Do you ever wonder when you stopped feeling young? Maybe you remember the exact moment. Maybe it happened so gradually that you didn’t notice. Or perhaps you are still young enough to believe your knees will never make that noise again.

Des Moines fitness guru LeMar Koethe, who launched 7 Flags Fitness Center in Clive in the early 1990s, used to tell me that age was only a number. Your real age, he said, was determined largely by how well you took care of your body. LeMar was right. At least partially. The body is only one part of the equation. You also have to take care of your mind and soul. But even if you do all three, aging apparently keeps moving forward anyway. It is the one treadmill nobody figures out how to turn off.

Veteran newsman Michael Gartner once told me he was invigorated by working with young people, and that connection is what he misses most in retirement. I understand that. I enjoy working with people younger than me, too. But I have also discovered something that I really enjoy friendships with people older than me. They tend to have accumulated wisdom, stories and the ability to tell me that whatever I am worried about probably isn’t worth worrying about.

Clare Ansberry wrote in The Wall Street Journal several years ago about the age when people stop feeling young. She noted how Millennials were beginning to feel old. According to a study by the Worldwide Independent Network of Market Research, the average age when Americans stop feeling young is 43. Forty-three. That seems awfully young to be surrendering your youth. At 43, I was still making decisions that proved I was young.

Another study, from weight-management company Found, put the age when Americans begin noticing physical signs of aging at 42. Those signs include achy joints and gray hair. So, basically, the body starts sending warning notices before the mind has received the memo.

The people around us also influence how old we feel. I used to often be the youngest person in the room. Not anymore. These days, I look around and realize I am no longer the young guy. I am now the guy who younger people assume knows how to fix something.

The equally interesting question is when we start feeling old. That number, according to the same research, is 52. Well, I have passed 52, as well, which is obvious by my vision and hearing problems. Fortunately, my sense of smell still works just fine. I know this because I truly appreciate the scent of Bengay.

My wife has long been asked by other moms what the best stage of parenting is. Her answer has always been, “The current stage.” That applies to aging, too. There may be a number when we stop feeling young and another when we start feeling old, but I would rather judge my age by the people I enjoy, the things I still want to learn and the number of reasons I can find to laugh.

Happy aging, Millennials. The rest of us will try to keep up.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

I came across an old dictionary recently — a 1954 Webster’s New American. It has a hardbound cover, line-art illustrations on each page and cutout letter tabs along the side to help find whatever I’m looking up. There are even color maps of the world in the center.

It’s wonderful, but like most things its age, it’s far from perfect. The pages are yellowing, tattered and brittle, and they carry a faint scent of cigarettes. Still, it’s usable, and I plan to put it to work.

Yes, I have spell check on my word-processing software. And, yes, I use it religiously. But there’s something satisfying about having a dictionary nearby and looking up a word the old-fashioned way. For starters, I think it helps me learn more than simply having a computer correct my mistakes.

We use that same principle when copy editing at Big Green Umbrella Media. We physically print pages, and our staff members proof them with pens in hand. We’ve tried editing on computer screens in various ways, but we found we weren’t as accurate. Call it old school if you want, but it works. And so does the dictionary.

Just for fun, I looked up the word “computer” in my newly acquired 1954 dictionary. It wasn’t there. I love it. These words were missing, too: photobomb, troll, emoji, infomercial, blog, voicemail, spam, Wi-Fi, selfie, malware and inbox. Sounds refreshing, doesn’t it?

Are you curious which words were added to the 1954 dictionary as “new” words? Here are a few: amphetamine, bazooka, brunch, flamethrower, happy dust, laminated wood, racism, Technicolor and zoot suit. Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

I may eventually lose interest in this relic. It may end up sitting on a shelf, collecting dust until my wife sells it to someone else who finds it interesting. But for today, at least, it reminds me of a time before mine — a time that certainly had its own struggles, worries and concerns, but also had some simpler and more serene aspects.

I didn’t grow up in the 1950s. Some say I never grew up at all. But I did watch “Happy Days” in the 1970s, and I’m guessing Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham had a dictionary much like mine sitting on a shelf in their living room. And that makes me smile.

Now, forgive me while I look up what happy dust is.

Have a fantastic Friday, and thanks for reading. 

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

If you have driven into Panora recently, you have probably noticed the new welcome signs. They are more than an inviting greeting. They are a handshake that says, “We’re glad you’re here.”

A few years ago, I expressed concern about the outdated and dilapidated welcome signs that were at the east and west entrances to Panora. My comments were met with some nods of agreement and a few blank stares. Nobody seemed to know when the original signs were built, who built them or, most importantly, who was supposed to maintain them.

