Keep on Imagining

Imagine all the people living life in peace

Happy New Year

to

All of us who keep dreaming

Footsteps At My Door

It occurred to me today that I am entering (or have I been here for awhile?) the obituary stage of life.  You read the stories about people who have been meaningful to you as their deaths are honored or at least mentioned.  Some are younger.  Most are around my age.

The lame joke, of course, is that you look for your own name and if you don’t find it, you know you are alive for another day.

Today’s obit was of Ram Dass.   Born Richard Alpert to a middle class jewish family, he took the LSD trip in the 60’s, became a spiritual guru, wrote “Be Here Now” and, in general, was a major cultural player in a far different time.

I was drawn to Ram Dass as was my best friend Marsha.  We were struggling when suicide and divorce shattered our lives as young women and mothers.  Did the “spiritual guru” stuff help? Hard to say for sure.  I know I’m glad for his presence as I think about him now.

Signed by Hand

A story in the Washington Post caught my eye.  “People are Turning to Robots to Write Their ‘Handwritten’ Cards.”

After college I went to work for Adlai E. Stevenson.  It was his 1956 campaign for President.  Our headquarters were at 69 West Washington in a building torn down long ago. We were told that the atomic bomb secrets from the University of Chicago were stored there during WWII.

I wanted to believe that the secrets were actually kept in the small, windowless room where I worked with my colleague Mary Lou.  Our job involved secrets of a much less earth shattering nature, but we still were warned to keep things to ourselves.

Since it’s been more than 50 years, I think it's okay to reveal our tedious work.

We had a robot hand machine that held an ink pen.  It had been programmed to replicate Adlai E. Stevenson’s signature.  The trick was that the ink could be smudged to make a note look individually signed. The notes went to various VIPs.

I believe what Stevenson wrote in those letters and what he said to the nation was his own.  No robot stuff from Russia.  

History has been kinder to Ike,  but I loved the experience of being on Stevenson's team.

Searching for Mr. Rogers

Mr. Rogers is quiet and slow.  He seems to be able to stay in each moment before accepting the next one that arrives. Even though he changes into a sweater and sneakers at the start of his show, everyone he works with says he is not playing a role.  They say he just takes himself to his TV show to spend some creative time with us.

I grew up way before him and my kids just missed him when they watched TV.  But you're never too old or too young for Mr. Rogers.  And now, some are saying the whole country is aching for a dose of his approach to life.

I'm not so sure. I see those Amazon delivery trucks zipping around.  It's not Mr. Rogers' neighborhood, but mine.  One Click!  One hour pick up!  Next day delivery!

It's not just the speed.  It's being selfish and mean.  Yes, you can easily convince me that it's always been this way.  But then, a Mr. Rogers pops up every once in awhile and you can convince me that there will always be another "Mr. Rogers" waiting in the wings.

Reflections on watching the PBS documentary about Mr. Rogers and the fictional movie about him now playing in theaters.

A Tree in Time

Bonnie and I don't actually try to eat in the Walnut Room.  We leave that to the families with their young children who are everywhere on the 7th floor.  It's very well organized.  A beeper will call you to the room, usually after a one or two hour wait.  But that doesn't mean that we miss out on the pure joy of seeing this year's spectacular tree.

When we see two girls dressed in black velvet, we immediately remember our own "angels" on our annual trips to Marshall Fields.  Too bad the magical toy department is long gone.  And, (I still have trouble with this) it's Macy's now.  But the Frango Mints are everywhere, even next to the Starbucks on the bottom floor.

This year, I bought some stuff from Amazon.  And I felt guilty when Target delivered my package in one day.  It doesn't have to be that fast, does it?

But as long as I can I'm going to be downtown at Fields/Macy's at Christmastime to do some in person shopping, enjoy the great tree,  and cling to all of the happy memories.

Happy Holidays!

Destiny Decided

I just finished watching the third season of The Crown, Netflix’s very elaborate production of the life of the Royal Family during the tenure of the current Queen.  The first two seasons were alive with events and players on history’s stage:  Winston  Churchill, The King who abdicates the throne for the woman he loves, the young queen and her chosen prince, the cursed younger sister who is denied her choice.

