A Knockout

 

A few weeks ago, I decided to make a list of favorite films and see if I could find them to watch again.  I didn't have "When We Were Kings" in mind, but when I saw it on Netflix I knew I was in for a treat all over again.  Muhammed Ali is exactly who I need now to bring some inspiration into this grim moment.

At the end of the film,  George Plimpton tells this story: Ali is speaking to a large audience of students at Harvard.  Someone calls out: "Give us a poem!"  On the spot, Ali gives us the shortest, but deepest, effort: "Me, we."

Beautiful.

It's Difficult

 

Whenever I see a talking head or a celebrity on TV refer to “my mother,”  I smile.  Yes, we’re out here in audience-land.  Maybe on the downslope, but still capable of some influence.

Athletes are a special lot.  They credit their moms with saving their lives and are busy buying them houses when they cash the bonus check.  Bravo!

How should I feel about Pete Hegseth’s mother?  (First, she looks gorgeous!)  She wrote a scathing note to Pete several years ago and is now being called upon to disavow her beliefs.  She agreed to walk through the halls of Congress hand-in-hand with her tarnished son as he seeks a position in Trump’s cabinet. 

My instinct is to not be too hard on her.  Same with Biden pardoning his son.  Sometimes parents find themselves with difficult children.  I’m ready to leave it at that.

A First

 This morning, the friendly Jewel employee who oversees the self-checkout machines, was running from one to another.  "It seems like they're all having problems at once," he said. "They drive me crazy."  "I'd rather have people," I replied, "but that's an old fashioned idea."

He took a moment to tell me this story:  In Korea, the grocery stores have been using robots to check people out.  On a particularly busy day, one of the robots threw itself down the stairs.  "I think it's the first case of robot suicide," he said.

The "C" Word

 I remember when cancer was the "C" word.  Spoken in hushed tones.  It was a death sentence, or, if you were John Wayne, you were a hero for surviving, if only for awhile. The only posture was a stoic one, so why dwell on it.

Climate change is now the "C" word.  It's too disruptive to admit it into our lives.  Too much to have to recalculate.  Too much money lost right now.  Better to bully those who insist on bringing it up.  

There were terrible storms and fires during the last weeks of the election.  If the cause came up at all, I missed it.  And I was paying pretty close attention.

My friend June, who lives in Asheville, was without electricity or water for a week.  Marilyn's house in St. Petersburg just missed a falling tree.

Here's the one thing upon which both candidates agreed:  Let's not mention the "C" word.

There's a book on my shelf called:  "The World Without Us."  Yes, something will remain.

Your Choice

 Yogi Hugs Don Larson

As the self-appointed "philosopher" of my baseball class, I'm always delighted when the conversation delves into "the big picture." 

Today, it was this question:  Would you rather be the Hall of Fame player on a team that never reaches the post season and World Series?  Or, would you prefer to be the less recognized player who comes up with an unforgettable moment of greatness that touches fans everywhere?

P.S.  Philosophers aren't looking for right or wrong answers.

Remembering the Two Lilys

 

The death of Lily Ledbetter, the champion of equal pay for women,  reminded me of a favorite  moment I wrote about in my book.  Here it is.

There’s a charming article in the New Yorker about how a group of women lawyers went back to McSorley’s restaurant/bar in New York to celebrate the signing of the Lily Ledbetter Law and reminisce about how they had sued McSorley’s in 1969 for barring women. It was a bloody battle.

In the 1970’s I worked for the Chicago Council of Lawyers. The women in the Women’s Rights Committee decided to challenge Chicago’s B-girl law. The law barred unescorted women from sitting at the bar in nightclubs and restaurants.

I decided to join the women when they launched their challenge. They chose the nightclub Mr. Kelly’s. This club was a hot spot on Rush Street which attracted the most popular comedians and singers. On the night we went, a little known comedienne named Lily Tomlin was opening for Shelley Berman. The women sent her a note telling her about the B-girl law and advising her that they were going to infiltrate the bar. Lily, who had no clout at that point, still had the guts to tell the management that she wouldn’t go on unless the women were seated. Mr. Kelly’s caved and the law was eventually overturned.

I wish I could go back to Mr. Kelly’s, but it is long gone. Lily Tomlin became a star.

