Come and Gone

Well, another Christmas has come and gone. It was a unique Christmas in my life in that it was the first white Christmas I had ever seen. The area around the Twin Cities received more snow on Christmas Day than had fallen in 25 years, and it truly looked like a greeting card as I gazed out my window. This could also be a very special holiday season because I'm in an application process to return to teaching. It could actually happen if everything goes well. For me, that's the most exciting thing to happen to me in a very long time. I miss teaching, and if I can return and be of some service, I'll be quite happy. It will also allow me an opportunity to contribute to our personal welfare, which I really need to do, as my wife continues to get sicker as time passes. I really don't know how much longer she can work, and I need to get something going. Please keep your fingers crossed for this to happen for me, as we need it so badly.

I hope each of you had the most wonderful holiday season ever. Many of my most wonderful memories are connected to this time of year. I hope it can continue. In the meantime, Happy New Year!

Enough, Already!

On Sunday, December 2, 2007, I took my last antibiotics for the pneumonia I had contracted two weeks before. I was still quite tired and ready for some relief. But that was not to be.

On Monday, my wife wasn't feeling well so she slept late and dozed most of the day. Just after dark, I woke her up and was hugging her when I realized she was very warm. In fact, I learned that her temperature was 103. I tried to help her get up off the day bed, but she was unable to stand on her own. Because of our recent snow, I decided not to drive her to St. Frances Regional Medical Center, as I'm not accustomed to driving in Minnesota during winter weather. I called 911. Quickly the police and EMTs were here, and they confirmed her fever. She had to literally be lifted onto the wheeled carrier.

Even though I didn't even consider driving with her in the car, I felt confident enough to follow the ambulance to the hospital I had been in when I had pneumonia in November 2006. I know it's called the emergency room, but I've never been in one yet where the doctors and nurses moved as if there were an emergency. She, too, had pneumonia and is warmly ensconced in the the hospital as I write this on Tuesday night. I just talked to her on the phone, and she sounds profoundly exhausted. As I've said before in several postings, good health hasn't been our strength the last two years.

After my wife was tucked in for the night, I headed out to my car, having to walk through about a foot of snow, but when I got to the car, I couldn't find my keys. I can't tell you how frustrated I felt. The temperature was below 10 degrees, the wind was blowing, and I just wanted to cry. I assumed I had somehow locked my keys in the car, and I just wanted to cry. I returned to the ER waiting room, picked up the local yellow pages, and called a locksmith who agreed to come out within a half-hour. I learned, to my further frustration, that he didn't take credit cards and would need $75.00. Though I had no cash, I told him to come out anyway. I guess I thought a miracle would occur.

As I looked up, the man, a complete stranger who had been listening to my end of the conversation two seats down from me reached into his front pocket and pulled out $100 in twenties. He handed me 4 of the twenties, $80.00. For once, I was speechless. As we completed the exchange, a young woman walked up behind me and asked, "Are these your keys?" They were, and I quickly called the locksmith back to tell him not to come. He sounded almost as relieved as I was because it was truly cold. I thanked the young woman, turned and handed the money back to my benefactor and told him that I couldn't thank him enough. He just said that we just have to help other people sometime. I thanked him again, shook his hand, and told him that I would pass it along. And I will. It wasn't a miracle, but it was close enough for me.

Did I Tell You About Our First Date?

Twenty-seven years ago today, my wife and I went on our first date. We've been together ever since. This anniversary means a lot to us, as much or more than our wedding anniversary, as neither of us was looking for anything permanent back then. I, myself, just wanted to go out, have a nice dinner, laugh a little. Both of us were, in fact, coming off relationships that hadn't worked out. I was actually coming off an almost twenty-year marriage.

If truth be told, my wife actually asked me out that day, though in a round-about way. I had mentioned something about going out together, and before she left the office I was volunteering in, she asked me if I were serious. Trying to be cool, I replied."About what?" And she replied, "About going out." I replied in the affirmative, and we made a date for that evening after her work shift, a 3-11 P. M. at the Salvation Army Detox Unit. She's a nurse.

