Death at the Top

So.  You are a mega-rich man, still in middle age or even youngish.  In good shape.  You have fought your way to the top.  What better way to clinch the deal than to actually stand at the top.  As in Mt. Everest.  As in the earth's top spot.

Maybe you spend months in vigorous training.  Maybe you are a slacker who knows your sherpa will get you there.  Estimated cost?  From $60,00 to $100,00 but you're not counting.  Wait. What you have overlooked is that, in this lopsided time, there are too many of you.  And, as your career climb should have taught you, Nepal will always welcome the crowd to their deadly playpen as they gleefully pocket the cash.

Nature smiles.  The mountain shrugs.

He Might Have Said "Yes."

I blame it on the potholes.  The torn up roads everywhere.  That "oh, oh" moment when you realize you have a flat tire.  I was lucky because it could have happened anywhere but it happened in my garage.  Mario gave me enough air to get me to a tire store and a warning to get there right away.

I have a long and loving history with tires.  It was the family business when I was a child and my uncles had stepped in to love me when my father had died too soon.  When we visited their stores, my uncle Jay would let me go back into the warehouse.  That is where the big black mountains were.  Hundreds of tires all the way up to the ceiling.  The best part was the smell.

The guy at the tire store the other day was friendly.  I wonder what he would have done if I had asked him to let me take a peek in the warehouse.  I should have asked him.  Maybe he would have said: "Yes."

Wrecked But Remembered

When Marguerite told me that the wrecking ball was attacking the three-flat where we had lived on Belmont, the news brought up a familiar feeling.  Another place where important parts of my life had been lived was meeting its fate. 

Is it grief when it's a building?  Yes.  Not being able to drive by and smile or groan at the memories is a loss.  My Northwestern years are not forgotten but my freshman housing in the fake "foreign student home", and my sorority house are long gone.

My friend Lail says she doesn't want to return to Cherry Street.  Not even to peek at whatever the developers did with her old home and spacious yard.  She did enjoy knocking on the door of her grandmother's home on Balmoral.  The young mother who answered was generous and friendly enough to let us see the rooms.  Still standing, still lived in and loved.