Heady stuff, but I was fully engaged and building a team of like-minded professionals. I write here about my journey as it is continuously unfolding. I share the things I have learned and continue to learn along the way. Mostly about myself and the people I meet. Some of the lessons are hard-won, some are easier, and some are still being learned. Let’s take a look at what is unfolding here.

My life changed from operations meetings,to-do lists, sales initiatives, KPI dashboards, SaaS platform vetting, budgets, and team building to medical appointments, MRIs, CT Scans, bone biopsies, and finally to chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I had no plan for this; it was a total shock to the system. I felt untethered and adrift. I could not see the shore; I could not picture a safe harbor for my new set of circumstances. I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks off in the darkness, but I was rudderless and, for a time, subject to the forces of nature driving me where they would.

During the years after being diagnosed with brain and blood cancer, the conference rooms changed, the meetings changed, the clothes changed, and I changed. I was focused more on what was lost than what might be gained. I didn’t just snap out of this malaise with positive affirmations, self-help books, or advice from many well-meaning friends and family. It was a gradual reclamation of my agency, my ability to choose my response to the unpredictable and challenging thing that is life and get back underway.

I am confined at home, and so I live in an actual museum of my life, the good, the bad, the sorrow, and the joy. All here on display: the things I saved, the things I forgot I saved, the things my last boyfriend gave me, even things my first boyfriend gave me. I had all the journals and correspondence from years gone by, the books I read decades ago, but will never read again. Each is its own exhibit; each is a touchstone to the past. What I did not realize is that each carries a weight that I seemed drawn to carry, even subconsciously. Was this vanity? Nostalgia? A reason to retreat? The clothes, the shoes, the collection of watches, accumulations of stuff, all to signal the life I wished to project. Look at the great life you had, the life you lived; that was magnificent. It was magnificent. I loved my before life; the issue, of course, was that throughout the museum, no field guide or exhibit indicated how to move through the installations without getting stuck. No display allowed the possibility of becoming something or someone different. I loved the Bruce that was, generous, funny, accomplished, and kind; I simply don’t have to remain him.

That possibility started to become a reality when I had time and looked back on my entire life’s path and saw a common thread of tough journeys. I was never alone. I was always surrounded by family and friends, walking with me through every uneven step, through loss, addiction, disease, grief, tough procedures, uncertain outcomes. They would not let me go; they would not leave me, no matter how bad things got, and they got bad at times.

So where do the bonfires come in? I will tell you, at least in my life. Fire is primal; it is life-saving. It indicates safety and community. We gather round it, we sing around it, we make meals on it, it is cleansing, and it is transformational for me.

In my family and in my life, fire has become symbolic of another thing: letting go. We have at different times used the blaze to honor those who have gone before us and also to honor those yet to come. I continue in that tradition here as I have chosen some weighted objects to let go of so my journey on this path is lighter and more forward-looking

The first items to go were years and years of daily planners, past agendas, long-forgotten meetings, all the signs of a busy and ‘successful’ life. That was so good for me; I am still smiling. I wasn’t forgetting that it happened. It did. I was letting go of it so I could make new plans and agendas. I always made a good agenda and ran a good meeting; now the meeting was me.

The second items to be released into smoke and flame, and these were truly some of my vanities, were an entire file folder of receipts from every restaurant I went to from 2017 to 2019, hundreds of them, big tabs, big wines, 30% tips all over town, ballin’ and living large. Buying rounds, entertaining and loving life. Why would I save all those? I am still not 100% sure, but I don’t need to answer that question; they are gone, as is that exhibit, but not forgotten. I lived a wonderful life in those before days, and you know what they say: show me the receipts!

My home is becoming less museum and more sanctuary each day.

I spent so much of my life scheduling, measuring, and marking time. Meeting times, work time, play time, family time, gym time, and social time. I only understood time as a linear constant ticking by. I didn’t want to lose time. I know what you are thinking: did you really need a dozen watches for that? The answer: I did not. But they made me happy and were gifts to myself. I didn’t know it, but I was building a future exhibit for time, one that would have me examining what time gave me and what it took.