This season is dark, slow, and overwhelmingly sad.  The Queen has one heartbreaking scene that sets the tone.  She is in Kentucky having a brief escape to the world of horse training and racing which she would have loved to live in.  The “accidental” Queen cries out over the life sentence imposed on her, and as we see throughout the season, imposed on them alI.

History’s moments are about as much fact as this series allows.  The rest is conjecture.  Do the Royals deserve such scrutiny?  Could any of us stand such examination?

Of course, I watched every minute of season three.  And now I’m waiting for season four.

Dispatch from the Bidding Wars

One of the constants in my oldster life has been my weekly bridge game. This one is at the Senior Center, far from the tournaments or other more vigorous battlefields.  Even so, the complicated pull of competition remains strong.

Is it possible to engage in “friendly” competition?  Or, does the urge to win insist that we descend into, at best grumpy, and at worst uncivil rants?  Since bridge requires you to have a partner, the “relationship” issues are endless. (“No, no, no, didn’t you see that the queen on the board was good!)

One of my favorite gossip fests is when we recount tales of outrageous acts and unsavory characters as we shuffle and deal the cards waiting to being play.  (I never understood the cheaters but I am naive that way.)

I am lucky.   My partner is an expert player who puts up with my negligent ways.  We’ve become very good friends.  It’s a comfort to know that there is one man with whom it seems to work.

So, I’ll keep playing and hope for Aces.

For Jim

On the occasion of his 90th birthday, my best friend Jim's sister asked me to write a few words for the scrapbook she was making.  Since friendships like ours are so precious, I'd like to share with you what I wrote.

I’m having lunch today with my best friend Jim.  We’ll probably go to a tavern where Jim will fuss about which beer to order.  He likes draft, of course.  A man of firm opinions, big and small, he doesn’t tease me anymore when I order a diet coke.

Jim is my partner at the bridge table and my partner in politics.  We have a lot to talk about.  Behind the conversation is my deep appreciation for this wonderful man.  He knows my family secrets because he prepared my will as a favor.  He’s seen me without makeup when he came to my rehab room on a lonely Saturday night.

The most important feeling in life is to feel included, right?  That’s what Jim and Phyllis have given to me.  Sharing a bit of this crazy life with Jim, how lucky is that?

I say “Thank God for Jim”, knowing that will prompt a very big laugh from this firm atheist.

Not in Time

There is a drug now for treating cystic fibrosis that is going to make it a "manageable disease." Not the death sentence anymore.  The results have been so promising that patients and even doctors are often in tears.  The FDA has leaped forward with approval.

I know a family -- a very rich and socially prominent couple -- who lost two children to cystic fibrosis.  Their lives were short and very difficult.  Another "lucky" child was spared.  Another was adopted.  (I guess not tempting fate.)

As I read the news today, my heart went out to that mom and dad.  They are oldsters now like me.  I'm sure they are thrilled with the news.  Maybe they will pull out a picture of their lost children and tell them about what time has made possible. I imagine it will be with a very bittersweet smile.

You're Cancelled!

"Psst.  Wanna read my paper?"  Is this what Deep State people are going to whisper as they hide their Washington Post or New York Times?  Will their bosses be checking their desks and briefcases?

I know how Trump feels.  There have been too many times when I've longed to turn off the truth.  Your team loses, your boyfriend leaves, you drop the jar of pickles on your foot.  It hurts!

 Scientists started examining "truth," and have left us all confused.  Their microscopic view of reality is a collaboration between the observer and the observed.  Another huge distance between scientific fact and how we get through the day.

I like to think that censorship is futile.  Yet, I may have to face the fact that at the micro and the macro level, the "bubble" may prevail.

Better Because of Books?

I recently read an article that dives into the murky question:  does literature help us understand others?  Have more empathy?  The article begins hopefully with a quote from Joyce Carol Oates: “Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin.”

This is a challenging question with important consequences.  What do we demand from higher education?  Is reading being pushed out of our visual, digital world?

The idea that literature orients readers to the thoughts and feelings of others is something  we’ve lived with for a very long time.   Psychologists are now trying to test it in the lab. I wasn’t totally surprised that they fall back on the “chicken or egg” position:

“A lifetime of reading might make people better at imagining other people’s thoughts and emotions, or those who are more in tune with other people’s states of minds might be drawn to reading fiction in the first place. Or, a completely unrelated variable might explain the correlation.”

