Went for a ride on Friday to Vermont. It was hotter than Hades in Boston and there were some friends who had invited us to a town in what I'll guess is the northern Berkshires. Hot in Vermont too, but relatively comfortable compared to what was doing in the city.
Got about half way and were in stop and go traffic in a town that connected the interstate to a country road. Very charming little burg, but it was losing its charm as we chugged for what seemed like twenty minutes through the main street. We were just about on the other side of town and ready to go on what would prove to be a pretty country highway, when we spotted what looked like a park.
We had some sandwiches in the cooler and figured this was as good a place as any to pull over and have lunch. As we drove into the lot we saw that this was not, despite the appearance, a public park, but something called a Retreat Center. Still, there was this picnic table on the lawn and the grounds were not swarming with retreaters. There were a number of cars in the lot, but I figured how much heat would a constable give me on the fourth of July weekend, for eating a sandwich at a picnic table even if the grounds were typically reserved for executive retreaters.
I had stuff on my mind, work and personal related, and that-added to the heat and the snail like traffic through town- had me in a mood one might call irritated. Not much conversation taking place at the picnic table. Eating our sandwiches, passing the napkins, plucking some grapes, and drinking the water we'd packed. My nephew's wife once took a look at my mug when I was in one of these contemplative/irritated moods and commented, accurately, "Well Mr. Grumpy has joined us."
In the middle of our quiet lunch we noticed a couple emerge from the Retreat Center building. He was dressed in a blue blazer with summer dress slacks. She too was wearing a summer outfit, like what one might wear to work in August. Summery, but staid. She had a name card necklace that jangled about near the bottom of her top.
The couple looked subdued. Did not seem to be having a great time at their retreat. Holding hands but solemnly. They took a look at us, got into their car silently and drove away.
We finished the sandwiches and packed up the car. Then, just out of curiosity, went up to the front of the Retreat Center. The sign at the door, we realized, was code. This was no executive retreat center. This was a place, it seemed, for people who were in need of help. Perhaps addicts, perhaps teens with behavioral problems. This, it seemed, was a home for the troubled. The couple we saw, we now figured, had been visiting someone. Visiting day. Maybe meeting with the therapist to discuss the pain of their loved one, now, essentially, locked in the darkness on this sunny day.
The realization was a good antidote for Mr. Grumpy. I can take the heat and should be able to withstand traffic even if its bumper to bumper. The travails that may seem debilitating to most of us, are very insignificant when compared to the emotional pain that others have to endure on a regular basis. Probably a good idea to juxtapose the issues in our heads with the pain of wearing a name tag that reads "Guest" as you visit a tortured child who has retreated. And the walk to your car holding the hand of your spouse silently. And the drive back to what passes for normalcy with a hole in your heart where the whole used to be.
Monday, July 8, 2013
They're out there
This appeared on an espn web site. A testament to fandom and a sense of humor.
A lifelong Cleveland Browns fan has gone to his final rest, but not before making one last request from the team.
Scott E. Entsminger, 55, of Mansfield, Ohio, died on July 4. Entsminger, a Columbus native, was a musician and a Browns season-ticket holder who wrote a song for the team each year and sent it in, along with his advice on how to run the team.
According to his obituary in the Columbus Dispatch, Entsminger also "respectfully requests six Cleveland Browns pall bearers so the Browns can let him down one last time."
The family also has requested that "everyone" wear their Browns clothing to Entsminger's funeral Tuesday.
No word from the team on that request for pallbearers.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Cut Off
On Wednesday night I left the gym and turned the Red Sox game on the radio. The score was 1-1 in the bottom of the 8th and the Sox had Pedroia on second and Ortiz on first with nobody out. I'd gone to see the Red Sox the night before and had been following their regular successes. I wanted to see if the team could take the lead.
So, I pulled over near a tavern that was on my route. There was plenty of room at the bar so I took a seat and watched the rest of the 8th. Not much to the rest of the 8th, the Sox went down with a weak strike out and two other ineffective at-bats. The game went into the ninth tied 1-1. I figured I'd stick around for the ninth and if the game remained tied, make my way home then. I had ordered a light beer less because I am a fan of that variety, and more because I had just perspired aplenty on the tennis courts, and thought more than a light beer might make me a little less secure than I want to be behind the wheel. I don't know whether to be pleased or not, but the fact is that as I have gotten older my ability to consume beer has diminished. After a night of hard exercise, unless I drink a good deal of water concurrently, one or two beers is all I can consume before I start thinking wistfully about lost love and realize that I should not be behind the wheel. It had been hot on the tennis courts on Wednesday, plus I'd done some swimming beforehand. I knew I needed to cut myself off after one.