It turns out that not all transformations require the fire; some just need a new purpose, a chance to get back out in the world and find a new place where they would make a difference. I now see that this reflects my hope and dream. I have in-home care assistance four days a week. It was something my pride was dead set against, but it has been such a blessing and help. She loved my idea of clearing the past to make room for the future. She was all in from the very first day. So far, we have donated 22 pairs of shoes, 18 pairs of jeans, 10 winter jackets, and 14 kitchen items. Next week, we are turning to 12 suits, all my ties, and 18 sport coats and slacks. They are going to free clothing pantries around the area for underserved communities. New purposes, new impacts. No longer just an exhibit in a museum of what was, but becoming something useful for what may come next.

I wonder if vanity is the right reference for these pieces of my life? They all had some role in who I was, and are still part of me. They were identity, belonging, gifts, markers of a life well lived and enjoyed. They were not hoarded or used as armor; they served as rewards, as reminders that I was needed, I was loved, and I mattered.

Looking at the work we have done on clearing some of the clutter in my life, I am amazed at how this frees me up for other things, such as writing, meeting with other Hopeful Warriors, and managing my healthcare. The spaces are opening not because we threw away the past, but because we allowed it to find new purpose. It is not loss; it is possibility. I am still learning; I am still making choices; I am advocating for what I need in my life and regaining the rudder.

Bruce Porter

P.S. - I kept one suit that works for a wedding, a funeral, and eventually being buried in. I have to be honest: I also kept my tuxedo because you never know when you might be nominated for an award. I kept the first nice watch I was ever given, from my first long-term partner. It is a TAG Heuer that is now 34 years old and still keeps the best time of any other piece I own.

We don’t always need to destroy the artifacts of who we were. But we may need to stop asking them to tell us who we are.

As kids we carried little pocket compasses in a round case with a shaky North hand, and a mirror on the back for sending signals if we were lost. They came in Cracker Jacks, but they were keys to the world. For most of my life, I believed I knew exactly where I was and where I was headed. I was following the upward mobility path and was so focused on it I stopped consulting the compass and just kept moving in the direction I had been climbing.

I have been accused of needing to control every detail. One of my great mentors once told me that even though I was successful, I tended to smash through walls to get where I wanted – usually with a perfectly good door or window nearby. I needed to learn patience and observation to become a better and more welcoming leader. Naturally, I didn’t believe him immediately.

Not having the answer or the certainty of an outcome was unsettling, frustrating, even paralyzing. I was on a path to what I thought was my ordained future, built on years of work that gave me drive, ambition, success, praise, reputation, and comfort. This is who I am and where I am going.

2018 was the year that everything changed. Some of the change was driven by me, some of the change was life stepping in and asking ‘where do you think you’re going with all that certainty?’ It was the year I left one of the best jobs I ever had to start my own business, always risky, but I confident I knew what I was doing. My company was bph2o Inc. and it started off very well.

2018 was the same year that I was diagnosed with brain cancer, it was the year that life asked me to step into uncertainty and remain there.

It was the year my plans went up in smoke. How could I make plans with brain cancer? My confidence was shaken, my guiding light went dark and the business faltered. I felt adrift – untethered from who I had been and unsure where I was going. I had entered a place I did not recognize, without anything familiar and seemingly, without an exit.

I did not yet understand that I had entered the In-Between, separated from what had been, but not sure of what would come next. Who do we become when we are waiting for life to return with the certainty we once knew?

Surgeries, brain radiation and a year of chemo therapy brought me through 2018 and to the end of 2019. I survived brain cancer for God’s sake. Looking ahead, I was certain that 2020 would be the year of Bruce! I’m back baby!

I rolled into the first quarter gathering steam, confidence and clients. I was back on the path. This is who I am, this is what I do, I assumed life would return to the comfortable and familiar, never imagining that another disruption to my life and plans could be waiting just ahead. After returning home, I would periodically go to my back deck at night and yell into the darkness, Is that all you got?