My friends Carole and Camille, both lifelong readers, gave me a total thumbs up.  “Yes, and studies prove it.”  And, “yes, absolutely!”  

Stuart is thoughtful: “I can have empathy even with characters that I don't like because I can sense the complexity of their motivations.    I do think that it carries over to everyday life, though in subtle, subconscious ways.”  

I liked Gerry’s response: “It depends on who is doing the reading.” With humility, he relies on himself for the empathy.

What do you think?

I agree with all of my friends.  As for the tests, I don’t think that everything can be measured.  I’m content with conjecture or hope.

Mr. Music

The one thing you learned about my friend early on is that he loved classical music.  The walls in his living room were covered by hundreds of CDs.  He knew what the Chicago Symphony Orchestra was playing and was in the audience regularly.  He could tell you about the members of the orchestra, past and present. He had even interviewed some of the great conductors.

Several months ago at lunch my friend revealed that a doctor had made a medical mistake that had rendered him “hard of hearing.”  When we met recently he filled me in on his “hard of hearing” life. Yes, he had hearing aids.  And yes, he was still seeking treatment.

What he said next caught me by surprise. “I was depressed for awhile because I was having so much trouble listening to my music.  I couldn’t get it right. Meditation helped with my depression but not enough.  Then one day I decided to give it up.  To put music aside completely.   I discovered that I am still complete. I’m going on with my life.”

My friend was matter of fact as he told me his story.  I was excited.  Thrilled even.  No victimhood.  No demand to be celebrated as a hero.

Life promises us nothing.  It’s up to each one of us to fill in the blanks.  Thanks for the reminder, my friend.

Kindness

When the systems we have in place to obtain "justice" fail us, eruptions are bound to occur.  Eventually, people are driven to take it upon themselves to restore some balance.  Some gather together to march and engage in public protest. Others act individually. Their tools of last resort are shame, ridicule or refusal to participate.

Athletes refuse to go to the White House to celebrate their excellence.
Musicians refuse to allow their music to be played.
When people who are "getting away with it" appear in public, they are booed.

In the face of failure,  we at least demand that the pardoned or the escaped retreat to their private privilege.

For this, are we now "unkind"?

Overwhelmed

I just finished reading the article in the New Yorker about Esalen and tech.  The inventors and CEO's are pondering "What have we wrought?" They are attending workshops (called playshops), meditating, and engaging in earnest conversation. They realize they've been messing with our brains.

It reminds me of when Al Gore travelled the world sounding the alarm about global warming and how we were messing with the planet.  It was punctuated by Melissa Etheridge's stirring song.  Seems like a long time ago doesn't it?  And, maybe it's too late.

 When is being smart too dangerous?  Could we even have stopped ourselves in mid-stride?
Again, the essential questions.

Hot Seat

Memo to John McEnroe:  If you want to have one of your tantrums today, it would be justified.  He was on his tour of ESPN talk shows promoting the U.S. Open Tennis Tournament opening today. I first saw the ex-badboy and now great commentator with Mike Greenberg.  Mike is lonely at the network in his love of tennis, but has enough clout to be able to mention the game from time to time.  John got about two minutes to hope Serena wins another major, gush over the elderly big three, and lament that the young men are lacking in either talent or heart to break through.

By the time he got to the First Take table with Stephen A. and his disciples, you could tell he was a little ticked at how anxious they were to dismiss him.  Who cares about tennis when there is so much more to say about Andrew Luck!  No matter that it's been non-stop Luck since Friday.

I'm proud that John gave them a little stare when they actually told him he'd have to give up his seat.  There's a football player waiting!

I love the Open.  If we get one match close to as brilliant as the one we got from Federer and Djokovic at Wimbledon, I will once again be grateful for being here during the all time glory days of men's tennis.

McMean

"There's nothing worse than a bad boss,"  I cried.  I was in the drive-thru (yes, I've succumbed to their spelling) at my local McDonald's.  One of the pleasures of stopping at the window to pay is "oh-ing and ah-ing" over the marvelous nails on the girls.

Colors I never saw before.  Sparkles.  Once, red, white and blue on July 4th.

