Checking Out

Checking Out

A friend of mine is dying.  The news came in the morning’s mail, not surprising, but still terrible.  A fair number of friends are already gone.  Others are fighting hard and some are easing on.  It’s not the only subject of conversation, but it comes up a great deal more frequently than it did even a year or two ago.

This is not entirely unexpected.  Apparently we who make up the first bulge in the population that began booming in the late 1940’s have reached what manufacturers like to call the expiration date, although I prefer to think of myself as perhaps Best Used By 2018, still reasonably safe to have around if properly refrigerated.

All the same, my existential warning system has kicked in, the relentless ticking countdown has moved from background to foreground, and time’s winged chariot has begun hurrying more insistently near.  All of which is to say that I think about checking out a good deal more that I once did, and with a good deal more sticky emotional bounce around.  The bouncing is actually profound as I am intermittently at ease with the operation of the universe in whatever fashion it operates and  determined to place an ego-bound headlock on that universe.  I’d use the phrase, “death grip”, but that’s actually… you know… a contradiction of terms in this case.

It may seem a digression at this point to admit that I have an unfortunate inclination to actually read the information people give me about themselves in sporting the t-shirts that they wear, but one hit home the other day and provides a neat transition from wallowing to wondering.

I live in what my children call a “blue hair” town, a town more crowded with retired folks of my generation than most.  One of my generational cohorts, a not particularly well-preserved representative of the tribe, lounged comfortably in a coffee shop wearing a declaration that may be shared by others of my ilk — “I Intend To Live Forever —  So Far, So Good”

Really?  How good?

Well, although the present is always tough to evaluate, it’s clear that we live in troubled and troubling times; humankind taken as a whole appears to be less kind and unfortunately more human, and trusted institutions seem less trustworthy.  At least, that’s the way it seems to me from what I know is a very insulated and privileged point of view.  I suspect that for most of the world daily life has had more to do with struggling to find security than with anxiously observing the loss of treasured beliefs. and practices. I  have been moderately aware that the chunk of history – the speck of history – that I have lived in has known troubles, but for the most part, I have lived in cheerful oblivion decade after decade; fate plunked me down on a continent that has not seen invasion, plague, and pestilence, and in a relatively small and absolutely insulated corner of that continent.  It all looked very Mickey Mouse Club, American Bandstand, and Yankee baseball to me.  Yes, I saw the horror of war in Vietnam, and yes, I saw the legacy of slavery and racial violence in the United States, but from a distance and with an unshaped conviction that the sweep of progress would inevitably correct inequity, poverty, and the few unfortunate remaining flaws in a nation conceived in liberty and justice, in a nation destined to shine its light on the rest of the world; I believed this good nation would correct itself naturally as reasonability overcame self-interest.

Ignorance was comfort if not bliss, and I regret having plonked along so blithely unaware of the hardships of others and, more notably, feel foolish for believing that civility, tolerance, the celebration of progress and inclusion was inevitable and universally admired.  Having seen behind the curtain in a nation I no longer recognize, I’m also in danger of feeling simultaneously responsible and entirely overwhelmed.

I’m stuck.

I don’t know everything, never have, and that’s been ok as long as I felt certain that enough bright people knew enough and enough generous people gave enough, and enough brave people did enough to keep the world from skidding into chaos.  I trusted science and the rule of law, which in hindsight was an abdication of my own responsibility for environmental crisis and the perpetuation of a discriminatory system of justice.  And now …?

I didn’t intend to give up the reins; I look around and, with the exception of the usual cast of imbedded plutocrats still mucking around, impossibly young people are bright enough, and generous enough, and brave enough to try to pull the tattered fabric back together.  I don’t quote Satchel Paige very often, but his question rings through the decades:  “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?”

Old enough to know I’m old enough.