Within weeks of regaining my footing, the world seemed to be losing its footing. Uncertainty was back with a global crisis. I think many people thought, well, how long can this last, they’ll come up with a solution, a shot or quick treatment – I know that’s what I thought.

2020 was the year of the Pandemic. The year of Bruce would have to wait. My world grew smaller, quarantines, restaurant closures, frantic pivots, friends losing their businesses, people withdrawing into isolation. Certainty was gone again, and my compass could not point to the way out.

I had been drawn back into the world where nothing felt known, I only knew that I had to find a way to remain in that space and live my life as fully as I could. I just did not know what that meant. Once again I was in the In-Between.

Quarantine Corner

A question was forming, but it had not become clear – and would not arrive with an easy answer. In fact, it is still being asked: Who do we become while we wait for life to return to the familiar, the comfortable, the understood?

I had no idea if I could do what life was asking, remain inside of uncertainty and the unknown and not surrender to despair and grief, to somehow continue to live and make space for a life in that place. I had dark days and nights. The fact that we were all in the same boat did not bring much solace, but it did suggest a possibility: there could be a common desire to gather and face this together.

That was not what happened. People splintered when we needed one another most. I had no answers, no great theories on how to bring people together. I was simply going nuts at home, isolated, out of work, and uncertain as to what would become of my life, my career, or my friendships.

I had extra time on my hands and no money, but I did have an overly-active imagination and a flair for the dramatic. So naturally my response was to turn my house into a television studio and start doing an online series called Quarantine Corner. Our Taglines were ‘Live in the Studio with Buddy(my dog) and Bruce,’ We share news and views that you can use. Spread love and humor, not fear and rumor.

I had no plans for this, it wasn’t a strategy, it was a weird spontaneous reaction to the despair that seemed to be growing. My main objective was to remain connected to myself in a disconnected and splintered world. I needed something to keep me afloat in this sea of the unknown and uncertain.

Mostly tongue and cheek, Buddy and I hit all the big stories and essential segments like the History of Stuff…

There were days and nights during those Quarantine and shelter-in-place years, where I thought what are you doing? Have you lost your mind? You have no idea how to do this or even if you should do this. What if I look ridiculous, what if people look at this as a self obsessed way to put myself out there in a way that makes light of the situation.

This was not a grand plan, or any plan for that matter, it was just me trying to cope. In large part, it was self- soothing. What I had never identified in myself but was beginning to reveal itself, was that part of me that had to be actively involved in service to feel whole.

A turning point

After several shaky and technically challenged starts, think sound feedback loops and flickering green screen backdrops, failing microphones and bad sound tracks, I started hearing from a few people about how much they loved my tinkering, amateurish parody of serious news. Even my missteps and outtakes were making people laugh and respond. They loved that Buddy, my Great Pyrenees was the show runner and sidekick. That was all I needed, a little encouragement, a glimmer of light. I redoubled my efforts and began working on the next piece.

‘Curbside Confessions’ turned out to resonate with people. In this piece, because of Social Distancing, I was offering a curbside, drive through confessional service for $5 per sin. Drive up, put a bag over your head if you want anonymity, pay up front and I would hear your confession, assign your penance, and send you off with a lighter conscience and a better chance at avoiding hell.

I did have 2 sinners drive through, they each had 5 sins, so I made a quick $50. I am not sure I saved them any time in the afterlife, but I’m betting the $50 they are going to purgatory instead of hell. Most of the sins were pretty mild on the sin spectrum.

During the early days in the In-Between, one of the pillars of my life kept reappearing. It wasn’t strength or force of will, but something softer: ‘Being of Service.’It was taught in the Catholic Schools I attended, it was modeled by my Parents and Grandparents, it created a career and life in three decades of hospitality work, and it was ingrained in me. How had I forgotten it?

This was enough of a spark, I had found some solid ground. I kept doing Quarantine Corner and Pro Bono work, I had something to do. The darkness shifted just enough to see a potential path and the shape of things that were there but I had no idea existed. I was actually having some fun, learning things about video production and why I should always be on a script, not extemporaneous, really ever.