Mayor Curtis Thornberry told me he would grab some shears and trim the bushes around the signs himself from time to time. That certainly wasn’t his job, but whose was it? I thanked him for caring enough to do it.

There really is something comforting about a community’s welcome sign. Some towns have simple wooden ones on the edge of town. Others have elaborate brick monuments surrounded by carefully landscaped flowers. A few look like they were designed by a committee that held seven meetings to decide on a font. Regardless of the style, a welcome sign tells you something important: You have arrived. And that matters.

Communities spend a lot of time talking about schools, businesses, parks, restaurants, festivals, ball fields, museums and all the other things that make a town worth stopping in rather than simply driving through while wondering if there is a Casey’s at the next exit. But before visitors experience any of those things, they experience the entrance. First impressions matter for people, businesses and communities. When visitors see a welcoming, well-maintained sign surrounded by attractive landscaping, they get a pretty good sense that the people who live there care about their community.

Of course, a sign can’t fix everything. If it’s beautiful but surrounded by 6-foot grass, the message becomes, “We’re glad you’re here, but we haven’t mowed since the Clinton administration.” If weeds, trash and dead flowers surround it, civic pride isn’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind. And if the sign hasn’t been updated since 1987, visitors might wonder whether they accidentally drove through a time machine.

Last summer, I attended a Panora Chamber of Commerce meeting and listened to Angie Worth talk about making new welcome signs a priority. She did exactly that. She and others who believed in her mission gathered ideas, collected bids, raised funds and made it happen. Panora is better because of it.

Now, when we drive past the new signs, they remind us that we are part of something special. When visitors see them, they should become curious about what they can find beyond them. Panora’s welcome now begins before anyone in the community even says hello. The signs are a handshake — and Panora’s now has a firm grip, a clean shirt and a welcoming smile.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

There are some things in life I simply do not understand, despite numerous attempts to figure them out. Maybe I have not tried enough. Maybe I do not care enough. Or, more likely, my brain has decided it has reached its storage limit and is no longer accepting applications. I understand the basics of most things. It is the fine print that loses me.

Take wind energy. I understand that those enormous turbines capture energy from the wind. What I do not understand is what happens next. Where does the energy go? What does a box of energy look like? Is there a giant energy closet somewhere? I have questions.

On the subject of wind, I also cannot explain why highway noise can be nearly silent one night and sound like the Indianapolis 500 the next. My meteorologist neighbor explained the atmospheric conditions to me in great detail. I nodded. I understood none of it.

I do understand the basics of a gasoline engine, but I have no desire to go much deeper. Still, the concept is remarkable. You pour a liquid into a machine, push a pedal and somehow a 4,000-pound vehicle moves down the road. That seems like magic with a warranty.

Then there is the telephone. Somehow my voice can travel through a phone and come out the other end. Even more impressive, sound can travel through the air without any visible evidence that it is doing so. And understanding streaming video? Forget it.

I grew up watching movies on VHS tapes and still never completely understood how all those pictures and sounds were crammed onto a strip of plastic. Now we can watch virtually anything instantly on a device that fits in our pocket.

And then there is the internet. I know Al Gore supposedly figured it out, but I still cannot visualize where the “cloud” is. Is it a building? A server farm? A bunch of computers sitting around somewhere with tiny umbrellas over them? Who knows.

Taste buds are another mystery. How does my tongue decide that one food is delicious while another tastes like something that should be used to patch a driveway? And why can two people eat the same thing and have completely different opinions?

Then there is my lawn. I put down fresh seed, topsoil and plenty of water. The result? Fresh seed, topsoil and plenty of water. Still no grass. Weed killer, meanwhile, has become so sophisticated it can distinguish Kentucky bluegrass from creeping Charlie. I cannot even match the right Tupperware lid to its container, but apparently we have developed chemicals with better judgment than I have.

So, before you send me a detailed explanation of any of these mysteries, please understand that I have reached a point in life where I am perfectly comfortable not knowing how everything works. My brain has limited storage. I need room for names, birthdays, passwords and where I parked my truck. If something works, great. If it doesn’t, I will find someone who knows why.

Some mysteries are worth solving. Others are best left to the people who actually enjoy reading the instruction manual.

Have a fantastic Friday, and thanks for reading. 

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

Most of us spent plenty of time on a teeter-totter growing up, learning about balance, timing and force. I am still learning. A little more teeter and a little less totter. Or maybe it is a little more totter and a little less teeter. Honestly, at my age, I am just happy to get on and off the thing without needing a chiropractor. But I do know we can learn something from that playground equipment — particularly when it comes to forgiveness.