So I was startled and disappointed today when my favorite nail model handed me my change with short, colorless stubs (like mine.)  "What happened?"  "The new boss says no nails, no polish or we get fined."

Okay, maybe the boss was thinking about germs under the long talons.  More likely, she was just jealous or mean.

Another tiny light goes dark.

Jury Duty

Jean Fritz was a wife and mother living in Des Plaines.  When she showed up for jury duty in 1969 she had no idea of her upcoming attachment to history.   How could anyone?  Jean ended up on the sequestered jury that produced the verdict for the "Conspiracy Seven." And, because of her determination and bravery, she played a big role in the fate of the accused.

Eight jurors wanted blood.  They bought everything that Hoover, Mitchell and Nixon were selling.  Four jurors saw through what the government was doing.  Both sides held firm.  When Judge Hoffman refused to let the jury see transcripts, and when he threatened to keep them sequestered indefinitely, the four decided they had to agree to a compromise:  innocent of conspiracy but convicted of a lesser charge.

Eventually, Jean and one of the other jurors agreed to an interview which revealed the "inside story" to the public.  The jurors were called back to a special hearing.  While the others retreated to faulty memory, Jean and one other juror told the real story.  The criminal charges were overturned.

I heard this compelling story (in harrowing detail) on the Ben Joravsky podcast for Tuesday, August 6.  Jean's daughter, Marjorie Fritz-Birch runs the Edgewater Historical Society and she is displaying her mother's papers at an exhibit commemorating the 50th anniversary of the trial.

To Stare or Not

I was having coffee at Dunkin Donuts with my friend David.  A woman came in with two children, probably about 3 or 4.   They ran around the place screaming.  I waited a little while and then finally put my finger to my lips indicating the shhh signal and gave the woman a stare.

She said: "What do you think this is?  A Michelin five star restaurant?  It's only Dunkin Donuts!"  I thought: "Now that's an interesting concept.  Civilized behavior is only expected now for the 1%?"

I was reminded of the incident a few years back when the owner of Taste of Heaven on Clark Street received national attention for asking women with boisterous toddlers to leave.  He got a lot of flack but I think there's still a little sign in his window describing his stance.

Bill and Marguerite quickly caught on how to behave in restaurants.  Here's a belated but heart felt pat on their back.

He Didn't Fit In

At a time when many of us are being asked to imagine how it feels to be an "outsider" and the deadly consequences of being in that position, the Al Franken case is worth thinking about.  No, it's not life or death.  It is instructive.

Like one of his genius sketches on Saturday Night Live,  Al actually becoming a United States Senator is a dive into the absurd.  If Minnesota wasn't such a "clean" state, I'm sure his razor thin vote margin would not have held. Shortly before his fall, he wrote a book about it.  Six long years of keeping an almost invisible profile while he worked on convincing his fellow lawmakers that he could be useful.  And with his trademark chuckle, he tried to explain to the clueless when "it's a joke" applied.

Sorry Al.  It was hubris.  From the beginning, the Gods knew the joke was on you.

Bad for the Game

Dear Nick Krygios:

Please don't ruin what's left of my tennis watching years.  Yes.  You have amazing shots and a killer serve.  Just the kind of firepower that makes tennis so compelling.  Yes.  Tennis is the game where you are out there all alone with every tic on display.  That would, and has, unnerved the best. Yes. I'm trying to reach you.

I've made peace with the inevitable departure of Federer, Djokovic, Nadal and both Williams. When time decides their fate, I'm ready to welcome the next crop of winners. But when you aimed your 100+mph forehand straight at Nadal's chest, the crowd and I screamed in horror.  Is this what time has brought us?  No!

Nadal stayed nimble and classy.  He was able to contain his fury enough to win.
Where talent lands is a mystery.  It is always a seed.  Only a seed.

The Prince 0f Fairness

Michael Lewis, in his terrific podcast, "Against the Rules," interviews Ken Feinberg.  Name sound familiar?  He's the guy who distributed money to the families after 9/11.  Ken had made a name for himself after being able to settle the Agent Orange dispute. Since 9/11, he's been called in time after time to bring resolution to the toughest cases. To decide what's "fair."

