Birthday Gifts

Today we celebrate the last of March and the last of the March Birthdays in this family. I was pulling a few things together this morning for a card and finding a photo to frame. Photos always take me places-- past, present and future.

Tam truly cherishes photos of her son. As I was looking through a batch of those from this past year it really brought into focus where we've been, where we are, and where we're headed. For me it's taken an awfully long time but I'm finally starting to realize that it's about them. As a Dad, as a husband-- it's about them. Many people grow up with that insight. Probably even more think they have that insight. Some of us wait years to gain that insight. And then, there are those who never do: They provide, they do their job, they "bring home the bacon," but it's still, at the end of the day and the end of a lifetime, always about them.

There are dozens of things with which a person can occupy a lifetime. Nothing deserves that time and attention more than the people you've brought into this world and the partner with whom you'll spend that time. No one deserves it more than the child who needs care and direction. No one deserves it more than the mate who stands along side. Nothing deserves your time more and there is no more deserving way to spend it.

So, this year,  my wife gets me for her birthday. Kels and Evan are getting the same thing. It fits well, goes everywhere, and lasts a lifetime. Best of all, I know they'll like it and won't mind getting the same thing year after year.

Fake Out

I got up a bit ago to see what all the noise was about. It was thunder… and sleet. Sleet is kinda like melting hail. It goes rat-a-tat-tat on the windows and sills. The roads and sidewalks get covered with icy slush. Trucks slide into ditches. Geez, two weeks ago it was 80.

I love fall. I love the transition from summer's heat to the warm days and cool nights of autumn. I love the way the wind comes up to move the change along. That's how it's been here these last few weeks.  Hot days giving way to cooler. Now comes the wind and rain and sleet and snow and…… April?? Yep. March 30th and it is cold, cold, cold!! As they say in these parts, it's a nasty day.

With March weather my Mom would always announce: "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." I think she also claimed the converse was true: In like a lamb, out like a lion. We'll see. We have about 36 hours to sort this out. In the meantime this is nothing more than a nasty fake out. Just when you think you can trust the weather and prepare to sail into better weather, somebody pulls the ball away and lands you right on your cold weather butt. Welcome to Michigan.

An Old Story

Last night PBS aired a National Geographic special, "Quest for the Lost Maya." It is the story of a previously known and poorly understood "northern suburb," if you will, on the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. It is the story of a civilization that thrived for over 1500 years in a region without any source of water other than rain. It is the story of a civilization that appears to have possessed both wealth and a middle class.

The mystery revolves around the fact that this civilization, this northern outpost of the Maya, was previously under estimated in its capabilities and sophistication-- a poor stepchild of the more famous southern civilization. It is also a mystery as to why it so suddenly disappeared. The entire region appears to have packed up and left; but left with the intention of returning.

This is not the story of alien abduction. This appears to be the story of what happens when religious fanaticism infects politics and the devastating consequences on governance and society.

There are several reasons anyone would enjoy this beautiful story. There are a few very pointed reasons several of our fundamentalist leaning candidates for elected office should be required to watch. Then again, I suppose they would attribute the demise of the Maya to a failure to give the "One True God" place-- a lack of Christian principles.

What the hell, they probably had it coming. Surely we can do better than a bunch of dumb old Mexicans. Then again, I guess we'll know in about 1250 years.

The Land of Canaan

What seems like a zillion years ago, I went to medical school in southern California. We were out in Pomona, in the farthest eastern reaches of Los Angeles County. I lived in the quaint village of Claremont and rode about 7 miles to school each day courtesy of my roommate Mike. This was a time when one could still find productive plots of agricultural land in those parts. The orange and lemon groves were long gone but a fertile productive field could still be found here and there.

One of those properties was a strawberry field just a mile or so from our apartment. Each year, and it seems like it was twice each year, a little roadside stand would flip open it's lid and a sign would read "Strawberries." I wish I could report that my roommate and I took every advantage of this bounty but, foolish boys, it was only a handful of occasions he would pull over in his trusty old Volvo 120 series wagon.

I'm not the world's greatest fan of strawberries. I can take 'em or leave 'em. My shortcake needs mountains of whipped cream. My favorite presentation is a'la Polachek: strawberries with whipped cream, sour cream, and raw granulated cane sugar. I think dipping them in chocolate is a waste of perfectly good candy. Nonetheless, I loved stopping at that roadside stand.

That stand was always staffed by a single woman whom I'd guess was well into her 70's. She was a large round Mexican woman with beautiful weathered features and eyes that truly sparkled. The berries she had were the size of a young boy's hand. She would take one box, place it on brown paper, and then pile more from another box on top of those until the strawberries were heaped and falling onto the paper. Then her gnarled fingers would fold that paper snug around your bounty and you'd be on your way.

I haven't been back that way in over a lifetime but I would seriously doubt that field still exists. But for a few years of my life it was a wonderful roadside attraction providing berries of Biblical proportion. It was a happy reunion here in Arizona this past weekend when we found similar berries. Evan holds one in the photo above. If only I had snapped a photo all those years ago: That wonderful woman, her tidy bundled packages, those giant berries. Alas, the iPhone and Instagram were lightyears in the future.

Spring

I've been in Michigan for more than 25 years. I've spent the better part of that 25 years indoors working but, nonetheless, I've seen the change of seasons with each of those years. And, like everyone else I've spoken with this past week, I've never seen anything like the spring that's sprung here in the last week or so.

A typical Michigan spring is like junior high dating. It's timid. It's a slow process that frequently never goes too far. Spring is just a dance: Snow flurries come and go. Rain soaks the fields. Eventually, by around late April or early May you'll begin to see signs of life: The grass starts to green, flowers begin to bloom-- about a full two months after anything you'd see in more moderate climes. Finally, by June, the party is on and the landscape has been restored with new growth and the winter clothes are back in storage.

