Hey, Mr. Postman!!

I sent off a couple letters today. It was an amazing cool and sunny morning here; a perfect day for the 30 minute walk to the post office and back.  I don't have much reason to send letters these days-- most everyone is text or Twitter savvy and those "tools" fully preclude any need to wait for someone to look at their email. Although, if one really needs to expound on a topic, one could use email. I guess.

But, with that said, consider this: I sent off two letters today. The first to an 80 year old photographer friend in Denver-- a retired attorney who values his fountain pens and stationery more than his computer. The letter to him was short and sweet and written in responser to the arrival of his latest card and photograph. He says he has email but he doesn't correspond with real people that way.

The other letter I sent off was to my son at camp, and that was also short and sweet.  Email is available to parents to send along to be delivered to the lucky camper by their counselors. But I choose to write on paper, to include a relevant photo, sign it "Love, Dad," seal it in a thick paper envelope, put a stamp on it, and drop it in a mailbox. All that work for such a short message. But, in the case of this letter to camp, I hope it arrives like a present. Not simply a communication but a little packet that shows care, concern, and the hope that what was sent was worth cherishing.

Most of us don't send letters anymore. I realize that's a function of convenience to a large extent, but I also have to wonder if it doesn't somehow reflect on our values and the value we place on communication. A business update? A quick update for the family? Do it in an email.

And when I think of Twitter I think of a heartfelt need and hope to be seen as relevant. A commentator. It's not so much an opportunity to be truly thoughtful or intellectual, certainly not an opportunity to provide depth or substance-- even if our own Mr. President does succeed rather spectacularly in using Twitter to become truly memorable, if not despicable. Tweets are like a wadded up note, tossed at its recipient's head, bouncing off and landing on their desk-- "fish sticks and mac and cheese today!" #yummy.

With perhaps an exception to that last reference to our Commander in Chief, I have no beef with tweeting, texting, and email. It's where we live. But if you have something worth saying, something you want someone to hold in their hand, to be able to tuck in a drawer to be pulled out and held and read again the next day, the next month, year, or decade, maybe once in a while you should commit your thoughts to paper. At least while your kid's at camp.

What If...

When I was a kid my mom used to take every opportunity to hang our laundry outside on a clothesline. Out back, strung across our volleyball/basketball court would be our sheets, our towels, jeans, shirts, and underwear. She loved the smell of laundry hung out to dry even if that meant jeans as stiff as boards and towels as rough as burlap. My mom thought it was a waste of energy to use a dryer when weather permitted clothes to hang outdoors.

I'm thinking of this on a Sunday morning while I sit here drinking my coffee and listening to the dryer tumbling away in the adjacent laundry room. I think of this after sitting here and watching a post to Facebook of a Youtube video of a young girl addressing the United Nations at the Rio Earth Summit in 1992. Somehow I'd never seen this before and I was surprised after watching to learn this address was made in 1992, a quarter of a century ago. And it got me to thinking, what if?

What if every family in the world lived like me, like us, here in the United States? What if every family on earth lived in a house, a house with electricity, hot and cold running water, heated in the winter and cooled in the summer? What if every house on earth was a house like ours with at least one toilet, a house where boxes of tissues were gone through every week, rolls of toilet paper every few days, paper towels, plastic bags, sandwich bags. A house where every newborn is kept in disposal diapers for the first 12 months. What if every house on earth had a stove, a microwave, a refrigerator, a computer, and at least one television? What if every one of those houses around the world had a garage with at least one car, if not a couple? And what if at least half of those households could match an American's appetite for beef, pork, chicken, and fish? What if every one of those houses could use stuff and dispose of stuff, consume and waste, at the same rate as do we here in the U.S.? Without knowing for certain, I'd have to guess it would be damn near impossible to achieve and certainly unsustainable.

So, what if somehow we committed to just ensuring that no one in the world goes without adequate food and an adequate supply of clean water?  I know: too broad, too big, unrealistic.

So, what if somehow we committed to achieving that here in the United States? What if we decided we would work to ensure no man, woman or child within the United States goes without adequate food and water? Could we somehow make that happen? We don't even have to commit ourselves to providing shelter-- just food and water.  Could we do that? Could we do it just in Los Angeles or Detroit?  Denver or Billings or Tulsa or even little bitty Owosso, Michigan? Just food and water. No other commitment.

I think that successful living is as addictive and, quite possibly, as dangerous as our much touted opioid epidemic. Successful living is successful biology. And biology trumps sociology every time. As clever, caring, and sophisticated as we might like to think we are, we are still pretty much slaves to a genetic fabric that drives us to reproduce and thrive. And thriving is not sharing.

We may succeed at changing the world, feeding the hungry, providing water and shelter to those in need, but it will require that we learn to live with less in order that others may have more. It will require a true belief in the oneness of all humankind.  We have to recognize poverty as the most dangerous threat we face. And we must recognize the elimination of hunger and poverty as our most potent defense in ensuring world peace and a sustainable inhabitation of this planet.

