Happy Thanksgiving

I visited an old friend and colleague the other day. He’s 94, sharp as a tack, lives alone with help. Whenever I meet a person of age like my friend, a person who has lived a full and rewarding life, I have to think of the memories—the great bank of experience and recollection one accumulates over the years.

I thought of this again yesterday morning. I got up and it early before work so that I could get a few pre-Thanksgiving tasks underway. I boiled my sweet potatoes for sweet potato pie. I cooked up the rice and grains for a couple of side salads we would be taking. And as I did this work I started to walk the aisles of my many Thanksgiving memories. I missed an opportunity to be with my extended family for Thanksgiving this year simply because the day snuck up too quickly. And, so, as I peeled and chopped and drained and tossed my way through the predawn hours in my kitchen, I thought back to preparing meals with family—brothers and sisters and Mom directing traffic. I thought back to kitchens past, exploding with all family hands on deck: peelers and choppers and stuffers and bakers and mashers and Dad tending bar for the guests.

Among the very many things for which I can be thankful are those many years of wonderful family memories. Memories of family work in preparing a big meal to be shared. Not each moment necessarily a joy at the time but certainly a treasured gift looking back all those years.

This year my friend will be with neighbors across the street enjoying Thanksgiving dinner and the company of friends. I like to think there’s still room for more memories, even at 94. I feel sorry for those who are without family or friends on this day of giving thanks. But, most of all, I feel sorry for those with family and friends who don’t take advantage of this opportunity to create a treasured memory either by choice or necessity: those who prefer to dash out to hit the sales and those who find themselves forced to work the stores that simply cannot resist the opportunity to pervert this national day of Thanksgiving into yet another opportunity to shore up profits on the year.

I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving and hope you spend the days making memories of your own. Not of half-off bargains but of a day shared family and friends. A day spent slowing to a stop—even for just a moment. A day in which we recognize that we are truly among the most fortunate of all.

How the Grinch Spent Halloween

I played the Grinch last night. On a night when so many little kids were out scouring the neighborhoods for candy and treats, I holed up in the den, lights low, reviewing someone else's legal issues, looking at my daughter's essays for medical school applications, and writing a proposal for the hospital Board of Trustees-- fun! But before all that I first went out for Chinese and sat there feeling guilty, knowing there was plenty of time and multiple venues between that restaurant and home where I could rush in and arm myself with candy. But I didn’t. I finished my dinner, ate my fortune cookie, and headed home with the hope no one would go hurrying expectantly to the front door after seeing me pull into the driveway. No, the porch light remained off and I remained undisturbed except for that nagging little angel sitting on my left shoulder asking me why I wasn't giving out candy.

As I struggled with my decision I remembered what Tam had told me: Don’t do it! She reminded me how last year I got a bit snippy with great big mommas holding out pillow cases for infants in arms and babes in strollers. And with the parents and kids who hold out second and third bags for sick kids at home. And especially with the kids not in costume who didn’t need coffee grounds to make a fake beard—they just skipped shaving that morning. And, too, with the 1/3 or more who couldn’t say “trick or treat” let alone “thank you.” Nonetheless, I felt kinda bad hiding out in the den for three hours.

Next year I may return to answering the ding-dong doorbell of trick or treaters. But first they’ll have to get by the sign in the yard. Next to the sign will be a post with a high line drawn at about 70” and a low line drawn at about 30.” Next to that post the sign will read:

ALL TRICK OR TREATERS MUST BE:

TALLER THAN THE BOTTOM LINE

SHORTER THAN THE TOP LINE

UPRIGHT AND WALKING WITHOUT SUPPORT

ABLE AND WILLING TO SAY “TRICK OR TREAT” AND “THANK YOU”

UNDER THE AGE OF 19

(WE CARD WE CARE—PLEASE BE READY TO SHOW GOVERNMENT ISSUED PHOTO ID)

IN COSTUME

PRESENT TO COLLECT

(WE REGRET THAT TREATS CANNOT BE PROVIDED FOR ABSENT PARTIES REGARDLESS OF CIRCUMSTANCE)

Yeah, now that’s the spirit!

The Cereal Bowl of Life

I'm thinking of my old neighbor, Dr. Freeman this morning. He, more than anyone else, inspired me to become a physician. (Well, he and that little shit of a cardiologist at Santa Monica Hospital with his great sport coats and red V12 XKE convertible.) Dr. Freeman was a physician in that rapidly disappearing old sense of the word, a man who truly looked to the needs and concerns of others; carried a little black bag; made house calls on Saturdays to little old ladies.

I'm thinking about Dr. Freeman this morning as I'm mixing my cereals, my Cheerios with my Oatmeal Squares and Wheat Chex, and a small handful of leftover Fruit Loops for color. Fruit Loops always seemed to be a staple at the Freeman breakfast table and this morning, as I poured out the fruit Loops, I had to smile as I remembered Dr. Freeman: I will never forget him sitting there at the head of the breakfast table, back to the window, newspaper laid out, pouring his coffee onto his cereal. His son and I stared wide eyed and Danny objected only to be told, "What's the difference? It all gets mixed up on inside anyway."

It's an interesting lesson and observation, albeit lost on a couple of 12 year-olds. Imagine if we could all allow ourselves to be so nonchalant. If only we could recognize that blacks and whites and Jews and Muslims and Christians and Democrats and Republicans and straights and gays are all tumbled together in the cereal bowl of life. What a wide eyed revelation it would be if we could only understand it doesn't matter. It all gets mixed up on the inside. Fruit Loop or Cheerio-- it's all just cereal sharing a common vessel.

Cheap Undies and Value Based Spending

A couple of weeks ago I was in a large well-known department store in Chicago. Tam and I were buying back to school clothes for Ev. As I get older it's really fun to buy clothes for our little guy-- after all, he looks so much better in his clothes than I do in mine anymore. It's a vicarious pleasure seeing him in cute jeans and snappy shirts. All lean, no waist.

Nonetheless, as I walked through the store I remembered I needed to pick up some new boxers. I looked at the nice substantial ones made by big-name designers. These were the boxers that hang separate on hangers. Nice. One look at the label, however, and I had to put them back: I'm not paying $30 for a pair of boxers made overseas under sweat shop conditions for pennies per hour just so some American fashion icon can have 5 houses, a fleet of jets, a multi million dollar car collection, and a bad haircut. For $30 I can have them made in the US, of US materials with US labor from sources like City Boxers, Flint and Tinder, or Donn Mason. So, the hell with that. In a pinch, I bought the name brand 4 pack for $30 or so. At about $7.50 a piece, they'd do for now.

Or so I thought.  The bargain priced name brand boxers I bought (made in Vietnam) looked terrific in the package but that's kind of the end of it. Once out, what looked like neat and comfy fabrics turned out to be stiff and lifeless flimsy plaids and prints. Definitely not a product that'll be sitting folded in my underwear drawer in another 6 months. Alas, these will never become comfy old friends.