When Losing Isn't So

 

As you know I love my Literature of Baseball Class.  This time the book is: "Why We Love Baseball."  It's a countdown of 50 memorial moments in the game.

I've found that incidents in baseball (and other sports) give us a clear look at the complexities of life.

Harvey Haddix pitched 12 perfect innings during which his team failed to score a run.  They ended up losing.  Haddix, throughout his life, downplayed the achievement concentrating on the loss.

I believe that his perfect effort far outshines the outcome.  The human story is that we can give it our best knowing that we always live among others.

Visitors

 Ralph Nader's niece was killed in a plane crash.  Her grieving mother was on her way to a concert in her daughter's memory when she was visited by a giant, beautiful moth.  It rested on her shoulder for awhile.  The mother was comforted, feeling her daughter's presence.

This reminds me of an experience in my life.  I'm including it here.

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 an 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, and 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. There were 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 from 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 so 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. 

This is from my book: Joan Chandler Today

The Gang That Can't Lose Right

 

There's been an uptick in attendance at the Sox games these past two nights.  The logical explanation is that fans are showing up to be able to say they were in the stands when the Sox proved themselves to be the all-time worst team in baseball.

The team has stayed true to its frustrating ways.  They have won the last two games, at the last minute even, thus (so far) denying  breaking the record at home.  Today is their last chance to award the ignoble prize right here on the South Side.

I'm inclined to hope they lose so we can boo them on their way.  On the other hand, I don't hate the players who just don't belong in the major leagues.  I reserve that for the owner, who probably won't be anywhere near the ballpark today.

The Oldster's Dilemma

 My car died in the parking lot of Auto Zone on Clark.  Mario, my garage guru, warned me that he heard funny noises when he started it.  So, I was there seeking a check up on the battery.  Nothing wrong there.

It was when I attempted to leave that the death occurred.  Turned the key.  Nothing. The resurrection began when my fixer guru showed up to take me home while I waited for his tow truck, and the diagnosis, and dreaded estimate of costs.

My 2002 Acura has given me a wonderful, free life,  I go where I want, when I want, sharing the ride or not. And now,  my four wheeled companion is beginning to wear down.  I think we’re dwindling at about the same pace. 

No one at the DMV is grabbing my keys.  Should I surrender?  

Hope

 Opening Sunday of the NFL.  The Bears have a new quarterback.  Anything is possible.  The Bear wear is blossoming in my lobby, garage and at the supermarket.  The TV coverage is on, and it’s hours before the game starts.

For the first time since 2006, an American man is playing in the US Open Tennis finals.

The end of the disastrous White Sox season is mercifully only weeks away.  The Cubs haven't scored a run in days. So, if we didn’t give up weeks ago, we can finally turn our attention away.

This is what hope feels like on this beautiful Sunday morning.

My Labor Day

 Here are the workers I salute today.  The ones that keep my very fortunate life going.  Or add something special to my day.

The guys who know I go out early so have my car waiting

The ones I can call on when I have no idea why it happened or how to fix it.  The ones who greet me with a big smile across the counter.  

The marvelous creative authors, actors, musicians, athletes, and those that support them. You make life surprising and always interesting. 

Workers of my world:  Thank you!

My Lost Summer

 Yesterday, the White Sox lost their 100th game.  100th game!  There is no way I can absorb this.  They will go on to become the team that loses the most games ever in the history of professional baseball.  And, this is my team.   Yes, I stopped watching the games.  Losing …plus the terrible broadcaster they hired was too much. But I can’t help myself from checking to see what they do each day.  

I don’t know how to incorporate this into my life.  Don’t bother pointing out that this is just baseball.  As if any fan would pay attention to that puny observation.  

The local sports writers and broadcasters expressed their fury and their despair until they ran dry.  Now, the White Sox have been picked up as a national story. Joking it up.

My Literature of Baseball class starts in a few weeks.  The book is:  Why We Love Baseball.

Waiting for Beyonce

 No, she didn’t show up. but rumors of Beyonce’s anticipated arrival kept popping up in TV coverage.  Taylor Swift didn’t appear either, but don’t you think the frenzy surrounding her NFL romance gave the Dems the idea that maybe they should start loving football too?

Everyone loved the playlist piped during the roll call of the states.  I didn’t recognize any of the songs.  Maybe a hint of Bruce Springsteen?  