Maybe this is why:  Feinberg was contemplating the "worth" of a stockbroker and a janitor.  Both died in the twin towers. The normal model was to calculate "future earnings."  Feinberg didn't see it that way.  He was able to look at "money" and "worth" in a much deeper way which brought the compensation a lot closer.

So far, people are satisfied.  And right now, the Catholic Church has asked him to look into things.

P.S.  I love Michael Lewis' mind.  He goes as deep into philosophical discussions of the "big questions" as any professors and theologians.  The Ken Feinberg story is only part of his series on fairness.  Definitely worth your time.

On Stage

Marianne Williamson collected enough support to appear at the Democratic debate.  TV pundits and some of my friends considered her appearance as "flaky" and dismissed her as a waste of time.  I am not as biased against the "L" word (love) in politics.  If there's a better force against war and power grabs, I'd like to know.

Andrew Yang also earned his moment.  He was met with more respect.  If we are going to "make it about the future," he is the one with the most pragmatic idea: guaranteed income. It's been a few years since I read the book "The Rise of the Robots," and became convinced that AI will eventually eliminate most jobs.

The fate of the earth was barely mentioned.  That strikes me as being pretty "flaky."

Blue Nails

I asked Natalie how she felt about wearing makeup (she doesn't).  She's not against it, but said it "felt funny" the few times she's tried.  "How about hair dye?," I asked.  "I see all kinds of color on the bus and downtown."  "The Woodstock girls are into that," she replied.  She said it like tiny Woodstock was "big city" stuff.  "They consider it an expression of personal creativity.  Wearable art."

My friend Lail is adamantly against wearing makeup.  Not for political reasons.  We were both aware of that phase when "feminism" first arrived in our young adulthood.  She says: "I never felt I looked any better with it, so why bother."

I don't remember ever seeing my mother without makeup, and I rarely see myself with an "au natural" face. That just how it should be.  Thanks, Mom.

The girl who takes the money at the McDonald's window displays nails of every color.  She inspired me to get blue polish last week.  It still feels a little "freaky" but in a good way.

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.

Measles Defines America

Victory is hard to maintain.  First the foe disappears and then the memory of the foe.  Victory invites lazy thinking.  It makes room for false notions of "individual rights" and "religious freedom."  The power of community action -- the power that achieved the victory -- is now squishy, soft, easy to cast aside.

And so we begin again.

Who Calls the Tune?

I was invited to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Friday but it has been cancelled.  The symphony is on strike and no one is crossing the picket line.  In fact, supporters of the CSO have been showing up every day on Michigan Avenue to express their love.

In the meantime, the musicians have gone into the neighborhoods.  They are performing all over the city to adoring audiences who have probably never been able to afford a ticket.

My friend Gerry, who is an expert on the history of the orchestra and tells some great stories about it, says this: "there were some huge struggles and some courageous leaders that brought this group together.  They are the toughest you'll find anywhere."

An orchestra is the perfect expression of the power of collaboration.  I hope the strike gets settled soon. . . and the solidarity of the musicians and the city pays off.

P.S.  Just heard this today: New York musicians are playing in support of the CSO strike. 

Why We Write

Just as I was welcoming my new book, Joan Chandler Today,  from the publisher, I came across these words from Susan Orlean in her book, The Library Book.  She is such a great writer.  I'll let her explain a little of how I feel.

But if something you learn or observe or imagine can be set down and saved, and if you can see your life reflected in previous lives, and can imagine it reflected in subsequent ones, you can begin to discover order and harmony.  You know you are part of a larger story . . .

Joan Chandler Today, is available at lulu.com

Climbing the Tree

Several years ago my nephew Jim, using genealogy, explored our family tree.  He found a long lost cousin.  Joel turned out to be an attorney in LA associated with some very famous murder trials.

Now, Marguerite is time traveling with the Ancestry people.  On my mother's side she has traced us back to a castle in Sweden.  But her latest discovery would surely delight Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and whoever else cares about this stuff.

If you go back three or four generations on my father's branch of the family tree, you end up in a small town in Russia.  If you do the same climb on Marguerite's father's side, you end up in the very same town!

When she told me, I said: "Maybe when I met Jay, my DNA recognized his DNA and it was enough to seal the deal."

My Year as a Foreigner

My application to Northwestern was a spur of the moment decision made later than the normal time.  When the acceptance letter came, I was told the dorm rooms were full, but if I would agree to live in the “Foreign Student Home,”  I could come to school in the fall.

