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.