A quick look around the globe today would indicate we have a long damn way to go. I applaud youth like Severn Cullis-Suzuki but I can pretty much guarantee: It's not gonna happen until it's the 50, 60, 70, and 80 year olds around the world standing together and embracing the challenge-- and we all have our laundry hanging on the clothesline.

Hopes and Dreams and.......thoughts on this Father's Day

I'm fortunate-- and I mean that in the most literal use of the phrase-- I'm fortunate to have two healthy children, one an adult, and one a child. Funny thing is, in this day and age, there's not much in the way of children anymore. They come into this world all bundled and tiny and delicate and, 10 years later they're "kiddults." Still kids but, with phone in hand, very much savvy in this hell hole of a world. And of course, needless to say, still in need of a steady source of parental income.

The photo above is of my son in his "office." Somehow I thought it a good idea to pick up a 1958  MGA a few weeks ago. While it sat in the garage waiting to be hauled over to a shop that actually knows how to work on such mechanical antiques, Evan found that the driver's seat suited him just fine. So he would sit there for a half hour or so and play Minecraft  on his phone.  Every chance he had he would retreat to, what he called, "his office" parked there in the garage.

As a parent I look at this photo, this image of a handsome boy of ten, sitting behind the wheel of a classic antique British sports car and all I can think is: Where is he headed? We all have these questions, any of us who are conscientious caring parents, concerned fathers. What lies on the road ahead? Will he drive or will he be simply a passenger? Will he race carelessly or will he enjoy the ride and respect the road?

As fathers, as parents, we don't get to make such decisions; we don't get to pick. Much like our children who also didn't get to pick. We decide to bring them to life, to bring them into this crazy world. And then, all we can do is love them, nourish them in every way, and plop them down in the driver's seat. And then-- hope to God we've filled the tank with gas. Hope they know to fasten their seatbelt. And, most importantly, hope they're pointed in the right direction. That's what we do; what we hope for, what we dream about as that tiny babe comes into this world.

Happy Father's Day.

So Long to a Girl's Best Friend

My heart aches for my dear daughter. One of dearest and closest friends slipped away Tuesday afternoon.  A treasured companion and confidant, the one who could share her losses and her frustrations, parents divorcing and remarrying, the arrival of half siblings, wrong teacher, right teacher—heartaches and celebrations of every stripe.  And, although her friend could not attend college with her, she was still able to maintain that special bond. Never jealous, never demanding, always willing and patient, striving to be the very best friend possible—almost more than anyone could ever ask for.

Her friend had followed her from grade school to college; from girl friends to boyfriends, always there when hopes were not realized as well as for dreams that came true. Through everything a life can throw at a young girl as she journeyed along the path from primary school to medical school, her little friend always remained willing, caring, and available.

So my heart aches and breaks for my sweet daughter as she bids her dear companion of 15 years goodbye, the victim of an overwhelming infection. Her dear sweet Spookee, a Shih Tzu with a heart ten times what her small body could hold. Always there, always accepting, wanting only to be loved.

My daughter has chosen a career where she will have intimate knowledge of loss. She may share in those most intimate moments when another person feels loss and pain and sorrow and the coming of an absence that seemingly cannot be resolved. It will fall to her to offer sympathy, to empathize, with those who suffer such loss. It will fall to her to offer initial comfort and compassion. And in this, as my daughter begins this important chapter of her adult life, she can again look to her little companion with gratitude for once again being available, patient, understanding, and willing to assist her in learning this most difficult lesson, preparing for this most difficult task. In that she was a special little dog even to the end.

You’re a lucky girl, Kelsey. I hope the many happy memories of your life and times with Spookee will soon bring you peace and comfort-- just one more lesson given to you by your faithful little companion.

All that, and a birthday today. Happy Birthday Kels. Your life has been filled with so many gifts, not the least of which was your dear Spookee.

The Coffee Break

Time for a coffee break

It's Sunday afternoon and time to sit down with a cup of what I call coffee. I've just finished cleaning out a garage filled with several years accumulation of bikes and toys and other items best described as, well, crap. With my mouth, nose, and hair full of dust, dirt, and cobwebs, a hot shower felt great. And now, a mug o' joe, sitting at the kitchen table.

This was almost a ritual with my dad, and often mom too, albeit on a Saturday afternoon: Yard work at a stopping point, supper 90 minutes in the future, it was time for a cup of coffee and, if luck would have it, a fresh slice of coffee cake or a cinnamon roll. (And, if luck wouldn't have it, a cookie or two from the green glass cookie jar that now rests on my kitchen counter.)

I thought of all this as I decided to take a break after finishing my chores and before making dinner. Looking out, there is not a bud, bloom, or leaf in sight. But, I can finally see more lawn than snow, even if it is still brown and dormant. And the river is moving again with a crowded pre-St. Patrick's Day parade of various sized chunks and slabs of ice and snow on their way to the Great Lakes. And the squirrels are busy chasing one another about the yard and park-- that can't be good: I fear more furry tailed rodents are just a few weeks away.