It seems everywhere you look these days you find evidence of the creeping culture of cheap crud that has degraded so many products from hospital gowns, to restaurant napkins, to boxer shorts. Like flimsy paper plates that collapse in your lap or no-brand toilet paper that persuades you to skip that next trip to the bathroom, these products are simply not nice. As costs are reined in and profits held steady, affordable products are more and more becoming the things that one would not knowingly choose to use.

Well, it turns out that's what you get in a $30 four pack of boxers these days. I'd understand if they were disposable. They possess all the welcoming drape, feel, and substance of newsprint. I pretty much thought they'd disintegrate first time through the washer. I'll tell you now they did not disintegrate when washed but I'll be darn surprised if they survive 6 more trips around the spin cycle of my (made in USA) Speed Queen.

I have new boxers on the way. All cotton. Made in the USA. $25 a pair. When it comes to US workers, American products, and my bum and naughty bits, it's worth the expense. As my financial planner would say: it's a value based spending decision. It's just too bad that, anymore, it requires relative wealth to obtain such value. Quality underwear, it seems, is a luxury-- but, then, I guess women have known that for years.

Tis Autumn

Driving along yesterday I heard this song, sung by Stacey Kent. It's a terrific autumn song. The lyrics are cleaver, romantic, and sweet. As I listened I wondered, how long will anyone be able to write like this anymore? Even our simple language is slipping away from us as we no longer write for personal expression. It seems as if 70% of what we see written these days comes as either corporate-speak b.s. jargon or as text messages. I mean, WTF? I fear the number of people able to write poetry or a beautiful melody of words-- let alone an actual personal note or letter-- is rapidly shrinking away.

Fortunately there are still a few good song writers, poets, and authors in this world. But for now, enjoy this old timer.

Tis Autumn – words & music by Henry Nemo

Old Father time checked, so there’d be no doubt;

Called on the North wind to come on out,

Then cupped his hands so proudly to shout,

“La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn!”

Trees say they’re tired, they’ve born too much fruit;

Charmed on the wayside, there’s no dispute.

Now shedding leaves, they don’t give a hoot –

La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn!

(Bridge)

Then the birds got together to chirp about the weather

Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm.

After makin’ their decision, in birdie-like precision,

Turned about, and made a beeline to the south.

My holding you close really is no crime –

Ask the birds and the trees and old Father Time.

It’s just to help the mercury climb.

La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn.

(Instrumental)

It’s just to help the mercury climb.

La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn.

Set Your Alarm For November '14

It's been just a few days now since the senate and house were able to weave enough of a patch to get the the United States government back to work. It came after 16 days of media opportunities for all parties to the debacle. Like Miley Cyrus with a big sponge hand-- there is no such thing as too much; there is no such thing as bad publicity. I saw the interviews with representatives and senators waxing earnest over the need to do the right thing and I was sick. Massive egos sucking up the spotlight, feigning concern while titillated by the attention. I saw the photo of Reid and McConnell the morning after and I was sick. Where there should have been nothing but shame and embarrassment, there stood the proud engineers of compromise as if there was a silver lining.

I've read the numbers-- some say 24, some 27 billion dollars in negative economic impact-- but the cost is much greater. Our great democracy has been brought to its knees by a renegade few, unwilling to live with one policy so they're willing to jeopardize the whole system. And, in fact, they have jeopardized the whole system. These displays of brinkmanship don't fall short of generating real and lasting damage. The world watches while the U.S. system of government stalls and risks the economic welfare of the world. My hunch, and the concern of many others smarter than me, is that the world won't forget, the damage is real. If the U.S. is vulnerable to the reckless agenda of the few-- if the minority can act like a toxic virus-- then the U.S. just may not be the best and safest place to do financial business. Perhaps it's time the torch was passed.

Beyond the possibility that this republic has been permanently damaged by the reckless self-serving agent of an irresponsible minority, the thing that really concerns me is amnesia. I'm afraid we will forget the cost of the past 16 days. I'm afraid we will forget the cost of a house divided, crippled by a thorn in the paw. I'm afraid that, when election time rolls around once again next year, money will talk and bullshit, well bullshit will continue to talk as well-- well financed, slickly packaged, neatly delivered bullshit.

We've received a wake-up call. Let's not forget to set our alarms come next November. Whether Democrat, Republican, or other, choose wisely for a candidate committed to our country and one who understands the cost of playing games instead of playing the game.

Heeeeere's Autumn!!

This past weekend I enjoyed driving around with the top down. Even early Saturday morning, driving 20 miles to help out in surgery: 50-some degrees, severe clear and sunny. It requires a coat and sweatshirt but it's the best time of year to drive around topless. Where I live, driving along on a quiet two-lane highway you'll pass corn fields waiting for harvest, bean fields being shaved clean, fields of soil turned and ready for winter wheat; all this framed with a perimeter of hardwoods well into their yellow, orange, and red wardrobes. And all those sites are associated with their own olfactory thumbprint-- the soil, the leaves, the fields.  It is a fleeting few days each year but, man, we hit it this past weekend! And later that day I got to walk the campus at the University of Michigan with Kels. How great to walk a classic Big 10 campus in the sunshine of a fall afternoon.

And then, today….it only took a moment: I came home from work and within less than a minute it was over. I came home to a house that was finally too cold. With a heavy gray cloud cover moving in from the west and the wind picking up, it was time to turn on the furnace.

We have a few weeks here still. Two, maybe three. But, when you live where it turns cold for months at a time, it's always a bit sobering when the bottom falls out and you have to throw the switch from "cool" to "heat." It's rather dramatic for some of us, if you hadn't noticed.

Getting It Right

Eight years ago, on the night of October 14th, I went to one of the best parties I've ever attended. It was small for a big party, but a big party it was, at a small old desert getaway hotel. It was family and friends, some of whom I haven't seen since. Some of whom I never will see again. But that warm night, under the full moon and stars of the night-time desert sky, we ate, and drank, and listened to Bandidos de Amor and their guitar driven "California Rumba," playing and singing beside the pool. Loud voices and laughter, dancing, margaritas, and superb Mexican food served up by a French chef and his staff of Mexican cooks. What a night. And we had the place to ourselves so we partied til the wee hours. And then, the next day, I got up and got married.

It seems that too often it's the bad decisions I remember. The opportunity missed, the responsibility dismissed, the box instead of the curtain. But that time I got it right. And, 8 years later, it's still right.

A Tonsorial Misadventure

Just clean it up a bit.

Living in a small town where the resident to hair-stylist ratio seems to always hover around 4:1, one would think you could pick up the phone a week in advance and get a haircut scheduled. Not so. (There are people who already know where this story is going. Been there...) No, it seems cutting hair in a small town must be both lucrative and extremely taxing because there seem to be just an awful lot of times when I can't get an appointment-- she's either booked or off.

