In the past, I exercised on a regular basis, probably four to five times a week. Stretching, jogging, weight work, I didn’t really like any of it, but with a history of heart issues I knew I didn’t have a choice. In 2006, I had a triple bypass operation, and subsequent to my heart operation, I started to regularly work on a treadmill and with weights.

When I retired in 2011, after 45 years of teaching and coaching at St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire, my wife, Marcia, and I moved to Kennebunkport. There is no more beautiful place in the world. We loved our home with its spectacular ocean views.

After about 10 years of writing, reading, golfing, kayaking, boating, mowing an expansive lawn and most of all enjoying nine grandchildren, I began to notice some physical abnormalities. Often, for example, I would not be able to start walking and when I did begin, would stutter step for three or four steps before resuming a normal gait.

I soon learned that I had Parkinson’s disease.

I knew that over time the disease would take away almost all of my motor abilities and functions. In my before-Parkinson’s life, it would not have been unfair to call me a worrier. One of the beautiful pieces of my living with Parkinson’s is that I no longer worry about matters over which I have no control.

Getting my socks and shoes on in the morning now takes 10 to 12 minutes. It would be much quicker if Marcia did my socks and shoes, but then I would not have the satisfaction of doing them myself. Satisfactions, as small as putting one’s own shoes on, can become larger than life to a Parkinsonian. I have given myself permission to not worry about taking too much time to do anything.

So, what, you might ask, has this submission anything to do with Maine or the vast majority of Maine readers? I would answer that question only for myself. I cannot presume to speak for everyone with Parkinson’s. For me, the kindness of my many Maine friends and their unspoken sense of empathy has helped me on my journey.

Frequently these days, when I am out, perhaps at the post office or the grocery store, and when I have a freezing moment, a total stranger will offer me an arm, thereby giving me the confidence to take that first step. That simple offer of kindness, of reaching out, especially when it comes from a teenager or another really old dude, never fails to move me.

I am sure that such kindness exists in other states, but I still prefer to think that nowhere is it more abundant than in Maine.