I'll be 58 tomorrow, probably about his age in the picture above, and I feel like I'm channeling my dad a bit, sitting at this table. And that's not a bad thing. My parents recognized the value in an afternoon coffee break; a moment to catch up; a moment to sit and watch the world go by, to see the neighborhood at work and play. Not a bad idea, stopping for 10 or 15 minutes. I never do this but I've probably been missing something.

I know what they missed: Advil. Time to take a couple and start dinner!

Making Do

A party perfect wrap

Mark Twain is credited with a comment that goes something like, "...heaven for climate, hell for company." I think I could paraphrase something to the effect, Mom for style, Dad for ingenuity.

I have Evan with me this weekend along with the instruction that he needs to get to a classmate's birthday party at 11:30 Sunday morning. Along with that, we needed to pick up a gift. Oh, and wrap it, too.

If any of you have ever received a wrapped package from me you already know where this is going. I love giving gifts and pride myself when it comes to wrapping all my own packages. I'm not that lame-ass manly guy hovering around the Girl Scout table in the Mall at Christmas time, waiting to have some board-certified-in-package-wrapping mom turn my gifts into Martha Stewart worthy works of wrapped, tied, and bowed genius. No. I'm your basic one pair of scissors, one roll of wrapping paper, one roll of tape kinda guy.

Finding the appropriate gift was easy enough: Every 8 year old needs an easy to assemble scale model of an American warplane, right? Check. And then around 9 o'clock last night I realized I had failed to pick-up some wrapping paper. And tape.

No problem for this daddy-o. I learned years ago there are certain tangible advantages to shopping at the better department stores. Just one of those advantages is getting those sturdy and attractive paper shopping bags over the holidays. And so it is that Evan will be showing up at the party today with the most special, and hardy, gift wrap of the bunch-- guaranteed. The formula was easy enough for an ingenious guy like me:

This (Mom taught me to never throw out those nice sturdy shopping bags): 

Plus this (who needs Scotch tape when you've got packing tape in the drawer?):

Equals this:

I know, thank you, genius! Right? You have to feel that baby to really appreciate its heft. Oh, and those Tootsie Rolls? Well, yeah, they've been here a bit, but Ev agreed, they make the perfect final touch.

If mom had been in charge, Evan's buddy would be receiving his gift in a gorgeous little ship-shape package-- well styled and reeking of happy-birthday-8-year-old-boy. But, as they say in truly critical situations, that just wasn't an option. Faced with a crisis, I made do. Hopefully, not do-do.

How Long is Too Long?

My nephew Joel had a birthday the other day-- which in typical and despicable fashion I failed to acknowledge. In responding to his many well-wishers he commented that the life-expectancy of the average male in 1900 was 48 years. I did my fact checking and I think he was a teensy bit generous-- I come up with 46 years, but his point is well made.

Fast forward a few dozen years and FDR signs the Social Security Act in 1935, a time when the average life expectancy for a male was almost 60 years. Five years later the first payments were paid out and the average life expectancy had ticked up to just under 61 years. For a program designed to make payments some time after the age of 61 years, the math was pretty good.

In 2014, the life expectance for a male born in the United States is 76 years. The math has definitely changed.

Somehow, where I live, it seems that I see an awful lot of people in their late 70's and 80's. Every once in a while I see one, or a couple, who have been able to save and invest in such a way that they continue to enjoy a comfortable existence, whether they remain at home or live in some fashion of facility.  (The good ones cost 5-7000 per month around here-- snow and all.) By a long stretch I see a vast majority, however, who live on very limited means. Skipping or skimping on medications is common. Thread bare clothing-- often well kept. clean, and tidy-- is not all that uncommon. I think hunger is not all that foreign as well.

At the same time, I am always interested in stories like the one on Science Friday yesterday discussing the future utility and promise of scientific advances in medicine like cyborg bacteria-- creature/machines programed to search out and destroy cancer cells and the like. We could live on and on and on in a perfect world.  3D generated replacement parts, stem cell regeneration. Everything but a vaccine to protect us against our most insidious foes: hatred, violence, and war.

In the past few weeks I've had the opportunity to visit with a couple elderly wives of elderly patients. Both were facing the same concerns-- husbands with failing minds, failing health, and dwindling financial resources. I was struck with the fact that both of these women were so very real in their perspective: They understood the value of a life well lived, they understood the value of rich memories, and, importantly, they understood the finite nature of life. They understood that life, hard as it may be, can be a gift or a curse and that, just which that will be is, in part, at the discretion of the receiver. These women saw life as a gift, a gift that is yours for a lifetime. A finite and unpredictable lifetime that doesn't necessarily end as well as it was lived or scripted.

So, I guess before I hold out any hope for some type of bioengineered happy ending, I need to concentrate on the value of a life that offers just so many years-- just so many fabulous, frustrating, fun-filled, trying, passionate, challenging years. And keep up my payments on that nursing home insurance.

By the way, a belated Happy Birthday Joel!