And so it was a few weeks back. My hair had sprouted long wings off the back and I was afraid I was only a few days growth from becoming that old guy one sees driving around town in a beat-up MGB, gray ponytail protruding from the back of his "Old Dudes Rule" Hang Ten ball cap. So, unable to get into my usual place I tried a new one-- a young woman who was said to be good and cute… not that looks matter to an old dude. Right. Anyway, off I went to get my wild gray mane tamed.

Well, it turned out that this young gal had a chair in one hand and a whip in the other when it comes to men's haircuts. After explaining that I wear my hair a little longer, and, yes, usually it gets cut with a scissors and a trimmer, she nodded affirmatively, ran her fingers through my hair a couple of times and, before you could say "what's that?" a hair clipper appeared in her hand with a cutting head the size of a corn harvester. Zing! the wings were gone. Zing! my head felt lighter. Zing! Zing!! Zing!!!

Do you remember mullets from the 80's? I had a reverse mullet. The back was cropped short and the sides and top left longer. She assured me that most of her customers really liked their haircuts after a few days.

I don't think of myself as especially vain but I did not feel good. Most people all said the same thing: "You got your haircut. I like it. It's a little short in the back." A week later I found myself eyeing the clippers in the home barbering aisle at Target. I was starting to think I could have done better with a Robocut Flowbee.

So yesterday, about three weeks later, I settled back into Bonny's chair. She left the back alone and balanced out the rest. No clipper. It looks good. Lesson learned. She'll probably have to retire or die before I jump ship again. Then again, I have known her to get distracted, take a phone call, and leave a side unfinished. At least that's a tonsorial misadventure that's a little easier to rectify….if she's working.

Which Greatest Generation?

I saw a friend's post the other day, a photo with the attached hashtag, "greatest generation." I know the reference. I'm at a loss to disagree. But as I think about it, I have to ask: how contrary to everything else about my youth and experience growing up that I, or any of us, should be so willing to surrender that title? Why should we feel satisfied, nostalgic, and, well, anything but confrontational in assigning that weighty adjective to a passing generation?  Isn't it odd, sad even, that we sign off on this? No comeback, no pushback, no inclination to say, "now just a doggone minute!"

I look at my children and the children of some of my friends and I think perhaps we're doing something extraordinary ourselves. Perhaps we're not physically building a nation, constructing factories, machinery, riveting bombers and ships, building cities, towns and roadways. But perhaps we are making something better. In spite of the crush of entitlement and fiscal dependency, perhaps we are still somehow raising a generation that will accomplish great things beyond our imagination.

Lord knows some days I encounter what seems like an endless parade of unproductive need and greed. And, too, I have to wonder when I encounter 10 year-olds and teens who can't remove the phone from their hand or the buds from their ears-- and the parent doesn't even seem to mind. But, in spite of that, when I see the hashtag "greatest generation" and the reference is to a generation that is all but extinct, I'd like to think them wrong. We should hope-- and expect-- to do better.

Good Chemistry in the Kitchen

Sometimes I'm amazed at what I used to be able to do-- the things I've learned and done that I couldn't even consider doing once again.  The list is considerable when it comes to physical abilities but the other night I was reminded of my mental capacity in particular-- after putting together what turned out to be an amazing vegetarian stew.

Key word there is "after." I love to cook and I seem to have no problem grabbing this and reaching for that, a dash of this, a splash of that. To my good fortune, more often than not, I do a pretty good job in getting the right mix of substance and flavor.

And so it was the other evening as I sat down to a bowl of this hearty and flavorful vegetable stew. It was sweet with a little heat and seemed to perfectly blend the many flavors into a new delicious whole. Viola! When I sat down to enjoy my wonderful creation I started to think about how I'd concocted this dish. I knew there was white wine, mushroom soup, vegetable stock, potato, yam, corn, green beans, (are you getting this down??) pinto beans, smoked chipolte chili powder, onion and some garlic powder. I think. It was then my mind went back to good old Willamette U and my organic chemistry lab with Dr. Hudak. So many milliliters of this and so many grams of that heated to precisely this temp for precisely this length of time.  Looking at that bowl of delicious vegetable stew and thinking back all those years to organic chemistry it's a wonder I ever made it to out of college. My current kitchen methods employed in a chemistry lab would be as likely to get a visit from the FBI or Drug Enforcement Agency as it would the approval of my professor.

Oh well, I must have learned something. I guess that's how it is as you go through life: You take it all in, learn what you must, retain what is needed and, in the end, hopefully you end up with a bowl of killer vegetable stew. Bon appetit!

Smoke Filled Rooms

I went to pick up the dog the other afternoon. Necessity had dictated he be transferred from one household to another while I was away and so Jack spent the weekend hanging out with an aging obese Pug named Baby Girl. He seemed to have a great time and the sitter had done me and Jack a huge favor, stepping in to help out in a tight spot.

When I went to pick him up, however, the experience was odd from a contemporary perspective: The homeowner was a man in his late 70's, a widower, and a life-long smoker who still smoked cigarettes in his home. It was a peculiar experience being in that house. I called Tam when I left and told her I'd only been in that house for 10 minutes but I smelled like I had been in a bar in the 70's or 80's. I wondered how I'd even done it back then.

Then I got to thinking how, for years and years, this had been the status quo. In my home as well as many others at least one parent smoked; cigarettes, cigars, a pipe. In our case it was a pipe that followed my dad around. A visit to or from his siblings, however, was always heavily perfumed by cigarette smoke. I hate to wax nostalgic on this subject but there was a whole generation or two or three, a quarter to a third of which smoked. And those cigarettes drove industry, manufacturing, creative genius, and a whole lot of entertainment, both at home and out and about.  I mean, in a way, how peculiar that now, when you go in a place like 21 or the Polo Lounge, the 50/50 or the Macleay Country Inn, you get abruptly shown the door should you dare light a cigarette on the premises. Whether it's a high end watering hole still operating after 70 or 80 years, or a good ol' honky tonk-- it's no smoking.

Not that I'm lamenting any loss here. Cigarette smoking is terrible. The disease and decay that follows smoking is horrid. No one would smoke if they actually believed it would happen to them. It's like war: Bad for humans and all living things. And, with that said, and all things considered, it's weird that my son in all likelihood will never know a smoke filled room. As good as it is that most all people have the decency to smoke outside when they must, as good as it is that a whole lot of people do not smoke any more, there was an entire era in this country when the United States was growing, industry was king, our battles appeared to be won, prosperity was within reach, and people, like factory smokestacks, puffed along all day.

As much as smoking was an accepted part of our culture for so many years perhaps it was a parasite. Perhaps the genius and industry of those previous generations was actually hamstrung, not fueled, by smoking. Hopefully we'll find out as cigarettes become more an anomaly than an accessory. In the meantime I can tell my son about it-- just what it is that he can be glad he's missing. No need to pay a visit.

Maybe, Just Maybe

Maybe, just maybe, we're getting smarter. I started thinking about this the other day driving the freeway home from Chicago and entering a construction zone.