I have always been moved by the last scene in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, a play that has fallen out of favor but which speaks to the human condition in a way that resonates with my own experience in the world.  It’s a play that breaks the fourth wall and operates without props or scenery.   The various characters have contended with the things we contend with and have celebrated the things we celebrate.  At a funeral, the living stand and speak; the dead sit  in rows facing the audience.  They observe the living and respond with pleasant objectivity to all they see.  What strikes me is that in this moment a group finds itself made up of whoever happened to die within the same era.  They may not have had much in common along the way, but end up in the same place.

I’ve thought of this process as similar to my experience in the supermarket.  I walk through the door, others are there or enter later, and at some point, we all stand in the check-out line.  Let’s assume I’m in the express line (15 items or less) with a loaf of bread and a can of soup.  The person in front of me has piled the conveyor belt high with produce, soda cans,  slabs of bacon, candy bars, deodorant –  obviously waaaaay more than 15 items.  Life as it is.  What to do?

Higher life forms than myself have suggested that choosing not to object or express annoyance is acceptance; not noticing is serenity.

Life is happening all around me; I’m delighted with much of it and on the verge of despair with much of it.  I summon my inner Frank Costanza and shout, “Serenity now!”, but the reality is that I’m in the check-out line, however fervently I wish to be somewhere on Aisle 12 looking at hamburger buns.  My job today, I think, is to look around and actually see the people around me.  They may be in my line; they may still be cruising the school supplies.  No matter.  I’m pretty sure we are all in this together.














Hacking around? Trying to snow me?

Hacking around?  Trying to snow me?

You can try to paint an entire generation with the same brush, but we who call ourselves Boom Zero, those born between 1945 and 1950, have relatively little in common with Boom Lite, people born in the 1960’s, after I had started high school.  I’m pretty sure they didn’t spend hours listening to the Lone Ranger on the radio, didn’t buy savings stamps in school, didn’t wear coonskin hats, didn’t have to “duck and cover” in the classroom, didn’t play games like “Rich Uncle” or “Mystery Date”.

I’m sure their lives have been rich and full, but when it comes right down to it, we don’t really speak the same language.  They probably wouldn’t say they had it “made in the shade”, and I never felt even remotely comfortable using the word “groovy”.  Did their parents worry that their children would become “greasers”, “JDs” (Juvenile Delinquents), “hoods”?  Did they use Vapo Rub to make sure their DA (Duck’s Ass) stayed firm in high winds?  Did they use Vapo Rub?  If they were on the road to perdition, did they use a “church key” to open a Blatz, a Rheingold, A Piels, a Schlitz, a Ballantine, a Carling Old Style?  Did they go to “sock hops”?  Did they think Shelly Fabares and Paul Peterson were just dreamy?

We think not.

All of this comes to mind as my daughter, still horse-crazy after all these years, will be spending the afternoon doing what she likes best, riding a bunch of different horses to make sure they are exercised and generally pampered.  This job, if in her case it is a job, is called hacking.  Hacking is also used to mean something like pleasure riding, a perfectly acceptable, even gentlemanly, occupation.  In my earlier days however, at home and at school, hacking around meant acting without purpose, larking about, essentially goofing off.  Hacking around with friends was virtually all we had to do in a town that had an intellectually ambitious bookstore but no pizza place, movie theater, or Dairy Queen.  So, that was good hacking, but the term was used with different impact by my teachers who described lackadaisical, attitude impaired clowns in the classroom as  hackers. We hackers, we happy few, formed a band of brothers we thought forever branded by the term, and yet, the disapprobation appears to have disappeared almost entirely.

And then.

Say, one was committed to a life of academic lassitude, happily hacking around in mindless schoolboy distraction.  What to do when called to account?  How to survive the slings and arrows tossed by cranky teachers and coaches?  One, and you know who that one most certainly was not, might hang one’s head, vow to do better, and buckle down from time to time , just to stay out of the line of fire.  Or, counting on invention and charm, one could attempt to spin a tale so compelling that the admiring teacher was simply swept away, forgetting to drop the well deserved hammer.  A much less taxing enterprise.