When we met at a mutually agreed on site, we took my car and went to T. G. I. Friday's. I remember clearly that I had a huge Cobb Salad, one of my favorites. I was a bit nervous because I had pretty much been out of the dating scene for years. But we ate, we talked, we laughed, and when I took her back to her car, she leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, and almost jumped out. It truly was a pleasant evening, and it began a partnership that has lasted until this day 27 years later.

Over the subsequent years, we've been through some difficult times, both with each other, and with the world at large. But one thing has always been constant -- no matter what we were going through, we loved each other and still do. Just as important, we like each other. She knows me like no other human being on earth, and that's just fine with me. By the way, when we decided to get married in April 1972, again it was she who asked, as I no longer used the "m" word because of her skittishness about it. I accepted, obviously.

I never thought I'd feel this way about another human being. Actually, I had begun to doubt if I was capable of accepting another human being exactly as she was. Through the principles I learned in the program of recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous, I found that I was capable if I could just get my ego out of the way. Once I realized this, I began to work on it, and I can honestly say that in my relationship with my loving wife, my ego plays very little part. And it's a much easier way to live than I have ever known. Besides, being right is hugely overrated. It's far better to be happy. Give it a try. You might even like it.

Gratitude

Most of us have many things to be grateful for at any time during our lives. And most of us fail to recognize those things, opting instead to complain about what we don't have. I have definitely been guilty of complaining when I should've been saying, "Thank you."

Today, the first thing I have to be grateful for is my wife. Because of my spinal deterioration and its accompanying pain, and my diminished lung capacity, I'm literally no longer able to take care of myself. She does things for me that I used to easily do, and she has never wavered in her devotion. If not for her, I don't know where I'd be right now.

I'm also grateful to the pharmaceutical companies that created the anti-biotics I'm taking now, as I was diagnosed with pneumonia on last Friday. It's the second November in a row that I've come down with this disease. I certainly hope it's not a permanent pattern. Although we had a pleasant Thanksgiving, my breathing was labored in a way I've come to recognize. So when I went to my family physician the next day, I wasn't totally surprised at the diagnosis.

I'm further grateful for the anti-depressants available to people like me. If there had only been this medication when I was much younger, I could've saved myself considerable grief. As I look back over the years and see how depressed I was at different points in my life, I can only shake my head.

I'm grateful, too, for several friends I've made over the years. Some of them go back over 40 years, which is hard to imagine when I don't believe my age. But these long-time friends keep in touch, and every time I talk to one of them, it's like we just left off yesterday. These relationships are pure gold.-

Finally, I'm grateful that even though I wasn't a great father, my son continues to care how I'm doing and checks on me regularly. He's come a long way. This is just a short gratitude list, but I'm sure I'll be able to extend it if I concentrate. In any case, I'm off to another medical appointment. Have a wonderful weekend.

Bring On the Holiday Season

We awoke on Thanksgiving today here in Bloomington, Minnesota, to a light blanket of snow and a very cool day. It was like a holiday card right outside my window. And as I may have said before, the end-of-year holiday season is my favorite part of any year. We spent a quiet day, and I did something I haven't done in a long time on a Thanksgiving day. I watched a football game on tv: Green Bay v. Detroit, almost a tradition by now in America.

Tomorrow is Black Friday, the day that all the pre-Christmas sales truly get started. There's one chain in this area that will actually open its doors at 4:00 A. M. Can you believe it!? Last year we did something that we've never done during our 27 years together -- we actually went to a mall on this infamous Friday. And it wasn't just any mall; it was the Mall of America. Yes, once was enough. I won't be up tomorrow for a trip to any mall.

Next week I'll prepare all my Christmas and Hannukah cards, as I've done for over 40 years. I try to get the Christmas cards mailed by December 1 each year, and I've been mostly successful. And I try to get my Hannukah cards out by the first day of the celebration, also mostly successful over the years. Sending out cards for me has always been a way to share the holiday spirit with friends and family, and most people really appreciate it. My holiday season is always enhanced by my card ritual.