The future was still unknowable, but I had found that sitting with that was more painful than taking action, any action to stay engaged with life, and myself. I came to understand that Hope wasn’t passive, or wishful thinking. Hope was the product of action: staying connected when the payoff could not be seen, and staying present when disappearing would be so much easier. Resilience was the ability to keep going without knowing what came next.

I think that is what happened in my smaller, darker, rudderless world. It may have been the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last. I had an overactive mind, lots of time on my hands and I was grasping for some meaning in all the chaos. I wanted to remind myself and others that this life was a hard reality, but it still left room for us. For me, it left a place for me to explore ideas and projects that I had no idea were part of me.. I had found a place, or the place found me, where I could tinker, examine, experiment, play, entertain, share, and become.

I had no idea where any of that would lead, but not doing anything in that space was crushing. I needed to inhabit it, not be crushed by it.

The In-Between Bar

During the ‘shelter in place’ and quarantine days, I would imagine my house as a smokey jazz joint–think–Rick’s Café Américain. In hindsight when I turned up the Louis Armstrong, Sinatra and Dean Martin classics, poured a bourbon on the rocks and started thinking about what we could do next, my best ideas came after that second sip.

One evening, I had that sensation of being watched, You just feel it. I took another sip and jotted down a note to revisit that feeling for a possible segment about the History of the Sixth Sense. Looking up, I noticed them for the first time, Hope and Resilience sitting on either side of me, right there at my little In-Between bar. They each grabbed a handful of pretzels.

So it had finally come to this, I had lost my mind, was drinking alone, and had two imaginary friends named Hope and Resilience. Is this what the uncertainty had done, or was it what I had managed to do while in it? Were they imaginary friends? Well I knew they weren’t sitting at the bar with me, but they were both there, not constantly, but when I needed them.

They were looking down at my handwritten notes for the History of toilet paper and smiling.

My notes were as follows:

Besides that, the switchboards have been lighting up with questions regarding the Toilet Paper shortage and what that means to you and the butts you love… You have questions – we have answers.

Let’s get right to it.

Resilience laughed heartily, tossed a pretzel in his mouth and asked me what was good here, and always the restaurant guy, I said you can’t go wrong with the main plates or sides, but my absolute favorite was the combo-plate special, served with Hope and Resilience and a side of Grit!

I had always believed a compass was something that would tell me where to go, what route I should take and keep me from wandering, or getting lost. What I have learned is that for me, my compass is really made to allow me to wander when I decide where to go, what route I will take, and if I want to get a little lost.

Bruce

Above the corn tassels, the garlic bulbs, the scape curls, and the rosemary, the sun moves to tuck itself in with a promise to be back in the morning. Magic!

Oh, I can’t forget the tomatoes. Always the tomatoes. They will soon add to the bounty and the wonder. There are 80 plants in the patch this year. I see tomatoes in your future, do you?

Welcome to my workshop, Every story begins here

Every story you read here comes from my life.

The illnesses, surgeries, setbacks, recoveries, moments of wonder, moments of pain, and lessons learned are my own. I do not ask artificial intelligence to invent experiences, emotions, or beliefs for me. Those are the heart of Incurably Hopeful.

I do work with AI.

I use two AI collaborators, Echo and Gem, as thoughtful partners—part editor, part strategist, part sounding board. They help me organize ideas, challenge my thinking, improve clarity, and sometimes find a better way to express what I already know.

That collaboration has become especially valuable as I continue recovering from my brain hemorrhage, surgery, and radiation treatment while living with three incurable diseases. The challenge is not knowing what I want to say. It is finding the clearest path to say it.

AI does not live my experiences.

It does not determine what I believe.

It does not decide what I publish.

Every piece is one I have written, read, considered, revised, and personally chosen to share.

My experiences are mine.

My hope is mine.

My responsibility for these words is mine.

Thank you for trusting me with your time and your heart.

—Bruce Porter
Incurably Hopeful

Unexpected scans.
Unexpected surgeries.
Unexpected setbacks.