I loved Stevie Wonder and Patti LaBelle but when it comes to new (?) music, I am totally out of it.

My time comes when my friend Elaine posts her “wine time” songs on Facebook.  That’s when the lyrics I love come forth.

Democrats Are Fans

 Maybe it was the thrill of the Olympics.  Maybe it was finally being willing to look at what we watch, talk about and enjoy together. It was probably a big dose of putting everything else aside to win.

It started with Bernie, who was given a slot to speak.   This steady warrior once again presented his clear position on what we deserve. The delegates sat on their hands.  Sorry Bernie, not this time.

Steve Kerr’s appearance seemed a surprise choice early but ended being obvious.  A winner when it counts. 

Our first taste of USA! USA!

Forget that he’s a Governor.  Or a former Congressman.  Or Soldier.  Tim Walz is COACH!

So here we are.  Will it work? From fans to voters?  From Friday Night Lights to Tuesday morning lines? 

My baseball class starts next week.  The book is “Why We Love Baseball.”  Makes perfect sense.

Up Close

 Things are more intense when you believe you may be experiencing them for the last time.  I felt this way while watching and loving the Olympics.  And now, I'm getting ready to focus on the Democratic Convention here in Chicago.

My friends all know that I was slightly "up close and personal" during the infamous 1968 Convention.  I was working for the ACLU, had demonstrators staying with friends, and later volunteered for Quentin Young, M.D., the hero of the Grant Park wounded.

This time I'm counting on my friend Bonnie who lives downtown to be on the scene for me.  Among her many talents she's a natural reporter.  And she has a cousin who's a delegate. 

"About 8:30 p.m. I passed the Hilton.  Oh, the memories! Abortion women across the street and they were excellent.  Never heard pro abortion better.  Calm, sensible advocacy.  I was truly impressed!"

Abbie Hoffman would have had so much fun with Tic Toc.

Today

 I've decided to feel good about Harris/Walz. Not the lost cause kind of good I felt about Gene McCarthy or Bernie.  The hopeful Obama good that goes with imagining the possibility of a win

Most of my political classes discuss the crippling problems of our unique and creaky old system. Gerrymandering, the electoral college, voter suppression, floods of money. 

So yes, I see the black clouds of eventual disappointment.  That's why it's a deliberate choice to be in the sun.

Today.

Particles Here and There

 I asked my friend Naomi what she was reading.  “A book about particles,” she said.  “As in physics?”  “Yes, but I’m not reading every word, I’m just trying to get the general idea.”  That reminded me of when I joined my beloved class on baseball.

I soon realized that many of my colleagues occupied a unique space in fandom.  Sometimes the conversation led to: “It was a fast ball on the outside corner that got Hank Greenberg in the 1945 World Series.” 

“Where do I fit in?, I wondered.  I decided to look for the big picture.

I found my place when we discussed the special personality a manager must have to know that his every decision would be questioned.  Or, how rare it is for a star to know when to walk away from the game. Or, how much Major League Baseball missed some of the great American talents from the Negro Leagues.

Physics says that reality requires observation.  So, I refuse to watch the White Sox.  The reality of their disastrous season is lost on me.

See?  I’ve put physics to good use.

To The Top

 If they haven’t done so already, the MAGAs are going to accuse Kamala Harris of “sleeping her way to the top.”  This refers to her long term relationship with Willie Brown, the political heavyweight in California.  Considering that he is a black man who operated more than 25 years ago in our largest state,  I’d say his heavyweight credentials are of Ali proportions.

This theme is a longstanding tradition in politics.  Women don’t make it on their own. You could say Hillary did it by her choice of husbands.  Or, how about all of the wives who have stepped into their husband’s position upon his death?   It’s the last name (not the first) that still had political pull… and value.

So, are we over it?  

Stay or Go?

 

At this point the paralysis over whether Joe should stay or go has become tragically boring. Power propels ego to the stratosphere.  Here on the ground I say:  Flip a coin.  Rock, paper, scissors.  Anything to move on to defeating Trump.

Stay or go is such a uniquely human problem.  Those who manage it well are a special kind of hero.  The beloved Willie Mays stayed so long we could only watch him and weep.  Diana Taurasi, the all-time great women's basketball star, has been given a spot on the Olympic team at age 42! Tiger Woods didn't make the cut at the British Open.  No red shirt on Sunday. He shot his highest score ever.  