Here in Michigan the "barrel season" opens in April and usually runs through October until the weather  dictates an end to road work. Inevitably, construction season also means lane closures and those signs advising "Lane Ends." Usually the driver is advised the lane will end in 3 miles, then 2, then 1, and then you see the flashing arrow and the barrels squeezing the one lane into the adjacent.  In the past, however, my experience has been that it just doesn't happen as smoothly as that. My experience here and elsewhere has been that, by the time you are reading "LANE ENDS IN ONE MILE," traffic has already slowed to a crawl or stopped. That happens because about a quarter of the drivers feel the need to jump the line, race all the way to the merge site, and then force their way in while the drivers behind are abruptly stopped. That line jumping behavior is incredibly rude and selfish and, judging by my observation, doesn't get the imposer much more than a few minutes ahead of the game-- and only at the cost of increasing the misery of other drivers.

So, last Sunday, I was dumbstruck as I approached the merge lane and I could see almost a mile in the distance the affected lane was wide open: No line of cars trying to wedge their way in. No slowing of the traffic flow. No rear-enders. No angry drivers. Just a smooth flowing merge. Come to think of it, this whole summer has been better in that regard. Not perfect, but better. Far fewer major back-ups owing to merged lanes and line jumpers.  So that made me think that, hmm, maybe we are getting smarter.

Wouldn't that be amazing if people we're getting to a point where they actually were coming to realize there is more to gain from cooperation and sharing than there is to be gained from selfishness? It seems entirely contrary to prevailing human nature, rather unlikely at best but, that said, one can only hope that maybe, just maybe, the highway is the harbinger of better things to come.

Bad Berries

"It's just a little mold"

My mom used to love seasonal fruit. She was a believer in the merits and economy of locally available produce and loved it when the seasons were announced by the arrival of seasonal treats like strawberries, raspberries, and apples. The family really got to indulge, however, when the season wained. The prices fell as the crops were in abundance and the novelty and demand had fallen off. It was then that you might find a basket of strawberries with a few less than perfect specimens. A child of the depression and having grown up in a home where there was always enough but never excess, she knew her way around a half molded berry-- with a knife. "It's just a little mold" she'd say, cutting away the repulsive bit of rot, simultaneously depositing the nasty bit in the scrap pile while its unblemished part would fall into a bowl, soon to be placed on a slice of angel food cake and crowned with Dream Whip.

I was reminded of this yesterday when we were sorting through a box of late season strawberries here at home. The contents were running about 3 to 1, good berries to bad, but still, there were those constituents with the moldy backsides-- half good, half bad. As Tam carefully lifted the offenders from the container and set them aside for the trash I suggested what my mom would do.  (It was one of those moments when you can't quite believe the words are coming from your own mouth-- an action of your mother's, abhorred since childhood, and yet, there it goes, the suggestion to do the very same thing 45 years later. Really? I just suggested you do what??) Needless to say my suggestion fell on deaf ears.  

In recollection, the wisdom of my mother's conservationism was well founded and actually provides an excellent example in life. In this day and age it is especially pertinent: Don't throw out the baby with the bath water. Look for the beauty, not the blemish. 

In a time of growing intolerance it seems more and more we are encouraged to look with greater diligence to find fault, disagreement, and to place blame. Rather than recognizing our blemishes, rather than recognizing the value and wisdom in working to find and utilize the substantial good in every opportunity and situation, we are quick to discard the whole thing. As distasteful as it may seem, we may often be discarding some truly worthy resources.

Fortunately, it seems it has been a characteristic of our successful democratic civilization: Here in the United States we have learned to live together. We have somehow manage to discard many of the blemished parts, keeping the ripe and delicious elements together in that one big serving bowl to be enjoyed by all-- the great melting pot. Not a bad system. Let's hope that old-fashioned sensibility can survive a what seems to be a growing distaste for what we perceive as less than perfect berries.

You Ain't Worth Crap

Summer's been over for a few weeks now. I guess it's time to get my butt in gear and revisit this blog. For starters, here's a piece I submitted to our local paper this past week:

One of my favorite stories by Dr. Suess was published in 1961 and simply titled, The Zax. It is the story of the South-Going Zax and the Nouth-Going Zax who eventually come face to face in their tracks. Neither Zax is willing to take one step to the east or the west and so their they stand, unmoving, face to face, while the rest of the world grows up around and over them; the Zax oblivious to the cost and folly of their uncompromising ways.

And so here we are at October 1st, the government defunded, while our elected members of government stand toe to toe unwilling to budge. Meanwhile, the world moves on and how soon will it be before we wonder, just when did the U.S. become that second-class piece of real estate?


The truly alarming part in all of this is that it’s not about healthcare reform. It’s not about Obamacare. It’s about jobs. For once the congress is taking real and tangible action to protect American jobs: Their own. The alarming piece, from my view, is that this debacle is about re-election strategy. It is the criminal offspring of a political system in which our elected representatives are beholden to the individuals, corporations, and organizations with the resources to bankroll a billion dollar presidential bid, the millions needed each year to elect our congress, the tens or hundreds of thousands needed to elect our state representatives. Our elected representatives claim to represent the voice of their constituents but what constituency is that? With national organizations extending their reach across state boundaries, pouring money and resources into our representatives campaigns for election and re-election, just whose agenda is it that gets carried to Washington—where our valued representatives settle into a job offering income, healthcare and retirement benefits most Americans will only ever dream of.

I used to read of the open political corruption in other countries and I felt both disgust for the system and sympathy for the citizens. Whether the current stand-off in Washington, D.C. continues for only 12 hours, 12 days, or 12 weeks, I think it’s time we open our eyes to the fact we have become that country. We have become that place where representatives, legislation, and votes are bought and sold on the open market. For all the self-righteous back and forth banter one hears about just what the Founding Fathers intended, what the Bill of Rights provides, the sanctity of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, I feel fairly certain the current state of affairs is not what they had in mind.

The solution to our current sorry state of affairs has nothing to do with Obama, healthcare, Republicans, or Democrats. It is solely dependent on effective and sweeping campaign finance reform. As desperately as our country needs meaningful healthcare reform, the process by which we allow the unfettered buying, selling, and manipulation of politicians and policy is the rotting corpse on the prairie of American life.

Ignorance Is Not Bliss

Two related articles appeared in our local paper the other day, both of which were tucked a bit back from the front page. Back beyond the article dealing with the late president Gerald Ford’s 100th Birthday; well back of yet more coverage of the GOP’s ongoing uncontrollable urge to tell women what they can and cannot do with their bodies; well past Eagle Scout achievements; well past yet another letter on gay marriage and Biblical interpretations; past, too, yet another chapter in the tired saga of our nation’s Rat Fink #1, Edward Snowden. Back there, on page 9, I found a disturbing article, one that highlights our evolving national demographic and the implications this holds for the economic future and strength of this nation.  “Culture Change Needed” draws attention to the growing non-white majority in this country, a majority that is too often being raised in poverty and without opportunity. Then, on the next page, we find the second article, a smallish item entitled, “Robots to revolutionize farming, ease labor woes.”