Even when times were not so good, I've loved this part of the year. It's always been special to me, and it always will be. Let me send all of you peace and love for the coming year. And if you have someone in harm's way because of the foolish war we're engaged in, I pray that he or she returns not only alive but unscathed. Bless us all at this time of reflection.

Oh No! Not Again!

On September, 27, 2007, I turned 67 years old. On November 11, 2007, my wife turned 66 years old. Compared to earlier centuries, that's a lengthy life. Today, it's 10 years fewer than the estimated life span. I'm certainly hoping that she and I don't fall too short of the current span. But in any case, one's life certainly does begin to change as the years pass by, and another can't really understand these changes until it happens to him or her.

In casual conversation, I might mention how much more forgetful I am at this age. I've had people in their twenties and thirties say, "Oh, I know just what you mean. I do that all the time." Well, no, you don't know what I mean because unless you're suffering some some level of brain damage or disease, you can't possibly be as forgetful as I've become. So please don't give me some false palliative.

Also, I've dropped keys or billfold or some small item at a checkout counter and remarked that it happens often to me. The response has become almost predictable. The clerk might say, "Yes, I know." No, you don't know. I have trouble carrying a cup of coffee from the kitchen to my recliner know because I often suffer little tremors which cause either spillage or my losing cup, saucer, and coffee all together. I doubt if that's happened to many young folks lately. If it can be dropped, I'll drop it. My neurological deficits also include often not being able to stop my fingers when I finish typing and hitting some extra keys, like now. Damn!

As for forgetting where I put something, it's becoming nearly pathological. My wife and/or I "lose" our keys on a regular basis. There's a jar of mayonnaise in our refrigerator the top for which is made of aluminum foil. It's kinda funny, but how did that happen? Well, while I made some little concoction recently that required mayo, the top must've snuck out and run away from home. By the time I finished eating whatever it was and returned to put everything back into the fridge, I couldn't find the top. Yes, I lost it in this small kitchen in this small condo.

I rarely get out the door to do anything lately that I don't have to come back in here to retrieve something I forgot to take. Now we each of us tries to go over things with the other as we prepare to leave the condo, whether it's just for a trip to the store or a business trip of several days. Speaking of shopping at any kind of store, our mantra has become, "If it's not on the list, forget it" because we do. And worse than that, we sometimes get to the store and find we've forgotten to bring the list. We only hope, then, to get home with at least some of the items we came out for.

These kinds of things happening with this frequency was not a part of my younger years, even 10 years ago. But they happen often now, and they're very frustrating. And what's almost as frustrating is to have someone say with that youthful smile, "I know just what you mean" No, you don't know what I mean or how this feels. But if you live long enough, you will. Have a good weekend. Now if I can just remember where I put the peanut butter.

A Crisp November Evening

Last night was Nov. 3, 2007, and my wife and I spent part of it listening to Beethoven's Piano Concerto and his Symphony #7 in Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, Minnesota. It seems as if this orchestra is getting better as the season, which began in August, moves along. In this case, it's been only two weeks since we heard them play Mozart's Symphony #41 and Brahms' Symphony #2. There seems to always be a shorter piece to open each concert, but so far I haven't recognized any of the composers.

In any case, they were wonderful two weeks ago, and they were exquisite last night. I said it before, but I'll say it again. The Minneapolis Orchestra is a world class group. They either recently finished recording (does one say CDed?) or are finishing recording the complete Beethoven symphonies. Years ago I owned the collection recorded by Arturo Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra, but I fully expect this newest set to be superior.

The pianist for the piano concerto was a young Russian whom I had never heard of, though I'm sure he's known in musical circles. He did a first-class job, and at intermission I heard patrons talking of how much they enjoyed his presentation. He looked so very young, and he was a wonderful combination of delicacy and strength.

