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."