Believe me, in 25 years these may well be the only two articles that should have captured our attention, consideration, and political efforts way back in 2013. Careful reading would have informed us that the foundation of this country is largely being ignored. Large cracks and holes in the human masonry are being left untended while we push, push, push to make certain our personal beliefs and opinions as to the quality of our nation’s moral fabric take center stage. We worry over our privacy, national security, and other people's personal choices while the very basic resources needed to fuel the strength and stability of this country are left to wallow in poverty, disadvantage, and ignorance—left to become adults ineffective at working to support this nation, a population unable to grow a future, incapable of contributing to the support of the hundreds of thousands of healthy, long-lived retirees who will be dependent on entitlement programs funded with tax dollars. Instead we worry about the consequences of Mr. Snowden’s actions, misinformed as they may be. It’s easy, gossipy fun and entertainment to read and hear stories of leaked secrets, of battles over abortion, to hear clergy rail from the pulpits and editorial pages about same-gender relationships. Items we find so very important are largely distractions allowing us to ignore complex issues like childhood poverty, ethnic inequality, and the growing numbers of uneducated and disadvantaged. Religion, so-called morals, and a rose colored view of past abundance seem to be the fuel of our social and political engine these days. Youth, race, and poverty are—well—nonissues when it comes to getting elected. They don’t vote.

Another of the popular rallying cries in this era is employment.  We elect “job creators.” We seek out and support those who promise to return us to a robust economy where men and women work at decent jobs for decent pay. Remember, then, that second article in 25 years. In 25 years when everything from a ripe peach to an arthritic knee is subject to a robot’s precision, efficiency, and competence. For the first time in history automation is now eliminating more jobs than are being created.  Where they can’t be exported overseas, “labor woes” are being automated right out of existence. Anyone who thinks the youth of this country simply need a proper work ethic and the will to apply strong backs and callused hands to create and secure their future is delusional. To paraphrase: It’s education, stupid. Brains, not brawn.

Education is the only reliable vehicle to the future. This country had a premier system of public education and a national conscience that embraced that system. The loss of our national support of comprehensive public education is tragic but, hopefully, not fatal. We need to re-invest in education like it is the lifeline for our future—if for no other reason than it is, in fact, just that.

The most difficult problem this country faces, the greatest threat to our personal and global safety, security, ethics, and morals is our failure in the care and keeping of our youth. Not chioce. Not the intrusion of cyber technology. Not sexual orientation. Not even gun control or Al-Qaida. It’s the millions of kids so many of us don’t see. Walking, talking, hungry kids, growing up without opportunity, without resources, without education, without direction and faced with the growing loss of traditional labor related jobs. The very same kids who, in just a few short years, will be expected to economically care for us, and this country.

On Losing One's Pony

My daughter is one of the luckiest people on earth. Literally. She lives a life filled with opportunity. She is accomplishing great things that should provide her with a lifetime of satisfaction, the kind of deep fulfilling satisfaction that carries one the full course. And yet, things happen and sometimes it's hard to see any of it. This weekend, while she was away, she lost the pony she's had since she was two. And, dammit, she was sad. And that got me thinking about sadness and just how incredibly powerful, thoughtless, and damaging an emotion it can be.

Sadness. It strikes me that sadness is one of the most intensely personal and palpable of emotions, the weight of which can physically hold you down, pinned under its emotional mass. And while the event that precipitates sadness can be shared by many, the actual impact and character of the emotion can be so very different, one person from another.

Sadness is a greedy emotion. Too often in its voracity it swallows up all other emotions, a giant vacuum of infinite capacity, pirating every other possible emotion, every other reasonable perspective, and blocking all exits in the course of its action. Recollections of happiness, adventure, growth, and satisfaction are swept up and away. All views of opportunity are effectively obstructed.

And, too, sadness is one of those emotions that has radar. It seems to know when to strike. Somehow, inexplicably, sadness pounces when a person is most vulnerable, when they've had enough, when all they really need is a break. Or, to the contrary, when everything seemed so great, to have finally started to come together. Ha!

I am reminded of an old Austrian waiter we got to know a few years back. He would always remind us that, no matter how good or bad one’s life can be, we should always be grateful for our good health and the wellbeing of the family. Funny how that sentiment is so easy to overlook when everything is going your way and so hard to appreciate when everything seems to be against you. And that’s the problem with sorrow—it tends to consume a person, sometimes seemingly with an insatiable appetite. If happiness is a launchpad, sadness is quicksand.

To the bystander, even the intimate partner or compassionate parent, a loved one’s sadness is able to generate such incredible feelings of inadequacy. You can encourage, console, comfort, distract, and support—but you cannot necessarily fix. And while support, comfort, and consolation are the proper things to do, they don’t excise the emotion. Nothing is fixed by saying it will get better. Nothing stops because you say how sorry you are. In spite of best intentions, the monster that is sadness always seems to get its due, never leaving the table half full.

The older I get the more I do come to realize that time, in fact, does heal all wounds. Sometimes a scar may remain, some more visible than others, but it always does get better. Thankfully, in most cases time does heal and, like the scraped knee that seemed catastrophic as a child, the pain is gone, there is no scar, and the event itself has lost all significance aside from being just another memory, scrubbed clean and tucked away where its force is only able to generate a faint smile and a shake of the head. At the same time, we are once again able to appreciate the good that came, the value, the pleasure, the happiness that sorrow had so heartlessly stolen.

Sorrow takes. But it will only keep as much as a person allows. In short, it does get better. Just like your dad said. And in the end, it’s your health that matters, just like your waiter said.

Social? Media

Walking around Chicago this weekend I saw it a half dozen times: A group of people standing around together where fully 3/4s of the group had phone in hand checking messages, mail, texting, and tweeting. And I looked at this and I had to wonder how much our social fabric is being changed by these incredibly sophisticated and distracting devices.  People on the road behind the wheel are still looking down at their phones, thumb plugging away, in spite of the many studies showing the risk that their activity could seriously injure or kill someone. The most absurd are driving with a 16 ounce cup of something in the left hand and their phone in the right.

Despite the obvious safety issues associated with the latter example, I am curious as to what type of social structure this media is creating. There seems to be a parallel universe evolving that contains the electronic connection of people to an imagined reality. Or, an imagined reality that is becoming real. For godssakes, I sat next to a doctor at a medical staff meeting the other day-- a meeting where important policy was being considered and acted upon-- and she was cruising through her Facebook page on her iPhone.

So what happens when people are no longer able to exclude that other reality? What happens when we can't sit and visit without remaining connected to the constant stream of crap that flows through social media and the vast majority of text messages? All I can say is the guy sitting at the table next to us at dinner Saturday night must have really badly wanted to get laid: There's no way in hell I would have put up with her constant checking and responding to text messages through dinner. (Then again, given the guy she was with, we thought maybe she was fishing for a rescue text.)