“Foreign Student Home. Sounds like an adventure. Yes!”, I smiled.  So I unpacked my bags at the  mansion on Orrington Street eager to meet my new exotic friends. Here were the others who showed up that day:  several girls on music scholarships, most from Chicago, some of them black(!); the rest like me, the dormitory overflow.  Not a foreigner among us.

My roommate Joy was a tiny blond girl from the southwest suburbs.  She played the piano like a dream.  (She went on to a great career at the Acorn on Oak in Chicago.)  All the music girls were talented.  The practicing and the jam sessions went on way into the night.

On Friday and Saturday nights Joy played piano at a bar on the “wet” side of Howard Street.  That was the dividing line between Evanston (dry) and Chicago.  We soon found out the hard way (being kicked out of bars in Skokie), that the Howard Street place was the only one that would seat our little integrated group.

Looking back on that fabulous year, I guess our black and white bonding was a pretty foreign adventure after all.

   

Regarding Us

One of my all time favorite films is Regarding Henry.  It stars Harrison Ford and Annette Benning and was produced by Sydney Pollack.  It’s the story of a high-powered, high-priced lawyer, at a high-prestige firm in New York.  He is shot and suffers traumatic brain injury.  With the help of a dedicated, wise therapist,  he comes back to a functioning state.  However, he now experiences the world from a place of innocence and innate decency.  With his new personality, he slowly bonds with his wife. His young daughter understands him completely.  In one of the most poignant scenes, she says: “Here Dad, this is how you tie your shoes.  Now you try.”

Eventually, Henry’s old ways reveal themselves to him and he rejects them.  His powerful colleagues patronize him at first, and then despise him.  I think the billionaires feel the same way about us.  We’re just so nervy to exhibit bedrock values and want to shift the power just a little bit.

Is Regarding Henry telling us that it's going to take a rewiring of our brains to turn us in a different direction?

A Stranger to the Stands

My step-father Harry was a sweet man, an older bachelor adjusting to his new life with a wife and two children.  During World War II he was a Captain doing research in the Air Force.

One of the men on his team had been the trainer for the Detroit Tigers.  Grateful for not being in combat, he said to Harry: “When this mess is over, I want you to be my guest at a game.  I’ll roll out the red carpet for you.”

When Harry found out that I was a huge Tigers fan, he made it happen.  We had great seats behind the dugout.  I got to shake hands with some of the players.  They autographed my ball.  I was busy explaining the action to Harry as he drifted off to sleep.

Many years later when I was working for the American Medical Association, I looked up Harry in their archives.  I found out about his distinguished career and that he had been one of the inventors of the fetal heart monitor.

Harry had great stats.  He is a member of my personal Hall of Fame.

A Coach to Remember

Cheating Coaches.  Cheated athletes.  As March Madness is upon us, I remember feeling good about this story when I wrote it awhile back.  Here it is again.

When Dean Smith died I wrote about his outstanding life -- as a basketball coach at UNC and as a human being. He championed civil rights in the south when it was unpopular and dangerous.  He stayed in touch with his players long after they graduated.  Some of them say they consulted "Coach" before making any big life decisions because they trusted him completely.

Now comes more good news about Dean Smith.  In his will, he has left $200 to each of his students who earned a Varsity letter at UNC.  He encouraged them to enjoy a great dinner as his treat.

We can use a little of this now, right?

Arkansas Time

When I was fifteen, I spend my summer vacation on a farm in Arkansas.  It was owned by our neighbors in Detroit and I played with their boys.  I was excited when my mother said I could go.

The farm house was very comfortable.  The family that worked the farm were friendly, warm, and happy to let me become involved in picking corn from the field,  gathering tomatoes, and other easy farm activities.  I learned how to churn butter.

Then the boys’ mother arrived.  I hadn’t noticed back home how mean and terrifying she was.  She told me I was “there to work!”  There was no talking allowed while we painted the walls in the farmhouse.  No radio, no running around, no fun.

When I was stupid enough to get up on a horse and, of course, fell off, she yelled at me for my injuries and told me I was being punished by God.  God came up a lot that summer as we were forced to attend bible services regularly.

I stuck it out and never complained.  