I could nurse a beer for one inning no problem. In my cheapskate graduate school days when I was earning a grand total, no lie, of 3K a year for three consecutive years, I once watched an entire Buffalo Braves basketball game with my beer glass ticket for the bar stool remaining sufficiently filled throughout. One beer to watch one inning of the Sox game would be no problem.
Between the bottom of the eighth and top of the ninth a fellow came into the establishment and took a seat next to me. He looked like a man who just got off a shift doing something that was tiring. He had a key ring jangling about him which looked like it had fifty keys on it. I was reminded of many guys I had worked with at universities who are treated shabbily, but without whom the place does not function. Often these characters swing their keys around like another set of manhood. This guy who sat down next to me, did not seem too self consumed. He just seemed exhausted.
The thing about this guy that was most distinctive about his appearance had nothing to do with his key ring. The man was about 5' 5" not particularly broad shouldered, but had an enormous belly. But caricature like. As if he came off the human being assembly line and they put the wrong gut on an otherwise relatively normal looking guy. Narrow shoulders, and then this huge belly that looked like it preceded the rest of him by a good second or two. He had to lean back on his bar stool some, because otherwise his gut would have rammed into the bar itself. Not exaggerating here. I've seen bigger guys, but rarely someone so disproportionate.
I said to myself this guy should not be drinking beer. This guy should be running around the block hoping to reduce his girth. This guy was a heart attack waiting to happen. You can't be lugging that amount of weight around your frame without your body wailing, "look boychik, there's just so much I can carry for so long. You want to stick around, unload some cargo."
The guy orders a beer anyway, and then now pushing about 10 in the evening asks for a menu. By this time the Red Sox have retired the Padres in the top of the ninth and will soon come to bat in the bottom. I exchange a smile and hello with my neighbor at the bar as people tend to do. He glances at the menu and then picks it up waving not offensively at the bartender.
"What'll it be?" asks the bartender.
"The Buffalo Cheeseburger" he says.
The bartender nods and begins to walk toward the kitchen with the order. He glances over his shoulder. "Fries with that?' he asks.
"Fries" affirms my neighbor. Vu den.
And I am sitting at the bar and thinking that if I were drinking too much beer the bartender would say to me, or should say to me, "No more buddy, you've had enough." He would cut me off. Do we have an obligation to say the same thing to a fellow who looks like he can not endure another Buffalo Cheeseburger without reducing his time on the planet by several months?
I understand we all have freedoms. I also know that in part a reason that the barkeep will tell people that they're cut off is because they dont want a drunk driving home. Still, do we sit back and nod "good choice" when a too fat man orders a killer of a meal.
I did not get into it with him. My bad? Who knows. I had a lame excuse. Jonny Gomes led off the Red Sox ninth with a pinch hit walk off homerun. And I'd promised myself I'd leave after the ninth.
So, I pulled over near a tavern that was on my route. There was plenty of room at the bar so I took a seat and watched the rest of the 8th. Not much to the rest of the 8th, the Sox went down with a weak strike out and two other ineffective at-bats. The game went into the ninth tied 1-1. I figured I'd stick around for the ninth and if the game remained tied, make my way home then. I had ordered a light beer less because I am a fan of that variety, and more because I had just perspired aplenty on the tennis courts, and thought more than a light beer might make me a little less secure than I want to be behind the wheel. I don't know whether to be pleased or not, but the fact is that as I have gotten older my ability to consume beer has diminished. After a night of hard exercise, unless I drink a good deal of water concurrently, one or two beers is all I can consume before I start thinking wistfully about lost love and realize that I should not be behind the wheel. It had been hot on the tennis courts on Wednesday, plus I'd done some swimming beforehand. I knew I needed to cut myself off after one.
I could nurse a beer for one inning no problem. In my cheapskate graduate school days when I was earning a grand total, no lie, of 3K a year for three consecutive years, I once watched an entire Buffalo Braves basketball game with my beer glass ticket for the bar stool remaining sufficiently filled throughout. One beer to watch one inning of the Sox game would be no problem.