All humor aside, and acknowledging how convenient and valuable tex messaging can be, I have to wonder if there isn't a button we've pushed deep within the human brain. It's the button that gives assurance one is needed, wanted, relevant, important all based on the fact you are being chosen to receive information from others. It doesn't matter if it's a WTF, lol, or BTW, it's for you. You matter.

In the meantime, we have neither the ability or desire to carry on a complex conversation. We are no longer able to eat by ourselves in a restaurant, looking around at the amazing cast of characters and life going on around us. We are no longer able to sit at a dinner table with others and create conversation. Suddenly we have become a species that sits around staring at our palms, waiting for the next auditory alert that we are, indeed, important.

Poverty And The "Born Child"

And soon to be poor.

In Texas this past Tuesday, a lone Democrat in a heavily Republican state, stood for over 11 hours and spoke continuously in an attempt to block legislation that would significantly curtail a woman's right to obtain an abortion in that state. Ultimately she was disqualified in her filibuster but not before she had stretched the process to the point where a vote cold not be taken and the legislation died.

The legislation was purportedly offered in the name of women's health. And, like legislation directed to restrict or repeal women's rights to abortion in so many states these days, there is always the cry of concern over the rights of the unborn child.

Apparently, to many in this country, there is a big difference between the "unborn child" and children at large. Apparently, to many in this country, there is a monumental need to spend a mountain of resources to protect and defend the rights of a fetus with absolutely no chance of survival apart from its parasitic relationship with the host/mother. And yet, the Annie E. Casey Foundation reports that the number of children living in poverty in the United States rose to 23% in 2011. And this isn't just inner city and Appalachian poor: Nevada and Arizona rank in the bottom 4. Add to that number the 40+% of children living in low income economic conditions and the picture starts to look less than rosy for the future citizenry of this country being vigilantly guarded in wombs everywhere.

Childhood poverty is treason. It is the undermining of this country's future well-being. It is a problem that is multi-faceted, for sure, and one that requires a multiple task response. Complicated as it may be, it deserves far more attention, discussion, and resources than what is currently allotted. And certainly far more than the time, attention, and money spent on protecting the "rights of the unborn."

Once again, I turn to George Carlin who had it right.

An "F" in Human

Far better than humanity's worst

I heard and read the recent story of the kidnap, assault and murder of an 8 year old girl in Florida and was so utterly disgusted by this report. Years ago I would have argued that an eye for an eye demeans us as a society but I can't find the patience or compassion to hold on to such altruistic beliefs any longer. To me it seems we have become a society that, in the name of caution, justice, humanity, or just plain uncertainty, we carry the accused's rights to sometimes absurd degrees of protection.

I am a firm believer that people don't just choose to be criminal. I feel fairly certain people become criminal as a result of a multitude of factors beyond their control, the foremost probably being a failed home and absence of nurturing in their own childhood. Abuse, neglect, violence, exposure to substance abuse-- all these factors tumble together to sometimes create the most depraved antisocial individuals. And yet, at other times, people survive such gross misfortune and, if not becoming living monuments to the resilience of the human spirit and capacity to grow and heal, at least they manage to live a full life without kidnapping, raping, or murdering anybody.

At some point, as we continue to amass these miserable statistics, read about abominable unthinkable acts of inhumanity, don't we need to come to terms with the fact that some of these perpetrators have simply flunked humanity? Some crimes are simply so heinous, so far outside the boundaries of conceivable human behavior, that it demands a do-over. No jail, no appeals, no lifetime public support behind bars. Just done, out, over, adieu, don't wanna hear the story, better luck next time, gone. Maybe they can come back as a golden retriever. Or a sunflower. Anything. Just not as a parolee

Terminal Timeline

The recent passing of James Gandolfini caught a whole lot of people by surprise-- not the least of whom, I'm sure, was James Gandolfini. There's the buzz from those who liked his show the Sopranos. There's the buzz from those who really understood and admired his skill as an actor. Celebrity deaths are good news/sad news, if you will. Everybody wants to know. Everybody wants to feel bad.

Over the past weekend we had a wing walker and the pilot of her plane have things go horribly wrong in Ohio. And here in Michigan we had a family on a pleasure flight fail to make it more than a mile from the runway. While some activities are inherently dangerous, for most of us we always, always, always expect to come home at the end of our day.

I always look at these events and wonder how many of us take inventory. After all, dying causes great sadness for a handful of people (family), sorrow for a larger group (friends), distress for some (creditors), and for the rest of the world-- if the story's good enough we gawk, otherwise, what day is it anyway? Tuesday? Friday?

Growing up I would always hear reference to the Biblical passage from the New Testament in which the advice is given to "watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour."  Growing up I had always understood this to mean you had better always be on your best behavior: Let down your guard, slip up, and, BAM! One minute you think you're heaven bound, harp in hand, and a moment later you find yourself at an eternal barbecue-- with you as the featured dish.

It's too bad so much Biblical literature is construed as threatening and guilt producing because, really, in many cases, it's the distillation of centuries of sound advice. In the present example of the passage from the book of Matthew, the story shouldn't be about saving your ass from hell and feeling frightened of death. Rather, I take this cautionary passage to be about living your life to the fullest, in the best possible way. James Gandolfini doesn't give a rat's ass that he's dead. (Yes. I'm sure.) But, if he knew he was going to be dead right smack dab in the middle of an Italian vacation he might have made some other choices. And that's the point: For many people they never do know. All of a sudden it just happens. One minute you're enjoying the world's best gnocchi, the next, game over.

In my life it's all too easy to get wrapped up in other people's stuff. I like my medical work and I like my role in leadership at the hospital, but I do need to realize I'm burning time. And, I guess in that light, I'm sorry for his family but a little grateful to learn of the passing of James Gandolfini.  He makes me look in the mirror and ask myself, What are you going to do today? How many quarters are left in my pocket, how many more free games?

The Happy Misadventure

"I'm sure it's just right up here."

I just got back from a 35 minute walk. That is something I used to do at least 5 days a week. There is no good explanation for why I stopped and, besides, that's not the point. But I enjoyed it every bit as much as I used to and I hope I've rekindled a happy routine-- at least until the snow flies.

This past weekend I decided to take Kelsey up on an invite to see Shakespeare in the park in Ann Arbor. Much Ado About Nothing, one of my favorites.  So off I went on a Friday afternoon. The drive went well.

We decided to grab a bite at the nationally famous deli that calls Ann Arbor home, a deli that shall remain nameless. I stepped outside of my own personal dietary law and had a pastrami on rye with swiss, slaw, and russian.  I don't know, maybe I'm just a snob, but I don't go for deli's serving "rustic" rye, the kind made with a crust that leaves bruises, abrasions, and small lacerations throughout the mouth and esophagus.  And I really, really like it when you can actually taste the pastrami, especially when the sandwich is ordered with a large portion.  Shoulda been a sign.

