Classically, early mid-life is the time for self-improvements. Once a man has reached fifty, the years ahead must be statistically less than the ones which went before. During the fourth decade, i.e., while still in his thirties, he continues to have the time available to make changes. In the mid-to-late 1960s, my years numbered in the thirties. I attempted my own self-improvements.
I had never been athletic. Realistically, post-age-35 did not mean I could suddenly take on a new body-form, even with diet and weight-loss, both of which I did attempt. Among the federal employees of the NIH, I knew no one who played flag-football or pick-up basketball. Even jogging and golf were not reasonable activities for me. The first was too time-intensive and the second, too expensive to begin. But I did want to learn how to swim.
Swimming was claimed to be a fun-activity. Although at Kent State I had taken a brief PE course in swimming, I really never was able to do it in reality. All I did was “pass the course.” Now in my thirties, I thought learning how to swim would not take too much effort, and only minimal equipment! The local YMCA offered courses. I enrolled and spent a few hours on weekends and evenings trying to learn how to float. I had to start somewhere, and this was surely how to begin. I quickly learned how to sink. Since it was in the shallow end of the pool, I could stand up and sputter before trying to drown again. After what seemed like many months, I was able to move my legs in what could be called a frog-kick. Ultimately, my arms produced a breaststroke. At last, I was able to enjoy floating and gliding in the pool when we went on that summer vacation to Kitty Hawk. I even had enough courage and confidence to dip into the Atlantic coastal waters. Karen, who had grown up on Lake Erie, had taught our kids the rudiments long ago. They took great delight in getting me to sputter as often as possible.
So much for physical improvements.
Artistic ones had to be tried, as well. For many years I had envied Karen’s vocal ability and the enjoyment she had by participating in college musicals during our academic years and in madrigal groups in the first years following our marriage. She continued to find and join singing groups in the Bethesda-Rockville area. She sang; I thought I might be able to draw. In elementary and middle school, I had greatly enjoyed drawing, usually based on pictures or photos. It was now time for me to take formal classes.
Once again, the local YMCA was the source for change. I went to evening classes for charcoal figure drawing offered at a very low cost. I learned how to use Conté sticks on newsprint and how to shade charcoal with my fingers or with a chamois cloth. It was great fun to move the crayon on the paper while looking at the edges of a human model sitting in front of us. There was a marvelous fantasy relationship between the speed of the crayon’s movement on the paper and that of my eye following the figure’s contour. By the time the classes concluded with sketching a male nude, my coordination had greatly improved. I never did well with my attempts at watercolors; oils were easier to use. I set up an easel and working space in one of our two storage rooms on the lower level of our house and had a relaxing time, when I was freed from thoughts about federal budgets and science policy questions.
Karen and I also found time for mutual improvements as well as our separate endeavors relating to music or art. We joined a small gathering who was interested in the Great Books – a project based on the academic process used at the University of Chicago. We would read from a set of green paperbacks published by the University and then gather every other week to discuss our views on the subject matter. Several of our assignments covered Greek playwrights. I was reminded of the joy I once had in taking courses in college that included plays from the Greek classics to modern American and European theater.
Although live theater was available in the District and in surrounding areas, such as the Olney Theater north of Rockville, we seldom made the trip to attend any productions. We had been spoiled by the ready availability of cultural events found in the college towns in which we once resided. It was not until we moved to Amherst, Mass. that we once more had such opportunities. Although its construction had begun in 1964 along Rock Creek Parkway, the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts did not open until 1971, after we had returned to our life in New England. It was there that we, once more, had even greater opportunities for self-improvement. Meanwhile, I was content with my efforts in swimming, charcoal drawing and the discussion of the Great Books.