Between the bottom of the eighth and top of the ninth a fellow came into the establishment and took a seat next to me. He looked like a man who just got off a shift doing something that was tiring. He had a key ring jangling about him which looked like it had fifty keys on it. I was reminded of many guys I had worked with at universities who are treated shabbily, but without whom the place does not function. Often these characters swing their keys around like another set of manhood. This guy who sat down next to me, did not seem too self consumed. He just seemed exhausted.
The thing about this guy that was most distinctive about his appearance had nothing to do with his key ring. The man was about 5' 5" not particularly broad shouldered, but had an enormous belly. But caricature like. As if he came off the human being assembly line and they put the wrong gut on an otherwise relatively normal looking guy. Narrow shoulders, and then this huge belly that looked like it preceded the rest of him by a good second or two. He had to lean back on his bar stool some, because otherwise his gut would have rammed into the bar itself. Not exaggerating here. I've seen bigger guys, but rarely someone so disproportionate.
I said to myself this guy should not be drinking beer. This guy should be running around the block hoping to reduce his girth. This guy was a heart attack waiting to happen. You can't be lugging that amount of weight around your frame without your body wailing, "look boychik, there's just so much I can carry for so long. You want to stick around, unload some cargo."
The guy orders a beer anyway, and then now pushing about 10 in the evening asks for a menu. By this time the Red Sox have retired the Padres in the top of the ninth and will soon come to bat in the bottom. I exchange a smile and hello with my neighbor at the bar as people tend to do. He glances at the menu and then picks it up waving not offensively at the bartender.
"What'll it be?" asks the bartender.
"The Buffalo Cheeseburger" he says.
The bartender nods and begins to walk toward the kitchen with the order. He glances over his shoulder. "Fries with that?' he asks.
"Fries" affirms my neighbor. Vu den.
And I am sitting at the bar and thinking that if I were drinking too much beer the bartender would say to me, or should say to me, "No more buddy, you've had enough." He would cut me off. Do we have an obligation to say the same thing to a fellow who looks like he can not endure another Buffalo Cheeseburger without reducing his time on the planet by several months?
I understand we all have freedoms. I also know that in part a reason that the barkeep will tell people that they're cut off is because they dont want a drunk driving home. Still, do we sit back and nod "good choice" when a too fat man orders a killer of a meal.
I did not get into it with him. My bad? Who knows. I had a lame excuse. Jonny Gomes led off the Red Sox ninth with a pinch hit walk off homerun. And I'd promised myself I'd leave after the ninth.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Rebuilding year
The Boston Celtics have traded away their two best players and their coach. The unofficial word is that the upcoming season, 13-14 will be a rebuilding year. There has been some talk that what the Celtics should do is "tank" this season. To "tank" in this context means to deliberately lose in order to gain a high draft choice following the season. In an attempt to assist losing teams, the league allows the worst teams to select first when drafting college and other non professional players onto their teams.
The concept of a rebuilding year has, always--as far back as I can remember--been one that made little sense to me. The idea of "tanking" makes NO sense and I would argue is worthy of some punishment.
Tanking violates the foundation of all sports. That is, fans expect that both teams are attempting to win and working as hard as they can to win every time they play. Whenever a spectator begins to believe that teams are not trying as hard as they can, then the sport ceases to be a sport and fans would lose interest. Sure, there are professional wrestling fans, but they are of a different ilk. They watch for the show. Sports fans like the show, but they want their teams to win. So, tanking is wrong in that it undermines the game. On a practical level--that is even if you were considering tanking to get a top draft choice-- tanking is indefensible. There is no guarantee that tanking will result in getting a player you need to change the direction of the franchise. The Celtics, fifteen years or so ago, tanked a season in the hopes of getting the best player available, Tim Duncan. Because of a nuance in the drafting procedure, the Celtics had the worst record, but could not draft Duncan. Even when you get the player you want, there is no guarantee of success with that player. While Duncan turned out to be great, there are lots of stories of "can't miss" players who are drafted and are unsuccessful in the professional game.