Then my favorite Mozart symphony, the magnificent #41. To think that he composed this as he lived destitute says so many things about the man and music itself. If I were to guess, I believe Ludwig von Beethoven was a bit short lacking in the sense of humour department, but I believe that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart retained his as long as humanly possible. I used to be fashionably anti-technology, but that attitude has certainly changed. And not too many years ago, I would've probably been born into a social station that excluded me from the music I've grown to love. So, if I were a drinking man, I'd lift my glass to those who had anything to do with my being able to simply pop in a CD, lean back with my Diet Coke, and go on musical flights with Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, Copland, Dvorak, Bartok, and so, so many others who have enriched my life beyond belief.

Enola Gay

The man pictured in the pilot's seat of the most famous B-29 in history is, of course, the pilot, then Col. Paul Tibbets. On August 6, 1945, the first atom bomb used in war, called "Little Boy," dropped from this airplane (named for Tibbets' mother) and exploded 1,890 feet above ground zero at Hiroshima, Japan. This one plane which dropped one bomb is said to have hastened the end of World War II, avoided an invasion of Japan, and saved hundreds of thousands (or more) lives of our young soldiers, sailors, and marines. Oddly enough, I had yesterday talked to a man who had participated in the atom bomb testing at Bikini Atoll in 1945.

As I am wont to do, I engaged a man in conversation while waiting for new prescriptions at Walgreen's in Bloomington, MN. The man was obviously quite my senior, and it turned out that he had served in the U. S. Navy during WWII. As we talked, he told the story of watching his father's farm being auctioned off during The Great Depression and subsequent years of itinerant living his family endured almost to the beginning of that great war. I then learned that he had served his country, had seen the U. S. S. Saratoga sink, and had been part of the testing of the a-bomb. He hadn't heard the news of Paul Tibbet's death, and it definitely had an effect on him.

He said something I've heard many times over the years. Dropping those bombs (a second, called "Fat Man," was dropped on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945)) saved more lives than were lost in the blast and its aftermath. Given the history of our government's lies to us over the last 60-plus years, one must be skeptical of all official versions of history.

However, I come down on the side of those who say the bombs should've been dropped. Invading a country of people who thought their leader was "divine" isn't a prospect I would relish, as their fanaticism and visciousness in the conduct of the war was almost beyond belief. One interesting fact I gleaned from my casual study of my favorite period of American history is that one had a more than 30 times chance of dying in a Japanese P. O. W. camp than in a German P. O. W. camp. Of course this comparison is primarily military, but the Japanese were truly viscious.

So, my conclusion has for some time been that we did the "right" thing, if you can call such a conflagration "right." One can't negotiate with a "divine" emperor or a leader who thinks he speaks to God.

In any case, I experienced yesterday afternoon something I've experienced a great deal over the years: people will tell you a lot about themselves if you'll just listen. And more often than not, what you hear is usually interesting and sometimes exciting.

A Diamond in the Midst

As I've said more than once on my blog: I don't like Minnesota. I find the people dull and withdrawn, and truly conventional. Their accents grate in my ears, and most of them, including the women, are fat. The myth of "Minnesota Nice" is just that: a myth. They put on this facade to hide the anger, repression and their assorted twists of personality. Having been here a year, however, I have found, in the midst of all this commonness, a diamond, a bright facade throwing its light to all who will come around. That brightness is the Minnesota Orchestra. And this orchestra is not only a diamond, it's a world class gem of the highest magnitude.

On this Saturday night, my wife and I attended this week's performances: Mozart's Symphony #41, followed by a modern piece with which I was not familiar (with which I'm yet not familiar), and intermission, and the finale, Brahms' Syphony #2. One thing that can be said about Mozart is that he's come to us (from?) with that perfect combination of talent, desire, humour, love,and he's lived up to all the hype. Mozart's music can make a listener feel anything that a listener can possibly feel. No one else can do what he can.

