It may be that the sheer volume of all that is available these days causes people like myself who are interested in historical music, poetry and books that deal with the difficult to feel that our interests are fading and marginal.

This must be illusory. But this illusion is reinforced when popular culture is so loud, academic culture so narrow-minded, and those we come in contact so distant and uninterested in things like classical music and poetry and articulate writing.

It can feel a bit like being squeezed. Or maybe the parts that I love that others don’t is squeezing out those things.

Is this what aging means? Could be. Common points of reference diminish to the point that it is often better to be silent than attempt to explain one’s reaction.

As my friend, the ballet instructor, said to me last term when I was trying to explain something with a cultural reference, “You might as well be speaking Chinese.”

I liked that. Partially because two people I care deeply about (daughter Elizabeth and her significant other Jeremy) do speak Chinese.

Anyway.

Yesterday Eileen’s back was hurting so I helped her put in some simple fencing to discourage neighborhood children and dogs from trampling her plants.

I probably would have helped her anyway, but she pooped out rather quickly and I had to make multiple trips to Menards by myself.

Farmer Jupe.