The idea of having a rebuilding year makes a little more sense, but not much. Why is the 14-15 season a more desirable season for a championship run, than the 13-14 season? One could argue reasonably that there are times when the luck of the draw is such that you just dont have the horses to compete in one year as opposed to another. However, when you plan to dump your players as opposed to either keeping your stars or trading them for other stars, you are essentially saying that a year down the road is better than the one coming up. Garnett and Pierce are long in the tooth. How did the Celtics get to a time when their stars were long in the tooth without some talent being groomed to replace them? When it came time to trade the stars, why not trade the two of them for one stud, who in combination with others could make the Celtics contenders.
Taking the concept of rebuilding beyond the world of sports, is any one day more precious than another? Yes, there are times when we are fragile and need to build up our strength/self-concept to enjoy life to its fullest. But this day, here, July 3, is probably as precious as say July 5 or August 17th or any day. Sure, you might want to diet for a couple of weeks in April so that you don't look flabby in a suit in May, and you might want to save some shekels for a vacation thus rebuilding your assets to enjoy some greater time later on. But, in general, I think there is a tendency--and maybe I am speaking just for myself--of not acknowledging the potential in the here and now, and each day putting off the opportunity for success because you imagine in the future a day that will never come because when it does, there will always be another future date looming, illusorily, looking like a better time.
The concept of a rebuilding year has, always--as far back as I can remember--been one that made little sense to me. The idea of "tanking" makes NO sense and I would argue is worthy of some punishment.
Tanking violates the foundation of all sports. That is, fans expect that both teams are attempting to win and working as hard as they can to win every time they play. Whenever a spectator begins to believe that teams are not trying as hard as they can, then the sport ceases to be a sport and fans would lose interest. Sure, there are professional wrestling fans, but they are of a different ilk. They watch for the show. Sports fans like the show, but they want their teams to win. So, tanking is wrong in that it undermines the game. On a practical level--that is even if you were considering tanking to get a top draft choice-- tanking is indefensible. There is no guarantee that tanking will result in getting a player you need to change the direction of the franchise. The Celtics, fifteen years or so ago, tanked a season in the hopes of getting the best player available, Tim Duncan. Because of a nuance in the drafting procedure, the Celtics had the worst record, but could not draft Duncan. Even when you get the player you want, there is no guarantee of success with that player. While Duncan turned out to be great, there are lots of stories of "can't miss" players who are drafted and are unsuccessful in the professional game.
The idea of having a rebuilding year makes a little more sense, but not much. Why is the 14-15 season a more desirable season for a championship run, than the 13-14 season? One could argue reasonably that there are times when the luck of the draw is such that you just dont have the horses to compete in one year as opposed to another. However, when you plan to dump your players as opposed to either keeping your stars or trading them for other stars, you are essentially saying that a year down the road is better than the one coming up. Garnett and Pierce are long in the tooth. How did the Celtics get to a time when their stars were long in the tooth without some talent being groomed to replace them? When it came time to trade the stars, why not trade the two of them for one stud, who in combination with others could make the Celtics contenders.
Taking the concept of rebuilding beyond the world of sports, is any one day more precious than another? Yes, there are times when we are fragile and need to build up our strength/self-concept to enjoy life to its fullest. But this day, here, July 3, is probably as precious as say July 5 or August 17th or any day. Sure, you might want to diet for a couple of weeks in April so that you don't look flabby in a suit in May, and you might want to save some shekels for a vacation thus rebuilding your assets to enjoy some greater time later on. But, in general, I think there is a tendency--and maybe I am speaking just for myself--of not acknowledging the potential in the here and now, and each day putting off the opportunity for success because you imagine in the future a day that will never come because when it does, there will always be another future date looming, illusorily, looking like a better time.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Why should I buy a Truck?
Occasionally, when I read a news story about some incredible behavior, I say aloud, "What were they thinking?"
A millionaire like Aaron Hernandez throws his life away. What could he have been thinking? Baseball players snort cocaine risking their careers for the rush of a drug. What could they be thinking when they take that risk. A basketball coach egregiously and repeatedly violates recruiting regulations. He is hoping he can get away with it, but the rationale is so short sighted that you have to wonder if they could have been thinking when they did what they've done.
I've listened to a lot of public speeches in my day. I have taught courses in public speaking to both undergraduates and graduates as well as assorted other populations in workshop environments.
One assignment that I tend to give when I teach these courses, is for the presenter to develop and present a persuasive talk. This is very standard in these classes. The presenter has to think of a topic that they really consider important, something that they can get heated about, and make a presentation to the twenty or so others in the class in an attempt to convince the audience to change an attitude or reinforce an existing one.