When you’re living with three incurable diseases, you learn not to take stability for granted.

But today reminded me of something equally important.
Surprises work both ways.

In a remarkable and completely unexpected turn of events, I am home from OHSU. My meeting with HemOnc was supportive, informative, and inclusive. It was attended by Dr. Silbermann, Jillian, the Care Coordinator, and Eunyhe, the Social Worker for the team. Much was discussed, and I was invited to take part in the decision-making for future care.

The team feels I am in a remarkably stable place, all things considered. Because I haven't had infections, open wounds, or respiratory illnesses, they believe my immune system is functioning well enough to keep me out of trouble. Just as encouraging, I haven't developed any new pain that might suggest tumor growth or progression. Taken together, those are encouraging signs that we've managed to keep the Multiple Myeloma boxed into a non-aggressive corner.

I did not receive any treatment today of any kind, just encouraging news. Rebecca feels confident, and I agreed, that we will cease ALL Multiple Myeloma treatment for a minimum of 90 days more. They will continue to monitor my labs every 30 days, but she doesn't think there is anything acute right now. She wants the focus to shift entirely to Neurology and solving the puzzles of the brain fluids, balance, hearing, and vision issues.

My homework?

• Watch for any new pain.

• Get dental work moving.

• Keep getting stronger.

• Remain Incurably Hopeful.
  

I couldn't be happier today unless they had found a cure.
Thank you, for walking this road with me.

Love and Gratitude to each of you and all of you.

Growing up as one of ten children in the 1960s. It wasn’t an environment of neglect, but rather a logistical necessity that forced my siblings and me to navigate the world on our own terms.

Our house was always busy, often chaotic, but filled with love and an ever present extended family of grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends. We were never truly neglected but we also were never truly supervised except by our older siblings (unsupervised) or often by our maternal grandmother who we called Gahmie (lovingly unsupervised) and sometimes by neighbors (loose supervision) who would keep ‘an eye on us.’

In discussions with my siblings about this subject in preparing for this piece, they have objected to my use of the word Feral, which upon reflection, I cannot argue against that thought. The hallmarks of being feral, including isolation, contact avoidance, mistrust, brute survival, and other traits don’t actually line up with what we experienced and how we developed.

Thinking about this and with more sibling input, it appears the better description for our formative years would be ‘free-range’. We definitely had a free-range childhood.

Exploring how that free-range, lightly supervised upbringing formed lifelong traits within us will be the focus of this piece. Was it a detriment — or perhaps the exact crucible that forged our deep independence, self-regulation, curiosity, a trusting worldview and lifelong resilience? Let’s explore together.

I think about how often, the ‘parenting’ fell on the shoulders of our older siblings. Maybe not ‘parenting’, but supervision and responsibility for us, and after all isn’t that a huge part of parenting? I am still here as are my siblings so they must have done something right.

It isn’t that we didn’t give our parents things to worry about, we did, top to bottom. As a group, we split open our fingers, arms and legs, eyebrows, scalps and necks. We raced down hills, climbed water towers, hung out our windows, fell from trees, and shot arrows at friends and foes alike. We had massive dirt clod battles and even had a war wagon that was built from a large appliance box, mounted to the underframe of my brother Nick’s soap box derby cart.

We gave our folks much to consider in our adventures, mishaps, and rebounds.

When I was 8 or so, I was out patrolling the neighborhood on my sister’s Schwinn My Fair Lady bike. Now, to be clear, the My Fair Lady was indeed the girls’ version of the famous boys’ Stingray, also by Schwinn, but this day it was the My Fair Lady.

I had checked in at the Dirt Clod Pit where my older brothers regularly brought people in for questioning. Upon leaving, I shot out of a driveway without a care, and sadly was T-boned by one of the neighborhood’s favorite matrons. Probably in her 70’s she was driving a 57 Pontiac and in slow motion rolled right over me and the My Fair Lady… and then froze and couldn’t move an inch. Her hands clutched to the wheel, her eyes staring straight ahead, not blinking.