We called that artful distraction a “snow job”, by which we meant that somehow the combined weight of charm and tangentially possible although certainly dubious information might bury the listener as if he had wandered into an Alpine avalanche.  We also used the term “snow” to indicate a semi-reputable con job, such as convincing a sucker friend to buy the car we knew to be near its sad end by touting features that had nothing to do with its performance.  “You’ll never see a car with a tint job like this baby again.”

The avalanche metaphor was also appropriate to the more genteel use of the word “snow” to indicate headlong, helpless, relatively sudden, and probably impermanent infatuation.  My recollection is that we were first snowed somewhere in the late middle school years and remained capable of being snowed into our college years, or at least, into my college years.  Being snowed was a more intense form of infatuation, more mature than puppy love and less creepy than obsessed.  I suppose there were instances in which someone who had experienced being snowed could become love-sick, but the first stage carried no whiff of pathology.  Being snowed was great with no real expectation of sustained relationship.

Have a crush on?  No, crushes were cultivated like courtly love, emotional but in the abstract.  Smitten?  Closer, but being snowed did include the sensation of being swept away.  It doesn’t matter now; that phrase too has been swept away.

There’s idle nostalgia at play here, obviously, and fun with words, but there’s also the recognition that language shapes experience as much as experience shapes language.  Kidspeak, slang, lingo, reveals something about the time in which it appears.  We were, I was, trying to differentiate our experience from those of the generation holding sway.  They had their words; we had ours.  There were a lot of us, seventy-six million born between 1946 and 1964, so our voices and our sensibilities probably lasted longer than those of previous generations.  And yet, we’d be appalled to hear the creaky phrases we used so happily a half century ago.  Yeah, and no one ever really said “groovy” with a straight face.







What Are We Celebrating?

What Are We Celebrating?

… today, I’m celebrating tumbling kids and guys with chain saws, and a small town that turns out to cheer those who bring hope.

I’m heading to the 4th of July parade in town.  It’s a wonderful jumble of marching Cub Scouts, amateur hula dancers, the 4H club, people dressed as butterflies chanting “Migration is beautiful”, yoga teachers, Shakespearean actors, softball teams, militant vegans, kazoo bands, mimes, and a host of other specialized and important enthusiasms.

It’s small town, and earnest, and kindly, and hopeful.  I love it.

But I’m also aware of how mitigated my fondness for the 4th has been by events and attitudes in the last two years.  I’m wearing red and white shorts and a blue shirt, have flags out at home, but I’m aware that the flag, like the anthem, has been weaponized, turned into a partisan body slam.

Patriotism has been hijacked by partisan politics for a very long time, but it is only recently that I pause before looking for my flag to wonder in flying it, do I put myself among those who think football players are “sons of bitches” for bringing attention to the shooting of young black men, do I put myself among those who think Muslims are dangerous, who think that people seeking refuge are criminals to be confined and separated from their children.

So, I stand in a shaded street in Ashland, Oregon, under two unfurled flags, captivated by the kids showing off their tumbling, and the guys on the fuel coop float waving chainsaws used to provide free wood in the winter to warm those who need help, and the guy dressed as a recycling bin, and the Booming Broadway Dancers, Baby Boomer Women striking Broadway poses with jazz hands as they march, and the dogs dressed as Uncle Sam, and the employees of the free clinic tossing toothbrushes to the crowd, and the bagpipers marching crisply as the temperature soars, and the several hundred music teachers in town to attend a workshop at SOU who sit on three separate floats playing perfectly, and Oregon’s Senator, Ron Wyden, greeting children perched on the sidewalk, and marching bumble bees representing Ashland, “Bee City”.