I've heard hundreds of excellent such talks. Surfacing to my consciousness now are presentations that argued against mandatory sentencing for drug offenders, contended that the Beatles more than political activists changed the philosophy and culture of the baby boomers, and one that asserted, categorically, that driving while impaired is tantamount to attempted murder and should be punished in the same way.
Not all the talks have been excellent. Some topics repeat: eat healthily, exercise regularly, don't smoke, love your fellow citizen, don't pollute. But the speakers in these at least understand the assignment.
One fellow early on in my career did not get the assignment. He started out his persuasive talk this way. "Why should I buy a truck? I'll tell you why I should buy a truck."
His talk went on to explain why he should buy a truck. He had the money. He needed to haul large items. He did not have any family so the seating would be sufficient.
The class listened incredulously to this talk. Persuasive talks are not intended to convince the speaker of something, but convince the audience. One woman wrote on the student evaluation form, "Why the hell should I care if you buy a truck." The speaker had not wowed the group in class discussions previously, but this seemed to really irritate the gathered. Didn't he get it?
I took the student aside after class and tried to explain, though I was still a bit stunned, why his persuasive talk, "Why should I buy a truck?" was an inappropriate one for the assignment. He nodded at me as if he got it. "I see" he said, "I see."
I wasn't sure if he had.
The final talk was the equivalent of the final exam for the course. It too was to be persuasive and required at least some sort of visual support and demonstration.
The talks in the class were going along smoothly until the truck fellow began his oration. "Why should I quit school and take a job in the post office?" was the topic. Again, he had some arguments. Post office paid well. There was no guarantee that if he passed up the job now it would still be available when he graduated. He commented that the previous summer he had worked at the "Super Duper" in Gowanda and had not made as much as a bagger there as he would as a postal employee. He projected a picture of the Super Duper in Gowanda.
The class was not happy during this talk. On the evaluation forms several students wrote different versions of "Given the truck speech, how could you deliver this? What could you have been thinking?"
Well, he couldn't have been thinking.
When we try to understand something that is inexplicable, we might want to reconsider the assumption that logic is the foundation for behavior. I am not sure why my former student gave a persuasive speech entitled, "Why should I buy a truck?" And then gave a second speech of the same ilk. Sure, it is possible that the fellow was just a dullard.
But it is also possible that the wiring was not quite right. That what he thought made sense and was logical was based on a twisted set of connections.
How could Aaron Hernandez throw away his millionaire life by being complicit in a murder. How could Steve Howe or Daryl Strawberry stick powder up their noses and blow away their fortune. Somehow when they did these things they thought they made sense. Just like my student who tried to explain to his class why he should buy a truck, thought that made sense.
So, when you try to figure out what someone was thinking when they do something inconceivable, don't start with their logic. Start with their wiring. What wires are missing? What pieces were damaged and bruised this way or that. I'd suggest checking first the love wire. See if it is dangling somewhere. Broken or never been appropriately secured.
A millionaire like Aaron Hernandez throws his life away. What could he have been thinking? Baseball players snort cocaine risking their careers for the rush of a drug. What could they be thinking when they take that risk. A basketball coach egregiously and repeatedly violates recruiting regulations. He is hoping he can get away with it, but the rationale is so short sighted that you have to wonder if they could have been thinking when they did what they've done.
I've listened to a lot of public speeches in my day. I have taught courses in public speaking to both undergraduates and graduates as well as assorted other populations in workshop environments.
One assignment that I tend to give when I teach these courses, is for the presenter to develop and present a persuasive talk. This is very standard in these classes. The presenter has to think of a topic that they really consider important, something that they can get heated about, and make a presentation to the twenty or so others in the class in an attempt to convince the audience to change an attitude or reinforce an existing one.
I've heard hundreds of excellent such talks. Surfacing to my consciousness now are presentations that argued against mandatory sentencing for drug offenders, contended that the Beatles more than political activists changed the philosophy and culture of the baby boomers, and one that asserted, categorically, that driving while impaired is tantamount to attempted murder and should be punished in the same way.
Not all the talks have been excellent. Some topics repeat: eat healthily, exercise regularly, don't smoke, love your fellow citizen, don't pollute. But the speakers in these at least understand the assignment.
One fellow early on in my career did not get the assignment. He started out his persuasive talk this way. "Why should I buy a truck? I'll tell you why I should buy a truck."