Brahms too is an excellent musician, but there aren't many who occupy the pantheon, and I'm not sure Brahms does. He is great, and the Minnesota Orchestra's presentation of the fourth movement was simply kick-ass. I like Brahms's 3rd Symphony better, as it gives me more of those musical "lifts" that I'm constantly searching for. But there are exquisite parts of the 2nd Symphony. As for the "filler" piece, the modern piece, I just wasn't with it, but the grand music of the other two composers sufficiently made up for anything which was missing.

I've often said that music is as close to God as we're ever going to get in this life. And I've heard other "talking heads" assert that music has curative powers. I'm not a scientist, and I really don't know. But music does have an effect, though it can't be quantified. Some work along those lines has been done: however, the truest effect of music is a spitirual one. The way the human body receives and interprets musical sound waves is a truly complicated and profound process And I don't have to understand the scientific process to have a great time sitting in Orchestra Hall in downtown Minneapolis listening to plainly happy men and women give us the hand of an angel and take us on one of the few true spritual flights we get to take on earth.

And the beautiful thing is that you don't even have to be a "believer" to receive each and every one of the spiritual benefits of truly great music. Take note: In two weeks we'll enjoy an evening of Beethoven. Wow, if every facet of life in Minnesota was as fine as the Minnesota Orchestra, people would be fighting to get in instead of wondering how soon they can leave.

The Constant Shadow

I've finally admitted to myself that my depression is going to come and go no matter what I do. I'm just going to have to find a way to deal with it when I'm in the throes. Being so self-critical doesn't help, but that's probably part of the whole deal anyway. For the last three days I've been on the verge of and in tears for no discernible reason. Again, that's part of it. I've been on the same anti-depressant for about 10 years, and it may be time to try a new medication. I have a doctor's appointment for something else today, so I'll see about a referral.

I haven't been helping myself either with reviewing a number of terrible decisions I made in my life, decisions which kept me from having it quite a bit easier now. It's almost as if this dark thing feeds on itself, on every negative thing I can come up with about myself. It's akin to being eaten alive from the inside. This is not a matter of just complaining. This is just what is, and maybe writing about it will give me some little relief. I know that living one day at a time is the answer, but for now all the days seem to run together from past, present, and the awful projections I make for the future.

One thing I do know. Feeling this way is certainly not something I would've chosen, and if I knew how to rid myself of it all, I would certainly do so. For those of you who've never been clinically depressed, have patience with anyone you know who is.

e. e. cummings

He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1894. He took a bachelor's degree in 1914 and a master's degree in 1915. Cummings served as an military officer in World War I, and he was one of very few to serve in an Ally's stockade. In conversation, Cummings was overheard saying that he didn't hate the Germans, and it infuriated the French with whom he was serving. Attempts were made to no avail to have him state his hatred for the Germans. He would state only that he liked the French very much but did not hate the Germans. As a result, he was court-martialed, sentenced, and served time in a French stockade.

When I was trying to decide what to settle on a subject for my M. A. thesis in English, I first settled on Jonathan Swift. I love satire as much as I detest pompousness. But I soon discovered that I wouldn't be able to spend much time with Swift's dark moods. I asked for advice, and one of my professors suggested E. E. Cummings. I agreed and set about my business, beginning with the complete poems. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings. And if you know anything at all about Cummings and about poetry, you can see how such an approach just might work. Not only did it work, it was nearly ready-made. And one of my thesis readers, the former Chair of the English Department, called my house and left a messsage that it was one of the best he'd read in his 25 years in the department. It's one of my proudest accomplishments.

One surprise for me in my reading of and research about E. E. Cummings was how absolutely lovely some of his lyrical poetry is, as romantic as the best of them. His iconoclasm is also to my taste. It was a period of hard work but true satisfaction. And when I came up with my then tentative approach, I found out who the leading Cummings scholar was, and fortunately for me, he was still alive. So I telephoned him and asked him what he thought about my idea. He told me it sounded interesting and asked me to send him a copy when I finished it. I did, and he reviewed it positively in Spring: The Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, of which I was invited to become a charter member, retroactively. The most pleasing thing that this wonderful scholar said about my thesis was that it is "heartfelt."