Rumor has had it that a great marching band and drumline has been practicing in South Ashland for a few days, so my son and I walk to the area from which the parade begins.  The Vanguard Drum and Bugle Corps from Santa Clara, California have assembled at the end of the parade, waiting for the space to add a marching band, a drumline, drill team and flag tossers to the mix.  A single drum sounds clearly, and in an instant the entire group is marching, bugles and tubas sounding out the Star Spangled Banner, the Washington Post March, El Capitan as the drums roll, rifles fly, flags twirl.  At the end of the set, the band marches silently as the drums continue, playing a complex, and wonderfully funky, contrapuntal march, thirty drums of differing sizes and tones playing so smoothly that it seems a single drum is carrying the tune.

We walk back to the heart of town alongside the band, catching something extraordinary as they repeat their performance.  I stop at one point and realize I have goose bumps on my arms and legs.  For a moment I have my America back.  I am proud of the conviction and purpose the marchers brought to the day, I am moved by the statements endorsing peace and respect.

I completely understand the intention of the woman walking by us with a large sign asking, “What are you celebrating?”  I get it.  But today, I’m celebrating tumbling kids and guys with chain saws, and a small town that turns out to cheer those who bring hope.

I won’t go to the concert tonight or to the fireworks display; I am content to remember a 4th of July on a human scale.  I’ll make sure the dogs don’t get rattled by the neighbor’s small burst of firecrackers, and remember that we’ve come through tough times before.










Love is the time we spend loving

Love is the time we spend loving

“Love … is not a mystery.  It is not poetry, it is not pure, it is not sacred.  Nothing human is.  Love is simply the time you spend loving.  There are no other rules.  That’s it.”

Once again I’ve been knocked sideways by an author and a novel, and once again I am reminded that I actually have not thought every thought I will ever think.  It’s one thing to be out of ideas for the moment, and a far more disturbing thing to think that I’ve thought ’em all, that’s it, no new ideas coming my way.  Inside my head, the same old same old.  Then I read or hear or see something that is delightful, or profound, or terrifying, or comforting, and badda bing, badda boom, the brain is engaged once more.

Today’s brain supplement comes from Rebecca Kaufman, author of The Gunners, a novel about which I had  heard nothing.  I can’t remember how it came to me or how it moved to the top of my pile of books to be read immediately.  The novel is oddly uneventful and understated; the author generously introduces us to her characters , all of whom are friends from a suburb of Buffalo, none of whom lives a particularly dramatic life, and then pretty much steps out of the way.  I would describe Kauffman as an unobtrusive author, a quality that went unnoticed until I found myself unable to put the book down and unable to explain why I was hooked. Nothing wrong with obtrusive; an author’s distinctive voice is generally part of the impact of their work. Salinger is an obtrusive author; Hemingway, McCarthy, Foster Wallace, all distinctly present in every sentence.

I was entirely ready to puzzle through the distinctive impact of reading a compelling book by an author who remains indistinct when I got sidetracked by one of the very few  reviews of The Gunners, this one written by Lily Meyer entitled, “the Gunners seems simple at first but keep reading”.  I had and wondered if Ms. Meyer’s experience had been similar to mine.

Yes, her response to the novel echoed mine, but she quickly asserted that contemporary female writers rarely express emotion so bluntly, making reference to an article by Claire Faye Watkins entitled, “On Pandering”, in which Watkins argues that women are trained to write for men.

“I wanted to write something Cormac McCarthy would like, something Thomas Pynchon would come out of hiding to endorse, something David Foster Wallace would blurb from beyond the grave.”

Meyer also cites Lili Loofborouw’s work in The Virginia Quarterly in which Loofborouw argues that if a novel seems female, readers are unlikely to find it brilliant or noteworthy, and this was where the sidetrack comes in.  Meyer’s point in the review is to admit that she undervalued Kauffman’s novel because the writing seemed simple, and that her  ability to read critically had been undermined by a lifetime of reading with an ear to the voice of the male writer.

I hadn’t considered the distinctive voice to be a characteristic rarely found in work done by female authors, but it’s certainly an idea worth looking at more closely.  My first impulse is to use my own experience as the universal lens, noting that I read a lot of contemporary fiction, almost exclusively the work of contemporary female authors, and, being male, what’s that say about me or them ?