Then, off to Shakespeare. We parked downtown because the venue didn't have onsite parking and, after all, we thought it was just up the hill from campus. So off we went, across the campus, up the hill, up the hill some more, past the cemetery-- the really big cemetery-- and, finally, after just 20 minutes or so, we were there. Well, almost. First we would have to hike across the park to the amphitheater located about 1.5 miles from where we stood at that moment. So, after a quick application of bug spray we went down the hill, across the valley, and up the hill, and down again (that's 1.5 miles as the crow flies) until we came to the amphitheater-- the vacant unstaffed amphitheater. Nope, we needed to follow the river to the parking area (the what ??). It looked like that's where one got tickets. 0.8 miles later the answer was a definite "no." This we knew because there was a sign telling us where to go to get tickets. Just another mile or so.

Exiting the jungle we finally got to pavement-- a paved pathway that climbed straight up, up, up. Finally, overheated, sticky and wet, we were within sniffing distance of the ticket office. And that's when Kels hit an uneven seam in the cement and blew her sandal apart. The good news was this happened within 50 feet of the bus stop to her apartment. We missed the bus but, first ray of sunshine, incredibly there was another just a minute or two behind the first.

Back at her apartment, with my daughter's feet looking like something out of the dustbowl migration, we realized we would never make the show. We swore we would never leave home without a map and clear directions to a destination/event we think we sorta know about.

Then again, maybe not. We had a really great time laughing about our muggy wandering up and down the forested hills of the Arboretum.  It was fun to be on a walk together. And, we learned where not to have deli. And, Kels got a couple new pairs of sandals-- missed the show but the mall was open. And, finally, I got reintroduced to the pleasure of taking a walk. Not a such a bad little excursion, after all.

A Father's Job

I've been thinking about just what it is that a dad does that's so important. Dad's teach their kids about guy stuff like how to throw a baseball, how to shoot a basketball, how to ride a bike. Our dad taught us how to collect large rocks and build a dam across the creek back of the cabin on Oregon where we spent a week each summer. He sure as heck taught me how to mow a lawn. But, of all the things my Dad did, I think the most important was to show his child how others should be regarded. And that's what I think is really a father's most important job.

By his actions a father can show that a woman is a person-- not a thing, not a servant, not less than, not a toy. By his actions a father can raise a son to know what it means to care for another person, what it means to show respect, to honor, to concern yourself with another. By his actions and expectations a father shows his child she is worthy and capable of attaining any goal-- and expected to reach far. By his actions a father shows his daughter  there is no place for using or accepting humiliation, disrespect, threats, or violence. By his actions a father shows his son there is no place for using or accepting humiliation, disrespect, threats, or violence. By his actions a father shows his child the value of industry, intellect, and motivation. By his actions a father shows his child the meaning of citizenship as a person living in a world filled with other people, of other races, preferences, and genders.

In the end, if he's done his job well, a father will live to see a child who learned from his actions, a child who is loving, caring, capable, and tolerant. And in that, he will have defined what it is to succeed in life.

I may have been a slow learner, but my father was a success.

Aged Related Anxiety

I must be aging poorly. Isn't it supposed to be that, the older you get, the more experience you acquire, the more you know, the older your kids get, the less you worry. So what's up?

I'm a pretty busy guy these days and, frankly, miss writing this blog. I realize a good portion of the time it may not offer all that much in the way of depth or insight but it sure offers a good safety valve for me. My current responsibilities find me writing almost every day, things like long letters to members of the medical staff, consultants, and administrators. And, too, I've had to make a speech or two in the past few weeks (ah, ya shoulda outta been there!). But with all that, I have a fairly steady volume of things to concern me, worry about, and keep me up at night and I miss my safety valve.

So with all that, last night my cell phone rings at 2:20AM. First, I almost never keep my cell phone within earshot of the bedroom, but I did last night.  Second, late night calls are always a wrong number, I assume someone looking for drugs or a hooker. So, even though it rang, I didn't bother to answer.

Then, this morning I checked to see who called: Kelsey at 2:20AM. Crap! At my age I'm supposed to smile and think, "that crazy kid!" Instead I'm thinking the worst.

My daughter recently got back the results of her Medical College Admission Test and she did pretty darn well. So, I'm thinking, wow, good MCAT score, got a new car last week, I hope she wasn't out drinking and driving, picked up, and spending a night in jail! I tried calling her at 7:30 this morning, a Saturday, a time when no self-respecting college kid is up. No answer. Sure hope she's not in jail, poor thing. Sent a text. Same time. No answer. Same worry.

Finally around 10:30 I got confirmation it was an accident. Probably butt dialing. She assured me she doesn't drink and drive. And that's when it struck me: Aren't I supposed to be over this?? Am I not old enough, wise enough, my daughter not proven herself careful enough, to stop with the worry already? Oh well, I'm just glad to know it was an accident. After all, worried as I was, I'm not a worrier by nature.

But wait a minute. Who was she with when that phone went off by accident, and what were they doing, and..........

My Mom's Friend Edith

This story came through yesterday, NPR's obituary of Jean Stapleton, a woman my Mom never knew but whose character, Edith Bunker, became one of her best friends. Mom spent a whole lot of Saturday nights with Edith, admiring her common sense, her resilience, her ability to fend off and stand up to her domineering and ignorant husband, Archie.

My Mom didn't have to cope with as much abuse as did her pal Edith, but she could appreciate and recognize the similarities, the common lot of so many housewives. They were the familiar assumptions and expectations so many American women had to endure for generations. To that, once a week on Saturday night, Edith Bunker took to the television airwaves to demonstrate that "simple housewives"and "dumb women" really did possess the insight and wisdom to guide the species to greater understanding, tolerance, and the value in caring.

It has been more than 40 years since I last sat in the den with my parents and watched All In The Family and it's a bit sad seeing this centerpiece pass on. For both of my parents, as well as my brother and me, watching that show let us enjoy the education of a nation. Through gut splitting laughter and tears we relished the disrobing of bigotry, sexism, and all manner of intolerance. But for the housewives of America like my Mom, I think there was truly a special bond with Edith, the "dingbat" who was just oh so smart, oh so capable, and oh so repressed by her place in this society. But she knew, my Mom did, that Edith Bunker was exactly what so many women of the time were: Trapped by norms, treated as inferior, capable well beyond what most everyone ever saw, and responsible for more than anyone knew. Friends. Sisters in Arms.

Lucky 21

My daughter turns 21 today. There are so many things to feel grateful for in just being able to write that statement: She's alive. She's healthy. She's never suffered serious illness or injury. She's bright. She's beautiful. She's ambitious.

I've been among the most fortunate of all parents: No colic. No terrible two's. No juvenile beauty pageants. No tidal wave of adolescent drama or angst. No eating disorders. No calls from the cops.

Not perfect, perhaps, but damn close. And today she gains full authority-- except at a car rental agency. For that she has another 4 years to wait. For the rest, I think she's in pretty good shape. But she's still my kid!

Happy Birthday KCS!