Years later, during a trip to Manhattan for my wife's company's Christmas party, I was able to visit with this man who had written the first book-length study of Cummings' poetry and who had known Cummings personally, both Harvard alums. I found it a comment on our society that such a world-class scholar couldn't later get a job at Harvard back then because he's Jewish, though he was pleased to announce that the school was actively pursuing his son, a philosopher. I had him autograph the three books he had written about Cummings and spent a very pleasant two hours or so with him. Later, I visited Cummings's long-time home at 14 Patchin Place. It was during the holiday season, and the city was decorated and festive, so lovely that afternoon of crystal sunshine, blue skies, and bare trees. And the memory shines

Happy Birthday Estlin!

Estlin

Tomorrow I will write about Edward Estlin Cummings. If you'v had even a modicum of education, you'd know that that is the poet who always used lower case letters when writing his poems: e. e. cummings. But I learned after I spent about a year with him, he used that style only in poems. In any other writing, he wrote just about like the rest of us. Can you imagine writing a check in lower case? I'll return tomorrow and write the actual Cummins's Birthday Blog. The little baloon man will surely be there. And so should you.



Giddocliff

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Autumn Leaves

This has always been my favorite time of year. I grew up in the southern part of the U. S., an area thick with trees, and during the months of autumn, the colors blazed so brilliantly before the leaves fell, leaving the trees bare and lonely. It's also the season of football, a season almost as important in the South as life itself. Of course that's an exaggeration but not by much. But it's truly a season that begins with high hopes that this year will be our year.

When I was a child, I lived across the street from a man who had played football for the University of Alabama in the 1940s. I found his picture once in a locker room celebration the team was enjoying after a Crimson Tide (the nickname of Alabama's sports teams) victory in the Orange Bowl. He served his country during WW II, which ended his football days. After the war, he joined the Alabama Highway Patrol and rose to become a Captain, his rank at the time of his untimely death during James Meredith's integration of the University of Mississippi.

As many of you know, Meredith's entrance into Ole Miss (their nickname is Rebels) was violently opposed by many whites, and there were riots, even deaths, during the days surrounding his matriculation. Meredith did eventually enter school but at the point of a bayonet and the barrel of a gun. When the violence broke out, the Captain was ordered to the state line in case any problems spilled over, which is not far-fetched if you knew the atmosphere in the South at that time. On the way, he was in an auto accident, and he died in hospital a few days later. I attended his funeral, as did Frank Rose, President of the University of Alabama, Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, and the entire Alabama football team, on which Joe Namath was a sophomore.

If you're old enough and a football fan, you might just have seen Capt. Tom on television. In Coach Bryant's 2nd year, 1958, the team earned a bid to the Liberty Bowl, at that time played in Philadelphia. And a Philadelphia newspaper reported on this physically imposing Alabama Highway Patrolman escorting the coach in full uniform and the traditional Smokey-the-Bear hat that many patrolmen and sheriffs wear now. Capt. Tom had become the official state escort of Paul "Bear" Bryant, a job he filled until his death. He was the first patrolman to serve in this capacity, though you see it a lot now. Imagine that! A coach who had played for Alabama in the 1930s and an official law enforcement escort who had played for Alabama in the 1940s. I can only imagine their conversations, which I'm sure they had.

During my childhood, the Captain's son and I played football together in the neighborhood. I remember one Christmas when each of us received a complete football outfit. His colors were blue and white, the colors of his favorite high school team. I can't even remember the colors of mine. But we spent that day kicking and passing to each other, even kicking field goals through a makeshift goalpost between two young pine trees. Of course we had dreams of future glory on the gridiron, but alas, we were never star athletes. We continued, however, as ardent fans of our favorite university, the Alabama Crimson Tide. And my friend's father had played for these giants of sport. Wow! Of course I was in awe of him, as any kid in Alabama would have been.