There are two immediate observations to be made. The first is that I like authors who traffic in emotion and the second is that I like authors who make me think.  David Foster Wallace is gone and I’ve been intimidated by Pynchon, but I am waiting for the next McCarthy and the next Kazuo Ishiguro, and the next Paul Beatty.  I am also waiting for the next by Heidi Julavits, Margaret Atwood, Louise Erdrich, Eleanor Catton, Helen Oyeme, Donna Tart, and now, Rebecca Kauffman.

Here’s a moment in The Gunners that I will find instructive and comforting.  Alice, an indelible, tough, flawed but irrepressible character, has arrived at a wedding having had to put her dog, Finn, down.  Alice confesses that Finn was essentially a bad dog, stubborn, cranky, and, she has to admit, stupid, but, “when the time came, I held his tired gray face in my hands, and I said, You are the perfect dog.  You are perfect.  You can rest now. You were always the perfect dog.”

Simple.  Love is the time we spend loving.  Simple.



Things in the rearview mirror may be larger than they seem

Things in the rearview  mirror may be larger than they seem

In planning to attend the 50th reunion of my college class, I’d decided to spend an extra day after the hoopla and reunion merriment had quieted.  I think I had it mind to linger in order to say a more formal and final farewell than I had in any of my previous celebratory visits.  My feelings about the occasion, and about myself in relation to the occasion, are complicated and surprisingly bittersweet.

I am grateful for the friendships I found there and for the unexpected connection with the physical beauty of the place, both of which conspire to upend me each time I visit. Academically the college was fine and is now considerably better than fine; I didn’t make much use of the opportunities available to me then, pretty much frivoled myself away.  And yet, I’m drawn to the college as I am to no other setting.  The term Alma Mater, mother of/to the soul, is too hackneyed, and too clunky to express what this small college in Ohio means to me.  Ours is a sloppy relationship and not always pretty, not easily communicated, especially as the language of memory demands precision, a summative word or phrase that ties the whole grand, awkward, terrifying, embarrassing adventure into a word or two.  I’m having no luck in finding any.

To be clear:  Even in the golden haze of memory, these were not the best years of my life.

In fact, my college years were by every observable standard among the worst in my life.  I have had more devastating individual moments, but taken as a whole, I have to admit that if the six years between graduation from secondary school and (finally!) graduation from college were to be the measure of my life, the only possible assessment would be of a span both graceless and sad.  So, it’s not that it’s all been downhill from there, and it’s not that I treasure a memory of my best self then; I could, and probably should, be embarrassed to remember myself as I was, but nah, too much self-cauterizing since then.

It is what it was, and I was what I was, and the chips have all fallen as chips fall.  So, why so reluctant to leave this time?

Catching up with classmates had been as instructive as I had hoped; even with the relentless choreography of a 50th reunion, we had time to take time.  We sat at ease in large lawn chairs, looking at the paths we had walked in our first days, simultaneously seeing ourselves then and now, comfortable enough with each other that conversation was rarely of the “remember when …” variety.  Reunions offer an opportunity to consider friendships and to remind myself that I still like the people I liked and like some classmates my younger self had not approached or appreciated.  A particularly kind man has become something of a reunion star having archived most of the flotsam of our lives then, sharing these questionable artifacts with warm generosity.  He was overlooked in my college years; like others in my pack,  I overlooked him.  I am pleased to know that he hasn’t changed, I have, and that I like him very much.

Some of the old pictures passed around help me to understand why I hung around just a bit longer this time.  We all looked marvelous years ago, of course, and it was great to pack a few more memories into the sieve that is my mind, but as each picture came my way, I caught my breath, felt a sharp twist of the heart.  I wasn’t overwhelmed by acknowledging myself as an old person as that reality has been in my face for several years now, but I had forgotten how carelessly joyful we had been, even in the shadow of war and injustice, how small our lives were, how intense.  Many of my classmates were far more responsible than I (ok, all my classmates were far more responsible than I), but even the aspiring orthodentists and lawyers had a capacity for play then that I, for one, have not felt in a very long time.