The photo above is of one of the magnolia trees in town.  I've never seen these trees in bloom prior to late April or early May. Forsythia, daffodils-- we usually see these in the latter part of the month. The month of April. When Evan's birthday rolls around in early May we hope it will be warm enough to have his party outside. It was well over 80 degrees Thursday, March 22nd. Keep this up and people are going to want to start moving to Michigan.

The down side is severe weather. We've had a tornado, not our usual fare. And the other night flying west we dodged thunderstorms at 34,000 feet for the better part of two hours. I thought the tail was coming off! (Happy to be able to report to the contrary.)

True to Michigan meteorologic form, old spring returned Sunday. When our flight arrived in Detroit Sunday evening it was 72 degrees. 90 minutes later, arriving home it was 53. Monday morning walking to work it was 30. Tuesday night, frost and freeze warnings. The really bad news is that there are a lot of plants that do not fair well when you mess with the weather in this fashion. Hopefully the good news will be that mosquito larvae suffer catastrophically.

I don't suppose I'll see another spring like this in Michigan but, wow, what a show it's been! It's just another one of the advantages to living where I do. You come to recognize and appreciate things that others often overlook as mundane or, more to the point, never get to witness.

Now, where did I put that scarf?

Getting Juiced

We launched this past weekend by spending an hour with our new financial planner, Dana Anspach. She's really quite good. She's nonjudgemental, pleasant, and obviously passionate about her work. Knowledgable too. She writes a monthly blog for About.com, a service of the New York Times. Her blog is appropriately titled Money Over 55. (Hey, not bad: First paragraph and I've already given you three valuable links!)  If nothing else, check out her blog.

At any rate, when you engage Dana's services you start out by having to take inventory of everything you think you have, everything you think you spend, in an effort to debunk everything you think you need to retire. For me, that's already thinking too much. For some, like me, that right there is enough to make you start to feel a little uncomfortable. After you've forwarded your fiction to Dana she sets up a time to meet with you and start the process of getting your financial ducks in a row.

In Arizona every meeting you have-- realtor, attorney, financial planner-- starts the same way: "Can I get you some water?" I guess that's for good reason: You're in a region that receives as much rainfall in a year as Portland, Oregon does on any given Wednesday. Note to Dana: you might want to change up to liquor. At any rate, for the next 60 minutes she very kindly takes you on a tour of your financial self including all the fantasies and misrepresentations you may have sent her way. You get to leave your clothes on but that's about all. She is very thorough and you come away feeling, well, juiced. And that's what she calls it, a Juicing Session.

After embarking on the process I'm not sure in what fashion I've been juiced. On the one hand, I do feel empowered (put that on my list of "never" words) to start moving towards shoring up my financials. On the other hand, I also feel rather like an orange after exiting an attachment to your KitchenAid.

All in all, it was a good start to the weekend even if it did dictate the focus of conversation for the next 72 hours. I realize that many of my friends and family are way ahead of me in this and have been responsible planners for years. For this slightly nicked-up reformed bachelor it was an eye opener and well worth the time.  Best lesson of the experience? My daughter needs to get juiced now. And if you haven't been, you should.

Fluent in American

In the last month our local paper has had several editorial pieces pertaining to the recent Rush Limbaugh debacle. Other media personalities are just as guilty of routinely using derogatory and demeaning language. The formula is quite simple really: These people use this language because it sells. Media personalities like Limbaugh and Maher are very highly paid owing to massive advertising budgets; budgets fueled by the masses of Americans who love trash talk and tune in daily to listen to their favorite smartass. Now political candidates and politicians follow suit to gain the appearance of being smart, hip, sharp witted.

The American idiocracy has an insatiable appetite for gossip, vile behavior, and personal attack. This country seems to have abandoned all efforts at maintaining any semblance of civility; so much so, it is fair to say, that all manner of low-minded, mean spirited comment is interpreted as clever. Being mean has become cool. Sarcasm and cynicism have become synonymous with wit. Expletives have become the sharp edged tools of movers and shakers.

There have always been sharp-tongued irreverent comedians and commentators. It was understood who they were and how they worked. Some were popular, some were despised. Don Rickles was an artist, an entertainer, and the recognized dean of insult comedy. It was exceptional and understood as such. For my money, our contemporary practitioners are simply rude, hiding anger and frustration behind what is foisted onto the public as witty entertainment. Repartee.  It’s the tapas platter catering the wholesale appetite we’ve developed for bad taste and worse manners.

I find it especially discouraging listening to those with political ambitions phrase their presentations in a lowest common denominator type speech. It seems the ability to be articulate has been laid waste by the need to be vile. Given the current taste for casual and derogatory commentary, it is simply not cool to speak well. It is not effective to carefully articulate one’s platform or point of view. To be effective you must attack. Elections in this country are not being won based on what a candidate has to offer but solely on how much detritus has been heaved on the opponent. That leaves me to wonder just how great an impact month after month of negativism and personal attack has on an individual’s constitution. My concern is that these strategies and behaviors are either creating little monsters or revealing the candidates as such. Either way, the only reason I can see for endorsing such a candidate would be a desire to elect an angry frustrated individual with a limited vocabulary—or is that what it means to be a real American these days?

Any scholar of American political speeches must be wondering what there will be to study from this period of our history. So far, I’m not seeing much in the way of material. As for the talking heads who feel they garner the authority to rifle off insults and offenses at anyone who fails to live up to their media-stoked ego-centric standards, hopefully they will be remembered as criminals-- if at all.