His talk went on to explain why he should buy a truck. He had the money. He needed to haul large items. He did not have any family so the seating would be sufficient.
The class listened incredulously to this talk. Persuasive talks are not intended to convince the speaker of something, but convince the audience. One woman wrote on the student evaluation form, "Why the hell should I care if you buy a truck." The speaker had not wowed the group in class discussions previously, but this seemed to really irritate the gathered. Didn't he get it?
I took the student aside after class and tried to explain, though I was still a bit stunned, why his persuasive talk, "Why should I buy a truck?" was an inappropriate one for the assignment. He nodded at me as if he got it. "I see" he said, "I see."
I wasn't sure if he had.
The final talk was the equivalent of the final exam for the course. It too was to be persuasive and required at least some sort of visual support and demonstration.
The talks in the class were going along smoothly until the truck fellow began his oration. "Why should I quit school and take a job in the post office?" was the topic. Again, he had some arguments. Post office paid well. There was no guarantee that if he passed up the job now it would still be available when he graduated. He commented that the previous summer he had worked at the "Super Duper" in Gowanda and had not made as much as a bagger there as he would as a postal employee. He projected a picture of the Super Duper in Gowanda.
The class was not happy during this talk. On the evaluation forms several students wrote different versions of "Given the truck speech, how could you deliver this? What could you have been thinking?"
Well, he couldn't have been thinking.
When we try to understand something that is inexplicable, we might want to reconsider the assumption that logic is the foundation for behavior. I am not sure why my former student gave a persuasive speech entitled, "Why should I buy a truck?" And then gave a second speech of the same ilk. Sure, it is possible that the fellow was just a dullard.
But it is also possible that the wiring was not quite right. That what he thought made sense and was logical was based on a twisted set of connections.
How could Aaron Hernandez throw away his millionaire life by being complicit in a murder. How could Steve Howe or Daryl Strawberry stick powder up their noses and blow away their fortune. Somehow when they did these things they thought they made sense. Just like my student who tried to explain to his class why he should buy a truck, thought that made sense.
So, when you try to figure out what someone was thinking when they do something inconceivable, don't start with their logic. Start with their wiring. What wires are missing? What pieces were damaged and bruised this way or that. I'd suggest checking first the love wire. See if it is dangling somewhere. Broken or never been appropriately secured.
Friday, June 28, 2013
two midnights
A common theme of the conversations in my gym's locker room relates to how we are aging. "How is your tennis game" inquiries are met with snorts and sighs. "Can't bounce back as fast. Can't get to shots I used to." On Thursday an old friend pounded his belly and said, "put on a few pounds and that is not helping."
Tonight two locker room buddies were talking about going to the Cape this weekend. They exchanged notes on restaurants near where they stay when they're vacationing. At one point they hit on a spot that they'd both been to with their spouses. One fellow said to the other. "Went there for New Year's Eve last year."
"No kidding" said his friend. "Didn't know they did much business in the winter."
"Place was packed for New Year's" said the chum. Then he laughed. "Had two midnights."
"Two midnights?"
"Yeah, the clientele is getting so old, that they had a midnight at 10 and a midnight at 12, so those of us who couldn't make it to midnight, popped the champagne and said happy new year at 10. Then they did the whole thing again for those who could stay up."
A bunch of us who were overhearing the conversation got a kick out of this. The night owl continued. "Most of the people I knew opted for the early midnight."
I'm not quite there, but I am getting there I guess. I imagine in a year or two the 10 oclock midnight might seem very attractive. For now, though, what has me thinking about this is the notion of multiple opportunities to celebrate. You miss midnight at midnight, well then, make 1 a.m. your midnight. You miss joy in say 2012 well then go for it in 2013. Have a bad month of June. Celebrate June in July or just July in July. For those of us who have not thrown away our lives irrevocably, there are multiple midnights.
This is not the case for someone like Aaron Hernandez. A multimillionaire but he took such alarming steps such that at 23 he threw away his chances for a single midnight. A life wasted.
Old family story. My dad is teaching me how to saw wood. This is a bit of a joke because whereas my grandfather was very skilled with tools, my dad was not so naturally gifted. But this day he is teaching me to saw. He has a line on a piece of wood. My job is to cut on the line. Well, I go off the line, but I am nearly done cutting the wood. Dad spots that I am off the line. He tells me to go back to where I went off the line, get back on the line, and finish cutting the wood. I comment that I am almost done. He says no matter how far along you are, you are off where you want to go.