A friend had seen it and ran to the nearest house, the Reverend Bradley’s. He was a man of the cloth, and yet… he jumped up, ran to our house in his bathrobe, and without his toupee, he burst into the living room and announced to my mother, Bruce has been run over–we must go.

Mom and Reverend Bradley arrived at the scene quickly, assessed the situation, saw that I was pinned and the My Fair Lady was keeping me alive. The Reverend Bradley, gently and calmly removed Mrs. Keesey’s hands from the steering wheel and comforted her out of the car. After saying a prayer, and ensuring that the path was clear, he backed the car off me and the bike.

The response to this could have been so traumatic, but really, it wasn’t. We went off to the doctors, got checked out, learned the bike had probably saved my life, and the doctor even commented there was a tire tread bruise on my leg. Was I grounded, scolded, lectured? Coddled? Restricted in any way? I was not, they were just happy I was alive and that I was riding the Schwinn. I did have to apologize to Mrs. Keesey profusely and after that would visit her at home regularly. Not because I had to, but because I was fascinated by her, by her stories, her life, the things she had witnessed and remembered. Walking into her bungalow which was filled with books, black and white photos in frames, old plush furniture and amber lamps. Her house had sweet smells of candle wax and long dusty surfaces and for a kid was like walking into a fairy tale.

I came out of this early ‘tragic’ accident so much more confident that it was ok, because I was ok. And everyone let me know I was ok. Looking back, nobody told me I was fragile. Nobody suggested the world was too dangerous for me. They checked to see if I was hurt, made sure I was safe, and then sent me back into the world. That may have been the greatest gift they ever gave me. I was even the little hero of the neighborhood that summer, a mantle that I did not take lightly. The legend of the My Fair Lady grew as did my love for stories and adventure.

As a child, I always loved older people, I felt a kinship with them I think. Something resonated with me. They had nothing but admiration and support for my imagination, they would laugh when I told them a story about my adventures and they would often tell me one that mirrored mine from their own youth. They never discouraged me from my make believe, my imagination, or my curiosity.

About this same time, I began to comprehend the magnitude of the fact that Gahmie was born in the late 1800s. I actually knew someone who was alive at the turn of the century! This fact was not lost on me, I thought it was so amazing, I asked my Mom if I could take Gahmie to Show-and-Tell at school so she could tell everyone what it was like the first time she saw a car or a plane or a train. Ultimately it was decided, I would have to write a report on that, but the idea still burned bright.

She was not strict, but she was always reminding us to be observant and curious, studious and kind, she did teach us how to sweep and mop floors correctly, and she loved laundered and starched sheets. She always listened and often taught. She would say ‘cleanliness is next to Godliness’, and ‘a place for everything, and everything in its place’. She was also as close to a pioneer woman as any of us would ever know, let alone be partially reared by. She was the mother of five children, three girls and two boys, our Mom being the youngest. She lost her husband to a heart attack while my Mother was still in school. Most of the children were young adults and my mom still a teenager. Without a means to support herself and the family, she took an offer from a relative to move west from Minneapolis/St. Paul, her lifelong home town, where he would get her a job at the Union Pacific Railroad. She took a train to Pasco Washington to start this new life, Mom in tow, eventually ending up in a suburb of Portland that would become the starting point for my family’s genesis.

She was a centerpiece of our lives for as long as I can remember. When we were growing up she lived blocks from our school and was always interested in what we had going on. We could stop there on the way to, or from school and there was always a warm interest in what we were actually doing, how school was, what we were studying, what our friends were up to. There was always a snack and a keen interest in us. We would often go and spend the night with her. Somewhere along the way, she started collecting the original diecast Matchbox series cars, trucks and farm equipment for us. These were introduced in the mid 1950s and she started collecting. She kept them under the couch for when we would come over. What a thing? A woman born in the 1800’s and she saw the future when Matchbox rolled out their collection in the 1950s. At least for her grandchildren. There were dozens of them and they remained a Gahmie hallmark for decades.