Many years later, I went to Arkansas again.  This time it was to Hot Springs.  I loved the baths.  There was gambling.  The devil won me over.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

There are signs everywhere that things are really out of whack.

Have you heard of the Iditarod?  It's a race across Alaska using packs of dogs driven by a man or woman called a Musher.  The race takes days going through the wilderness and ends up on the streets of Nome.  I guess it's the ice and snow version of the Tour de France ending up on the Champs Elysees.

Nicholas Petit and his team of sled dogs were way ahead.  Then the dogs started fighting with each other.  So Petit yelled at them.  The dogs stopped in their tracks and wouldn't go on.  They went "on strike."  Petit said they were well fed, and there were no medical issues in play.

"It's a head thing,"  he explained.

Update:  I just saw a story that researchers are discovering that dogs can detect their human's malaise.
Hmmmmm.

Bird on the Window Sill

I was reading an article about grief.  It mentioned that people who are grieving frequently imagine that their loved one is still around, perhaps as a bird, dog or cat.  This reminded me of a episode from a few years back.  After a few dates, a man I knew invited me to visit him at his house near the beach in Wilmington, North Carolina.  He seemed like an okay fellow, I loved North Carolina as a child, so I said "yes."

As soon as I walked into his house, I was afraid it was going to be a long weekend.  Old newspapers everywhere, coffee grounds on the kitchen table, dishes in the sink.  His wife had died a few months before so I was ready to cut him some slack, but it was difficult.  I quickly retreated to the space his daughter had prepared for me.  It was a refuge amid the clutter.

It wasn't too long before I noticed a beautiful red bird.  It was sitting on the sill every time I looked out of the window.  I imagined that the wife's soul was lingering.  I started talking to the wife/bird.  I found out a lot about this man who was brutally left behind by her sudden death.  Enough to relax more than I thought I would.

We had a good time that weekend.  I didn't tell him about the bird, but he owed that creature a lot.

And so did I.

My Valentine

Today is Valentine's Day and I was delighted to find one red envelope in my mail box.  No return address and it was not signed except for: "guess who loves you?"  What a great way to spread the love!  I immediately started imagining this person or that one...the more the merrier.

And, although curious,  I am quite comfortable living with mystery.  So,  I am happy to live with the unsigned card.

Was it you?

The Next Chapter

Glenn Close is nominated for best actress at this year's Academy Awards.  I hope she wins.  The movie is "The Wife."  It's the story of a man winning the Nobel Prize for literature.  He and his wife travel to Oslo to accept the prize and the glory.

We learn that the wife came into the writer's life as a talented student.  She succumbs to being told by another woman that the stories she wants to tell would never find a publisher.  She marries her mentor and settles for a literary life of secret contribution.

My favorite scene is the last one.  I won't give away the plot except to say that, on an airplane, she opens the notebook on her lap to a blank page.  A look of quiet triumph and anticipation crosses her face.

We know what she will do next.

Brrrrrrr...

It was in the late 1960's.  I was taking classes at Northwestern's downtown campus.  Getting a teaching certificate that I never used but wanted in my pocket as I looked for work.  For anyone who has taken than trek from Michigan Avenue to Weiboldt Hall, you will understand this story.

The weather man said below zero and the wind chill man said more than minus 20 degrees.  But it was exam night and I had to be there, right?  So I bundled myself up with sweaters, coat, scarf, hat.  The only part of my body uncovered were my eyes.

My eyes froze.

When I finally got inside and up to the classroom there was a sign on the door.  EXAM CANCELLED.

And then I had to walk all the way back.

Do you have a weather story to tell?

Et tu Serena?

Did you get to see Serena in her green "onesie" at the Australian Open?  She was looking every bit the amazon woman we have loved for so long. If not, you'll have to catch her on replay because she  lost to a great opponent: Karolina Pliskova.

Or was it Father Time who did her in?  I hope not.  Not yet.  I just want a few more of those aces at crucial points . . .  that ferocious stare.

My favorites are moving slowing off the court.  But I  had favorites before them: Agassi, Billy Jean.

Right now, I hope Nadal goes all the way down under.  And, a few more times before "final" becomes final.

A new year

Imagine all the people

Living life in peace

HAPPY NEW YEAR