I’m not rhapsodizing now about merriment lost in the swirl of time, but about undeserved gifts freely given me and,unexpectedly about sadness for my younger self who found joy and friendship in a place of uncommon beauty and who took it all for granted.  I find myself leaning toward the picture trying to … what?   Maybe shake me as I was, caution me about the road ahead, remind me to seize the day and squeeze every last drop from it, smell the roses, pat the kittens, keep friendship alive.  Be grateful.

It took a long time for me to develop a capacity for gratitude; I missed countless opportunities to say thank you over and again.  I think I may have needed an extra day to wander alone summoning memories, breathing thanks into every corner of a cherished place I may not see again, certainly not again in the company of all the friends who gathered last weekend.

Complicated and bittersweet, may be the only reasonable way to describe the emotional soup  served after fifty unruly years away from those privileged years.  Some of the conversations about us from the various college functionaries had to do with the times in which we came of age, about our part in the great shift in culture, about the grand sweep of history, and those retroactive pats on the head were welcome enough, of course, as we like to pretend we had something to do with the parts of the change we endorse and nothing to do with the vile chunks we wish had never been dislodged. It occurs to me often that perhaps we were far less significant than we had thought.  With the benefit of hindsight, and in the wreckage of the recent past, we seem a small smudge, all that remains of a fat bug on the windshield of life.

So, I took an extra day to drink coffee in the empty village, under the banners announcing class events and the sale of t-shirts.  I bought a cap, mostly as to have an excuse for lingering in the college bookstore.  It was handsome, weathered red canvas with the college’s founding date above the brim.  I suspect more than a few of us have stopped in to say farewell since 1824, even before the bookstore sold snappy college gear.  It’s not as easy as I had imagined.  I seem to care a great deal more than I had thought, which is yet another unanticipated gift in returning.

I may get back.  We’ll see.  Might as well; I left my hat on the plane.




Thank You

Thank You

“If the only prayer you say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough” – Meister Eckhart (1260-1328).

I’ve written about the central place of gratitude in a life well lived, but haven’t carried the discussion to the expression of thanks.  Unspoken gratitude is an important part of self-reflection and necessary to living relatively free of resentment, but the act of expressing thanks has significance and reveals generosity of spirit in honoring those who have helped us.

So, two stories about thanks that mattered, both of which come about as the result of my wife’s initiative.

My wife is an exceptionally competent person and apparently has been from birth.  These days her expertise is primarily made manifest in her work with dogs and with the people who own them, but she remains as well an inveterate educator, a gifted teacher, intuitive and creative.  Generations of math impaired students have  recovered from math paralysis as she took the time to observe their work thoughtfully in order to find their particular difficulty with the subject.  In earlier careers she was an EMT and an athletic trainer, all of which is to say that she is particularly able to offer varieties of help in exceedingly diverse moments of crisis.

About twenty years ago, she returned home from an early morning dog training session in Santa Paula with a terrible story to tell.  She and our daughter had been driving into the rising sun, aware of the effect glare and intense flickering sunlight could have on drivers when they saw the car they were following begin to weave, then swerve, careening from one set of guard rails to the other, then spinning, rolling and crashing.  As the car began its erratic swerving, she called 911 and reported an accident in the making.  She slowed and put on her flashing emergency lights, alerting the cars behind her and pulled up behind the crash.  When paramedics arrived, she delivered a concise account of the events surrounding the accident and a detailed report on the man’s condition.  Based on her assessment of injury, she thought the driver was unlikely to survive.

I’d seen her leap into action as a trainer and EMT, of course and had been driving on a country road in Ohio years earlier when an accident took place in front of us.  I had still been gaping when she jumped from our car and quickly got to work.  I wasn’t surprised, then, when she told me of her early morning’s challenges.  There was a bit of adrenalin charge left for her even after the long drive home, but for the most part, ho-hum, just another day on the road.