I have many faults, but one that seems to slap me in the face more often than the others is my tendency to seek vengeance. When I feel wronged, I want the other person to feel the pain I felt — and then some. It is not a good quality. I am working on it, with plenty of help and advice from others.

My parents divorced when I was young. It was difficult for both of them, but especially my father, who had every reason to be angry and seek revenge. He did not. I often wondered why. My dad rarely talked about the divorce, but one day he sat down with me and explained that he had to make a choice. He could remain angry for the rest of his life, or he could make the best of the situation and spend as much time as possible with his family. That even meant building a friendship with my mother’s new husband. That is a level of forgiveness few people would be willing to attempt.

Years later, I had a former employee whom I discovered had stolen from me. I gave her an opportunity to repay what she had taken, but she ignored my requests. I was prepared to take her to small claims court. I was convinced I would win the judgment, even though I suspected I would never collect the money. I didn’t care. I wanted her to pay for her decision, one way or another. My friend Greg convinced me to think differently. He told me pursuing the matter would create negative energy that would consume time I could spend doing positive things. He also reminded me that she would have enough pain and misery in her life without me adding to it. He was right. Sometimes we may not be able to truly forgive, but we can at least make an attempt to let go.

My mother and her brother did not speak for decades, largely because of the divorce I mentioned earlier. They were equally stubborn siblings, which is a particularly dangerous combination. But as the years passed, they slowly reconnected. When my uncle was in a nursing home during his final days, my mother sat beside him, held his hand, shared childhood memories and prayed. She later told me she was glad she had been able to be there. Although he was no longer responsive, I have a feeling he was glad she was there, too.

Whether you are a person of faith or not, there is wisdom in the words of the Lord’s Prayer: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Forgiveness is not always easy. Sometimes it feels downright unfair. But neither is a teeter-totter. You cannot successfully go up without eventually coming down. You cannot stay on one side forever.

Teeter. Totter. Balance. Maybe that’s the lesson. We spend a lot of our lives trying to get even when what we really need is to let go, find our balance and get on with the ride.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

You can tell a lot about people just by looking at their T-shirts. Seriously. Take a mental inventory of the shirts you’ve collected over the years. They tell your story better than most autobiographies.

This wasn’t true with my father or grandfathers. The only T-shirts they owned were plain white Fruit of the Loom undershirts. Few people ever saw them because they were exactly that — undergarments. Fashion statement? Hardly. They were about as exciting as white socks.

That started changing about a century ago. The U.S. Navy began issuing T-shirts as undershirts with uniforms in 1913. Off duty, sailors and Marines often peeled off the outer uniform and wore only the T-shirt. Workers soon followed suit, appreciating a lightweight shirt that could survive a hard day’s labor. By the Great Depression, T-shirts had become standard attire for farmers, ranchers and laborers.

Then Hollywood stepped in. Marlon Brando famously wore a fitted T-shirt in “A Streetcar Named Desire,” turning an ordinary undershirt into a symbol of rugged cool. A generation later, Arthur “Fonzie” Fonzarelli proved you could wear a plain T-shirt under a leather jacket and instantly become the coolest guy in the neighborhood.

By the rebellious 1960s, T-shirts had evolved into wearable billboards. Protest slogans, company logos, vacation souvenirs and concert merchandise became common. Then came the memorable catchphrases. Remember “Frankie Say Relax”? Whether you understood it or not, somebody you knew likely owned the shirt.

Today, Americans spend more than $5 billion annually on T-shirts. That’s a lot of cotton and a staggering amount of questionable fashion decisions.

Incidentally, the T-shirt gets its name because, laid flat, it resembles the letter T. Not exactly the most creative naming process, but it stuck. The term entered American English in the 1920s and soon earned a place in the dictionary.

Now, think about what’s hanging in your closet. Your T-shirts reveal your favorite sports teams, schools, employers, vacation destinations, concerts, charities, races, restaurants and hobbies. They advertise the causes you support, the jokes you find funny and, occasionally, your questionable taste in humor. You may think you are a private person, but your laundry basket is quietly telling everyone otherwise.

In some ways, your dresser drawer says more about you than social media ever could. At least you know what’s in your dresser. What’s floating around on Facebook’s servers? That’s anyone’s guess.

Today’s T-shirts feature everything from inspirational quotes to political opinions to messages that should probably stay indoors. Will we ever return to the days when T-shirts were just plain white undershirts?

Don’t bet your shirt on it.

Have a fantastic Friday, and thanks for reading. 

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707