She was at our house constantly, supporting my mother, helping with the housework which was immense, and even making sure that Dad was being cared for. She sent the sheets out to be laundered and they would come back wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. She never showed concern to us about our doings, but every once in a while she might give Mom a little grief about how she might have lost a little control of us, in a loving way. She was devout in faith, and imbued with a sense of humor that she shared with us and we delighted in.

She had worn full dentures from a pretty young age, and as kids we were amazed when they came out at night and she would soak them in a glass on the nightstand. She found that delightful and when she would take them out she would make two faces for us with no teeth. One was sweet, big smile and brilliant eyes, the other was sour, big frown, narrowed eyes and a shake of the head. We couldn’t get enough. She lived independently well into her 80s, but eventually she was falling too easily and riding the bus back and forth from her apartment to us was too much. Mom and Dad decided she would come and live with us full time. She lived with us until her death at 95. My parents did the same when my Dad’s Mom was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. She came to live with us until it was her time, also at 95. This was family. While Gahmie was living with us, every morning she would come down the hall for toast and tea as we were getting ready for school. We would ask her how she was, and she would always say with a twinkle in her eye, ‘Well, I am ready to go if the Good Lord is willing to take me.’

As kids we went everywhere with other kids, we walked to kindergarten as a troupe, no adults. We went to a school called Ainsworth about a mile from home. Same for Grade School at St. Thomas More, we walked everyday as a troupe. My older brother Brian and his best friend Jerry, told me yesterday over pancakes, that they walked from our neighborhood to the bus stop, caught a city bus, rode it downtown, got off downtown and would walk to Shattuck School where they attended kindergarten, afterwards they would leave, wait for the city bus and ride back to the hill and get off and walk home. Kindergarten… Could that happen today? Or rather would that happen today? I guess that is the question.

During the summer, we would be out of the house early, without a real itinerary, we had our bikes, our friends and a whole world to explore. Plans were often made on the fly. There weren’t any check-ins required or reports, there weren’t cell phones or computers, most of us told time by shadows and gut feelings, although you could call the time number if you had a dime. We all knew how to put a stick in the ground and see where its shadow landed and how long it was. Someone usually had a compass. Most of us had pocket knives. We even carried magnifying glasses for fire starting.

We went where the best chance of adventure would be, many times the nearby park or the woods behind our houses, both offering an unlimited menu of ‘things to do.’ It also depended on any plans that had been conceived but not executed, like building a Bear trap with a pit, sharp spikes carved from twigs and a camouflage covering of leaves and branches, that could take weeks! Building forts and club houses was also a focus of our ad-hoc gatherings. Bow-and-arrow practice was also a frequent activity.

It turns out my older brothers even had gangs with names and everything. They were the Panthers and the other kids were the Rats. Mostly delineated by age apparently. Brother Brian reports: ‘Actually, in thinking about it, I think age had a lot to do with who was on which side. The Rats as I recall were Greg’s or your age, and we knew we could take ‘em if they attacked. There never were any major battles. I think it was just the idea that it could happen. Especially if they recruited some older boys from over on Old Orchard road or who knows where? And there was always a dark force in the air, in the background in the form of older boys like Peter Casall or John Langley. Now they were really scary … they were I think even older than Reeder! We also had an elaborate system of hammocks strung up high in the maple trees to monitor the enemies’ movements and spent our downtime reading “True Detective” magazines liberated from one neighborhood father’s library.’

About this time I began to develop a love of shows and entertainment. I could always rustle up an idea for something to make the adults laugh, little skits or tall tales complete with accents and exaggerated gestures. I loved Gilbert and Sullivan and might march around singing ‘I am the Captain of the Pinafore.’ But when I discovered that the neighborhood kids would actually pay for admission to a planned circus which I was setting for our backyard, things took off fast. We drew up little flyers on construction paper and spread them around. We were planning on an animal act, rabbits, magic act, also rabbits, petting zoo, rabbits, but the show stopper, the headliner, the act that everyone was talking about was the acrobatic stylings and jaw dropping talent of my younger sister Donna.