The story I want to tell is about her, obviously, but more particularly about a phone call that came on Christmas Eve.  An unfamiliar voice asked if she had witnessed an accident on the lonely road to Santa Paula.  The driver introduced himself and described the critical care he had received following the accident; he had been placed in an induced coma for more than a month before much of the surgical repair could take place.  He had been driving home from a twelve-hour shift and had fallen asleep, coming to weeks after the accident had occurred; he had no idea of what had happened.  All he knew was that my wife had moved quickly enough to allow him to recover and enjoy another holiday with his family.

He had called to wish her a Merry Christmas and to thank her for helping him.  Not a big deal in the largest scale of things, but hugely important for him, for her, for his family and for ours.

Constant and kind readers will also remember that all of our dogs have been therapy dogs, trained to adapt to virtually any situation in order to be able to visit patients needing critical care in any sort of facility.  Step on their tails?  Not a problem.  Have a juicy hamburger on your tray?  Won’t touch it.  Hooked up with wires and tubes?  They find a way in for a snuggle without dislodging anything important.  These dogs have pretty much seen it all and loved it all.

They have other jobs as well as they are working dogs and often travel some distance to compete in dog agility trials or to act as ambassadors of goodwill from the canine kingdom.  It happened that my wife had packed them up and taken them to Long Beach, a considerable distance from our home.  They were to meet and greet anyone wandering by the border collie booth in the hope that those considering adopting a border collie would have had the chance to meet a couple up close and personal.  My wife was chatting with a passerby when two women approached, each teary and hardly able to choke out a greeting.  They had seen the dogs and came to give thanks.

Some years earlier, these very dogs had visited a hospital and spent a joyful half hour with an elderly woman who was particularly fond of beasts such as outs.  It was a good visit, similar to the thousands of visits they had made.  The women who had approached my wife in Long Beach told her that she recognized the dogs and vividly remembered their visit with their mother.  It had been hard for them to see their mother in pain as she neared the end of her life. She died no more than twenty minutes after the dogs had wandered to the next room, but they had seen their mother smile for the first time in months, soften, relax as the dogs competed for a place near a petting hand.  It meant the world to them that their mother’s last hour had included peace and joy.

They hadn’t known how to contact my wife or how to thank her, but thanks arrived, and those thanks matter as it happened that those great dogs died too young and too soon.  Now we remember them, and we remember the gratitude that they earned.

A few months ago I belabored the notion that it’s never too late to do better; let’s assume it’s never too late to give thanks.






My Brain Is On The Clock

My Brain Is On The Clock

The NFL Draft captures the attention of 45 MILLION viewers, draws more than 70,000 people who attend in person, lasts for three days, and occupies the hearts and minds of the nation’s most erudite students of sports from the moment the Eagles hoisted the Lombardi Trophy to the moment Roger Goodell chuffs into the microphone to kick off the festivities.

Let’s think about this for a moment … starting with the 45 MILLION, many of whom  admittedly start out watching the draft but fall away somewhere around hour five.  Still, that’s an extraordinary number of people watching what is essentially football bingo.  Just to provide some perspective, slightly more than 18 million tuned in to see the Astros defeat the Dodgers in the last game of the World Series, the Cavs and Warriors averaged about 20 million last season, fewer fans than watched the year before, when the Cavs took the championship, almost 8 million follow professional bowling, and a mere 2.4 million ponied up $100.00 apiece to watch Floyd Mayweather fight Manny Pacquiao.