Momentary Opportunity

I ran out to the market the other evening to pick up a prescription for a friend. As I pulled into the parking lot I looked up to see this dramatic sunset. We're not New Mexico or Arizona but we do manage to get a spectacle like this every now and then. As I prepared to jump out of the car I thought I might grab a picture of this on the way back out or after I got home. All I had to do was run in and run out.

As it turns out my trip to the pharmacy took longer than expected and by the time I got back out to the car the scene had morphed into another phase of sundown. The spectacle that had captured my attention was gone. The light that remained had none of the color, the drama, or the beauty of the sky just minutes before.

For once I had done the smart thing and, recognizing a beautiful and fleeting opportunity, I stopped first and captured the moment. And when I later returned to the car I realized the value of my decision. Instead of racing ahead to the next thing on the list, I made a conscious decision to stop, to take in the beauty of that moment before it faded away. It cost me less than a minute.

This experience reminds me, once again, of all the beauty, all the photographs, all the opportunities in my life that I chose to place on hold. Sadly, at this point, it reminds me of too many missed opportunities.

Happily, it reminds me to be more diligent: look for things that matter. And when you see them, when they pop-up in the real or figurative sky, stop for just a moment and drink it in. When the picture is that beautiful, the person is that dear, the friendship is that precious, the experience is that powerful, stop. You won't be able to at every opportunity, but you will for more than you think. But only if you choose to stop. Only if you choose to look, to keep your eyes open. Only if you recognize the importance and just how fleeting these moments can be. Whether it's a sunset, a new baby, or a rapidly aging friend, they grace our lives for what is, or sometimes seems, just a moment. And then they're gone. Gone to sundown, gone to adulthood, sometimes just plain gone.

Caution: Objects in Mirror.....

I saw this little inspirational piece when I was searching for an image recently. I saved it because it struck me with its image and message.

I'm always interested in images that include people when it comes to choice of sex and conveying a message. In the present case, this scene wouldn't work nearly as well with a man. On the other hand, I would argue it works so very well in the present case because we know, expect, believe, that women so often are victims and so often get stuck. And, too, the woman above is most probably in her twenties, early thirties at best, and not in her fifties. Again, our perception is of those crossroads appearing earlier in life, not later.

I don't particularly like any of that. Accurate or not, classifying and stereotyping based on sex makes about as much sense as doing the same based on religion or color. But that's not what bugs me the most.

Maybe I'm alone in this, but, when I read that message the undercurrent to me is not choice or empowerment but gratification. I read this and I have to think back on all the times in my life when I stuck with something that didn't particularly make me happy but I did so because it was taking me somewhere. Likewise, I read this and I have to wonder: How does one know? How does one, especially one with limited knowledge of the world, of where they're going, of what lies ahead, how does such a person know that something no longer has value?  And finally, why does something necessarily have to serve you?

It is important to keep your eyes and ears open, your wits about you. If something hurts, if something harms, if in your heart you're just not right with it, then you probably do need to move on. Certainly far too many people stay well after they should have figured out something was wrong. In that I think mostly of relationships. But others give up simply because it's "no fun," it requires too much work, it interferes with their social life. Knowing the difference-- difficult versus dangerous-- is everything.

At it's core I'm willing to sign on and put the poster on my wall but only with the following caveats: "Caution. Things may not always be as they appear. Sometimes a bitter pill brings remarkable healing. Look both ways before crossing."

Yeah, I could maybe hang that one up. But I'd have to take the woman out of the picture.

Mother's Day

I see lots of mother's, every day, every week. I see them up close, with their children in my office. I see them from a distance at grocery stores, drugs stores, and walking around town. I can't help noticing a mother and her child or children. I'm sorry to say I see far too many mothers who just don't seem to get it, moms for whom the job just doesn't fit.

On the other hand, there is nothing quite as pleasing as seeing a mom who does get it, a mom who shows her involvement and concern, her caring, in everything she does. I saw one the other day whose little girl was with her-- her little girl of 22. All grown up but injured emotionally and physically and this mom just seemed to get it so very well-- how to be present, instructive, and supportive to her grown daughter and yet still, at the same time, respect her daughter's adulthood. That can't be easy when you see your child, all grown up, yet injured and in just the same measure of hurt as you saw when she fell hard at 6 and skinned both knees.

Some moms give birth to it, others adopt the responsibility, some marry into it. They're all moms. They're all moms because a mom is foremost a teacher. I'm a believer that a person's capacity to love and be loved, a person's capacity to grow physically and emotionally, a person's capacity to learn and become whole, functional, and productive; all that capacity is nurtured and encouraged by a mom. It grows from a mom with a keen eye for safety, a keen eye for risk, a keen eye for opportunity, and a keen sense of timing; a mom who understands her life has been given, at least in part, to her child-- a part she can never have back. And she gives that part happily.

Every child comes into the world needy. Every child comes into the world physically, emotionally, and intellectually hungry, and every mother is the source. Raising a child should not be a solo act. As a father I know that my place is far from that of just a minor supporting role. Nonetheless, I know too that, when things are right, the mother has a place that can never be underestimated, under appreciated, or overstated.

Happy Mother's Day, with gratitude, to all those of you who get it, for whom the job will always fit, even when your child is grown and gone from the nest.

Big Day

Life serves up some pretty big days. I'm not talking about surprises. I'm talking about the ones you see coming. I'm talking about the ones for which you prepare, you work, you wait, you hang your hat on. There are days that seem like cups that hold the contents of your future, an entire lifetime served up in one twenty-four hour period. And sometimes, that's true.

The fact is, every day holds the contents of one's future. It's just that we're too distracted or too comfortable or too dumb or too scared to know it.

Here's to my daughter Kelsey on a really big day: Good luck! Saddle up your pony and git goin'! I hope your day goes well.

Missed Attempt

A few weeks back I got tired of getting over booked, having to change travel dates and call dates and meeting dates because I've double booked a date. So I bought one of those wall calendars that has the entire year on it and includes all the holidays, major and minor, and I hung it right here on the wall behind my desk. Already it's filling up nicely with meetings and events even late into the year.  Frankly, I'm feeling kind of smart about the fact. Or was.

Mother's Day. For any who might be the least bit unclear about this, Mother's Day is this Sunday, May 12th. I'm sure about this. It's even designated on my new calendar, right there on the wall behind me. I had the opportunity to confirm this fact when I went to order a Mother's Day gift yesterday morning. I got my order in, hit "chose express delivery," hit send, and then saw that my order would not arrive until around the 16th or 17th! $10.99 express delivery and I wouldn't be getting it for over 2 weeks? Come on, already!

And then it dawned on me: I was a week off. Yesterday was the 8th. Sunday is the 12th. This Sunday is, without question, Mother's Day.

If ever there was a time to invoke the "It's the thought that counts" clause, this would be it. Meanwhile, it's time to start looking for a box of candy-- and maybe a more prominent location for my calendar. The 17th, though, should be really fun!