, If there is a will, there is a way.

(Click to read more of David's previous photo-blog posts)