There are some interesting questions in any draft season, as there are this year.  Premium quarterbacks establish the success of a franchise and there is some doubt that this year’s crop has the goods.  The top four or five this season are decidedly less promising than some in other years, but, hey, someone has to take them, and at least two will go in the first round if not in the first five picks. Case in point -Josh Rosen. Jim Mora, controversial  former coach at UCLA, tossed Rosen, one of the top two quarterbacks in the draft and his former QB, under a bus by suggesting that as a privileged intellectual millennial, his passion for the game has to be questioned.  Rosen may not be a tough-town quarterback like Johnny Unitas or Brett Favre, but the NFL has welcomed a host of qbs from snappy backgrounds, all of whom could be modeling for Ralph Lauren in the off-season.  If the charge is that Rosen is too smart to stay interested in football, which is what Mora seems to have charged, the best quarterbacks on the field right now would be Chris Leak, now in the CFL,  or Terrelle Pryor, both of whom had single digit scores on the Wonderlic test.

So that’s interesting.

Then there’s Saquon Barkley.  Barkley, Penn State’s running back extraordinaire, is a true freak of nature and the most exciting football phenom since Barry Sanders.  Picking up almost 4000 yards and 43 touchdowns is noteworthy, but anyone who saw Barkley play knows that this guy can bust into daylight with or without an opening.  Rumor has it that Penn State really only had two running plays, which, if you have a Saquon Barkley, is really all you need.  This year’s hot question is whether an NFL franchise will use a top pick on Barkley, knowing the half-life of running backs is about two years and remembering that in the last two seasons top running backs came from the middle of the draft.  Several teams could conceivably pass on the most talented athlete in the draft.

So that’s interesting.

In red-hot franchise news, The Cleveland Browns,perennial doormats of the league, have a bunch of nifty picks and could conceivably jump-start a franchise that has been mired in misery.  The NY Football Giants face the inevitable replacement of Eli Manning and may chose to use their highest pick to land one of those three quarterbacks of questionable value.  Do the Giants take a last shot at a playoff with Manning or shoot the moon for the next franchise qb?  How many quarterbacks do the Broncos need this year?  The Jets … ’nuff said.  The Cards have a plan to keep Sam Bradford on the field for 16 games next season; it involves adamantium and homeopathic treatments in which his knees and ankles will be routinely hit with soft mallets.  Oh, so they could need to draft as well.

That’s pretty much it, so one wonders what will draw the millions to the event once again.  It’s been a while since the end of the football season, but colleges will be playing their spring games at about the same time, the NBA and NHL are starting to shape up the playoff slots, and baseball is in full swing (as it were).  Any excuse for a party?  Makes sense, at least on the sports bar and giant tv screen level.

This may be mere cynicism, or more likely the annual squealing of a fan whose franchise will be drafting nothing but interior linemen, but I suggest that the draft allows us, the uninitiated and unpaid fans, the luxury of second-guessing the analytics guys, the scouts, the coaches, the trainers, and team doctors.  I’ve already mentioned the Browns once; their draft history is so appalling that any of us could certainly have done a better job.  Will they self-destruct again this year?  45 Million people will be tuning in to watch it happen.  Want to make a football junkie drool in anticipation of juicy controversy?  Just trot out the list of top draft quarterback flops; it’s a catnip canape for fans of all ages.

Ryan Leaf (2nd overall),  Jamarcus Russell (1st overall), Akili Smith (3rd overall), David Klinger (6th overall), Tim Couch (1st overall), Joey Harrington (3rd overall), David Carr (1st overall), Vince Young (3rd overall), Jeff George (1st overall),

There are more serious issues to be considered in these parlous times; perhaps brains could be employed in service to other more pressing humanitarian efforts, but, no. Apparently we will once again clamor to see young men, only recently mud spattered and bloody, striding to the stage in thousand dollar suits to shake Commissar Goodell’s hand, jam on the ill-fitting team cap so that ears are flattened and spread, and flap a Cleveland Browns jersey with feigned glee.

If only there were some mechanism that allowed us to check the results with a quick scan of a screen, say, or even on the phone we carry in our pockets.  It’s essential, of course, to have the results in real-time as there are only three months between the draft and the first exhibition games.  I suppose we’ll all just have to settle in for the three-day marathon.marathon starting on April 26th.