How is this relevant? You want multiple midnights, well you have to give yourself an opportunity to have the choice. If you keep travelling way off course, like an Aaron Hernandez and notorious others, your opportunities for multiple chances to enjoy sweet moments will no longer be.
Tonight two locker room buddies were talking about going to the Cape this weekend. They exchanged notes on restaurants near where they stay when they're vacationing. At one point they hit on a spot that they'd both been to with their spouses. One fellow said to the other. "Went there for New Year's Eve last year."
"No kidding" said his friend. "Didn't know they did much business in the winter."
"Place was packed for New Year's" said the chum. Then he laughed. "Had two midnights."
"Two midnights?"
"Yeah, the clientele is getting so old, that they had a midnight at 10 and a midnight at 12, so those of us who couldn't make it to midnight, popped the champagne and said happy new year at 10. Then they did the whole thing again for those who could stay up."
A bunch of us who were overhearing the conversation got a kick out of this. The night owl continued. "Most of the people I knew opted for the early midnight."
I'm not quite there, but I am getting there I guess. I imagine in a year or two the 10 oclock midnight might seem very attractive. For now, though, what has me thinking about this is the notion of multiple opportunities to celebrate. You miss midnight at midnight, well then, make 1 a.m. your midnight. You miss joy in say 2012 well then go for it in 2013. Have a bad month of June. Celebrate June in July or just July in July. For those of us who have not thrown away our lives irrevocably, there are multiple midnights.
This is not the case for someone like Aaron Hernandez. A multimillionaire but he took such alarming steps such that at 23 he threw away his chances for a single midnight. A life wasted.
Old family story. My dad is teaching me how to saw wood. This is a bit of a joke because whereas my grandfather was very skilled with tools, my dad was not so naturally gifted. But this day he is teaching me to saw. He has a line on a piece of wood. My job is to cut on the line. Well, I go off the line, but I am nearly done cutting the wood. Dad spots that I am off the line. He tells me to go back to where I went off the line, get back on the line, and finish cutting the wood. I comment that I am almost done. He says no matter how far along you are, you are off where you want to go.
How is this relevant? You want multiple midnights, well you have to give yourself an opportunity to have the choice. If you keep travelling way off course, like an Aaron Hernandez and notorious others, your opportunities for multiple chances to enjoy sweet moments will no longer be.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Death and Life
Yesterday I was in the west palm beach airport waiting for a flight back to Boston. I had some time before boarding and the wifi was free. I took out my ipad and checked out facebook. There I saw a notice from the wife of a dear friend. She was reporting that the older brother of my bud had passed.
I was stunned by this news. I knew that Maurice had been in ill health, but I'd seen him just a couple of years ago at Fran's son's wedding and he looked as if he was on the rebound. At one point during the reception, Maurice took the saxophone from a band member and banged out a pretty good "when the saints go marching in". I remembered when I first met Maurice and I played back my memories and felt for my pal.
I called Fran today and we spoke for a spell. Shortly after we began talking he told me that his best friend, someone I've known for forty years, died suddenly last month. This was even more startling than the news about Maurice. Angelo was the life of the party, always. Very clever, gregarious, just a delightful guy. I'd seen him also at Fran's son's wedding and spent a good bit of good time conversing with him. Then Fran also told me that a cousin of his whom I knew, had perished shortly after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Three shots to the gut in six months. He told me that I better take care of myself because he did not want to attend another funeral for a stretch. We laughed some and promised to make sure to get together this summer. And we will.
Then later today I did some sleuthing on the internet. I wanted to get in touch with one of my parents' oldest friends because I needed to relay some news. I wanted to contact the woman who lived on the first floor of our Brooklyn apartment building. She, a pal of my mom's, and her husband--a pal of my dad's--had acted like another set of parents for me and my brother. Her husband had passed many years ago, and I knew that she was in her 80s. The nature of my news was such that I wanted to make sure that she was feeling well enough for some sad news. I recalled that one of her sons was a jazz musician. I went on the internet and wrote to him. Then I saw something that made me start googling. And what I found was again unsettling. This woman's 57 year old son, the jazz musician, had passed a year ago. And I've known for thirty years that her other son had died in his early thirties.