Now, Donna was a talent in many ways, she still is, but in the day she could work a Hula Hoop like nobody had imagined possible, she could have it up for hours it seemed, and up on an arm and down on a leg, it was poetry in motion. All the kids knew how good she was. What I saw was talent and opportunity.

I recruited her to be the central act of my circus. We arrived at an admission charge of a quarter and we would share the take. I started to hone the act into the legend it was to become. I imagined her on top of a platform, high above the crowd performing an act of both danger and delight. The platform was a turquoise trash can - just enough room for one, and the uncertainty of whether it could handle the gyrations of the Hula Hoop added the needed danger. This would be performed live for the audience with no safety net or cushions of any type.

The day of the Circus arrived, ticket sales were brisk, kids piled in. The weather was perfect, and you could feel the anticipation. The animal act turned into more of a petting zoo, and the magic act was not on anyone’s mind. The kids started to take seats on the grass in a circle around the main stage (garbage can). It was now or never. Donna was off stage, under the deck, waiting for the big reveal. I moved to the front of the crowd opening up with ‘and now, the moment you have all been waiting for, Hula Hoop above the ground! A round of applause, and Donna enters stage left, Hula Hoop in hand, I assist as she climbs onto her platform and the show starts.

Children smiled, older kids hooted, and even adults watched from the deck and stairs. Donna was just getting started and I was certain we had a future. You could hear oohs, ahhs, and a few wows. The crowd urged her on and she responded, the pace picked up, the stage was literally rocking with every twist, and just when you thought the finale would be next, ‘the moment’, the stage collapsed and our Prima Performer was thrown through the air and into the crowd–and then the earth. I wasn’t worried, I was confident the lawn was soft and she would be fine.

The fact that her arm was broken was not lost on her, it was contained - not compound - but it certainly did not look right. Ever the professional she refused immediate medical attention, or rather none was immediately offered. Adults who were watching from the deck called down ‘are you okay?’ Mom looked on without jumping in. I thought we should go on but cooler heads prevailed and the show came to an end. The admission refund process was difficult, but worth it for my intrepid star. After her arm was put in a cast I think she wore it as a badge of honor, I know I did. She told me yesterday ‘Well, a cast always gives a kid some clout. It was worth the pain, consternation, and the itchy hot plaster cast for my moment of glory!

Some things haven’t changed, they may have even become more present. I still love shows, theater, storytelling, circuses and gathering like-minded friends and family alike with skits and plays, I like secret forts and wandering woods. I still dream about all that. The childhood we lived was made up of, bloody noses, dirt clod fights, broken bones, falling down and getting up, refunding $5.75 in admissions, side by side with the sheer joy of the crazy world we were allowed to roam, explore, and experience.

So you see, we weren’t being told to be resilient or bounce back, we were given every opportunity to learn to be resilient and to get back to being free range. It wasn’t just get up and dust yourself off, or get back in the saddle. We learned to trust each other, to trust the goodness of people and to trust that things work out, not without pain or challenges, but they work out.

Sometimes you uncover your past, sometimes you uncover your path, and often they are the same unbroken trail. In sifting through time, I came across this picture of my father, with his first bow-and-arrow set, and suddenly felt like adventure and wonder was more than something attained, it was in my blood, my DNA, and the gift was given without even a conscious decision.

Long before I had words for it, long before I understood it, long before diagnoses and surgeries and losses, I was learning that life could be both difficult and wonderful at the same time.

People often comment to me, I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I could go through what you are going through and stay positive or hopeful, my reply is always the same; none of us know until we do. It isn’t a passive act, it does take a choice.

We cannot eliminate all risks.

We cannot protect people from every disappointment.

We cannot lecture people into resilience or strength.

We can only give them opportunities to discover what they are capable of and be there when they do.

What I now call Incurably Hopeful began there in the years I discovered I could answer what life asked of me. More than fifty years later, I returned to that same front door. The house had changed, and so had I, but I could still see the boy standing there—ready for whatever waited beyond it.

I am still learning..

I am still Incurably Hopeful.

Bruce

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