The one I feel most sad about is Ruth Bader Ginsberg.  She fought so hard, yet the Reaper laughed as he snatched her away.

Family Series

 Writing about my family has been a powerful experience.  I joked to some friends:  “She who holds the pen holds history in her hand.” Well. maybe not history.  These were my memories. They stuck with me because of some truth. The human condition.

I realize that I went for the dramatic stories, many of which were sad.  Of course, they were moments in a family that was filled with fortunate, successful lives.  Elsa’s remark summed it up:  “Even coming from another culture, I’m struck by how similar your family stories are to mine.”

Some people hope to be reunited with loved ones on the other side.  I’m glad I gathered these people in my mind now… and on the page. 

 I feel reunited. 

Chandler?

 Reeling from my second divorce, I thought: "Who am I?" I realized there was no last name that I wanted as my own.   The idea of picking a name for myself emerged slowly and gained steam.  My first thought was Joan Chambers.  I was thinking of the poem “The Chambered Nautilus.” Growth and change.

“No, mother. Not Chambers. You don’t want to be associated with the porn star.”  Marguerite was right.  Marilyn Chambers was big then. “How about Chandler?”, I mused. “It has a literary ring to it and I am determined to be a writer.”  Pearl Chandler, my hairdresser, said she would be my “relative.”

And so, I emerged from the chamber as Chandler. When I announced my new name, I didn’t get much blow back. Not even from my family.  They probably chalked it up to my latest eccentricity.  I registered it as honoring my conviction to have a better life.

An Education

 Education was important to my mother.  She was smart enough to know how much she had missed  So no public schools for Jo and me when we were ready.  My first stop was at Miss Newman’s School for Girls.  It might as well have been called “for bad girls” for many of my classmates were deep into rebellion.  I learned as much as the Newman sisters had to offer, while I had fun observing and slightly participating in the wild side.

My education odyssey continued at the Grosse Pointe Country Day School and finally at Kingswood which was the girls school of the Cranbrook Academy.  I was lonely as a boarder and angry to be sent away from my friends. Now I can say those years paid off.  I was too young then to appreciate the iconic architecture or the surroundings. That came later. But the high standards and the great teachers reignited and solidified my love of learning.  

And it’s lasted all this time.

My Handsome Hero

Uncle Elwood was my mother’s young brother.  He was so handsome, like Errol Flynn. I suspect his childhood was pretty bleak with no money and no father.  He was in trouble when he joined the Army as a teenager. After Pearl Harbor, all we knew was that he was somewhere in the Pacific.  With Uncle Elwood fighting the Japs, I figured I was okay.

When my mother was working, our maid Maddie would let her son come over.  “Those Japs skin our soldiers alive!,” he said. Maddie punched his arm for saying that in front of me.  It was too late.  

When we didn’t hear anything for years, we assumed he was dead. And then he was back.  Uncle Elwood had survived a Japanese prison camp.  He never left the Army, so they gave him a promotion and sent him to some safe place far away from combat. 

Fate knew where he was.  Uncle Elwood was in a jeep accident that left him shattered again.

It was cruel of my mother to dismiss him as an alcoholic.  He married the nurse who cared for him, he continued his Army career,  and when he died he was buried with military honors.

Toledo

 The last time I was in Toledo was at Uncle Moe’s 80th birthday party.  He was the only one that made it that far and beyond.   Aunt Bertha couldn’t be at the party because she needed full time care at the old folks home where she lived.

When I went to visit Aunt Bertha I discovered that Aunt Doris was living in the same home!  I’m so glad I got to see her.  I wish I had told her how important my time as a child was with her and Uncle Frank.  They gave me a glimpse of an intact family.  Aunt Doris let me in on another way of being a mother.  She made me feel well loved. 

Joyce

 Writing about Maddie got me thinking of Joyce.  She was the woman who cared for my mother in her final years.  Were they close? Hard to know with my mother, but I think they liked watching Jeopardy and rented movies.

At some point I learned that Joyce had a son in a wheelchair at home.  Gunshot? Accident?  I feel bad now that I never asked more. 

Today, there was a young black man in a wheelchair outside the Panera where I was stopping for coffee.  “What do you need?”  “Just a little breakfast.”  I bought him a muffin and juice.  I think somehow it was about Joyce.

Sometimes another time becomes today.