I had been sitting in the West Palm Beach airport because my father lives nearby. And about two weeks ago, we buried my dear mother after she had fought like the fighter she always was, but eventually succumbed to the residual effects of a stroke. My brother and I had gone to Florida for dad's day and were ourselves trying to get through the effects of the loss of our mother who had an influence on not only us, but on so many others that the chapel in south Florida--even in June--was packed with those there to pay their respects.
So, death seems to be in season. Fran's brother, cousin, and best pal. My parents' Brooklyn friends' young son. And my mother.
Seems like a maudlin subject. But I will take another perspective and it is not a Pollyanna approach, but my genuine sense.
My cousin wrote the other day that in California funerals are rarely so named, but rather are called Celebrations of Life. And that resonates with me. Loudly.
The end of life is, of course, sad--but it is an opportunity to celebrate the life of the deceased and what that person contributed to life. My mother is alive in me and, to a lesser extent, so is Maurice and Angelo and Wade and Gregory.
Besides, death serves as a clear and as a loud reminder of the precious gift of life. The time we the living have is time to do nothing other than take advantage of the multiple opportunities of life. As I type now, the background music is playing the Beatles' "Here, There, and Everywhere." It is a beautiful love song. Those who have died are here, there, and everywhere, and reminding us that we the living must immerse ourselves in the available love and life that is here, there, and everywhere.
I was stunned by this news. I knew that Maurice had been in ill health, but I'd seen him just a couple of years ago at Fran's son's wedding and he looked as if he was on the rebound. At one point during the reception, Maurice took the saxophone from a band member and banged out a pretty good "when the saints go marching in". I remembered when I first met Maurice and I played back my memories and felt for my pal.
I called Fran today and we spoke for a spell. Shortly after we began talking he told me that his best friend, someone I've known for forty years, died suddenly last month. This was even more startling than the news about Maurice. Angelo was the life of the party, always. Very clever, gregarious, just a delightful guy. I'd seen him also at Fran's son's wedding and spent a good bit of good time conversing with him. Then Fran also told me that a cousin of his whom I knew, had perished shortly after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Three shots to the gut in six months. He told me that I better take care of myself because he did not want to attend another funeral for a stretch. We laughed some and promised to make sure to get together this summer. And we will.
Then later today I did some sleuthing on the internet. I wanted to get in touch with one of my parents' oldest friends because I needed to relay some news. I wanted to contact the woman who lived on the first floor of our Brooklyn apartment building. She, a pal of my mom's, and her husband--a pal of my dad's--had acted like another set of parents for me and my brother. Her husband had passed many years ago, and I knew that she was in her 80s. The nature of my news was such that I wanted to make sure that she was feeling well enough for some sad news. I recalled that one of her sons was a jazz musician. I went on the internet and wrote to him. Then I saw something that made me start googling. And what I found was again unsettling. This woman's 57 year old son, the jazz musician, had passed a year ago. And I've known for thirty years that her other son had died in his early thirties.
I had been sitting in the West Palm Beach airport because my father lives nearby. And about two weeks ago, we buried my dear mother after she had fought like the fighter she always was, but eventually succumbed to the residual effects of a stroke. My brother and I had gone to Florida for dad's day and were ourselves trying to get through the effects of the loss of our mother who had an influence on not only us, but on so many others that the chapel in south Florida--even in June--was packed with those there to pay their respects.
So, death seems to be in season. Fran's brother, cousin, and best pal. My parents' Brooklyn friends' young son. And my mother.
Seems like a maudlin subject. But I will take another perspective and it is not a Pollyanna approach, but my genuine sense.
My cousin wrote the other day that in California funerals are rarely so named, but rather are called Celebrations of Life. And that resonates with me. Loudly.
The end of life is, of course, sad--but it is an opportunity to celebrate the life of the deceased and what that person contributed to life. My mother is alive in me and, to a lesser extent, so is Maurice and Angelo and Wade and Gregory.
Besides, death serves as a clear and as a loud reminder of the precious gift of life. The time we the living have is time to do nothing other than take advantage of the multiple opportunities of life. As I type now, the background music is playing the Beatles' "Here, There, and Everywhere." It is a beautiful love song. Those who have died are here, there, and everywhere, and reminding us that we the living must immerse ourselves in the available love and life that is here, there, and everywhere.
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