Football was a near religion in the South, and most young boys worshiped at the pigskin shrine. If a young boy was remotely capable of being an athlete, he was expected to go out for a football team, beginning long before high school. I played YMCA football, then later played as a freshman at a high school which had won several state championships in the sport. When I didn't return to the team in my sophomore year, the coaches refused to speak to me when we passed in the hallway. I shouldn't have been surprised. Football was truly that important then. To me, beer and cigarettes were more important

I continued as an ardent fan of the game, and my passion increased, if that were possible, when Paul "Bear" Bryant came to coach his alma mater in Tuscaloosa, our university. He began in 1957 to field teams which were not only respectable but which won 6 national championships during his tenure, which ended in 1982. He died 6 weeks after he retired from coaching. And at its best, the Alabama football team was championship calibre and even at less than its best, was always competitive with the top football programs in the nation.

While Bryant was coach, he could've easily become governor of the state. In fact, he was asked to run but refused. To the university's good fortune, he knew what he was good at. I remember vividly how emotionally involved I got in the fortunes of the football team. Even when I was attending college, working, and trying to bring up a family, I took the time every Sunday afternoon at 4:30 to watch "The Bear Bryant Show." I often left the University of Alabama at Birmingham (a separate institution) library in time to get home and watch Coach Bryant review Saturday's game film and charm all the mamas and daddies in the audience who might conceivably send their son to play for the coach.

To provide one last instance of Coach Bryant's popularity, he was once accused in a national magazine of "fixing" a football game with the coach of the University of Georgia. Alabama won handily, but it was alleged that points were somehow "shaved." When Paul "Bear" Bryant went on television in prime time to refute these scurrilous, false charges, nearly every television in the state was tuned in. Since Coach Bryant retired, the Alabama football program has won only 1 national championship and has turned out more mediocre teams than Bryant would've allowed. But I long ago realized that the fortunes of a group of young men playing a game truly had little true impact on my life. Oh, I'm still a fan, but nowhere close to the kind of "fanatic" that I used to be.

Still, when the Autumn leaves begin to fall, I still get twinges of nostalgia as I remember what fun it all was, especially when I watched a 'Bama" game on television, even more when I actually attended a game. I suppose that some of the good feelings I get as I reminisce come from the fact that we were all young and everything was ahead of us. And it was our team, representing our university, and our state.

Beethoven Continued

An old friend reminded me that Leonard Bernstein conducted Beethoven's 9th Symphony at the Berlin Wall as it was coming down. I searched a bit and learned that he played it on both sides of the wall. How fitting.

I was awakened from a deep sleep on Saturday night by loud claps of thunder and saw the lightning flashing through the mini-blinds in my bedroom. On Sunday afternoon I heard the thunder and saw the lightning of the Minnesota Orchestra playing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I don't know if I've even seen a conductor work as hard as did Osmo Vanska, the Finnish born Music Director of this world-class orchestra. And I saw some of the orchestra members obviously having an absolutely wonderful time. Even some of the Minnesotans in Orchestra Hall were enjoying the music.

I'm not a music critic, and I therefore don't know the jargon a professional would use in describing this experience. What I do know is that this was one of the most wonderful musical experiences I've ever had. As my joke suggested, the timpani were busy, and I love the distinct sound of that large drum being struck by that padded stick. The fourth movement almost wears everybody out, the conductor, the musicians, and the audience. I'll have to give the audience a little more credit, as they did have the conductor and principals return for 3 bows. And the bows were well earned. What a wonderful feeling: to be sitting in a large room of like-minded, probably intelligent people and enjoying the music of the ages. Wow!

For those of you who take note of such things, Maestro Vanska and his wife live in a loft overlooking the Mississippi River.

The 9th Symphony

There's little I can say tonight except, "That mutha sho' could play dem drums!" I'm too tired, too filled with music, too satiated with food, too in awe of human talent to make the remotest sensible comments, if I could ever do that. There is one thing I can say with certainy, however. If you never hear it, you will be much the poorer. Till the sun awakens me!!!

No Beethoven Tonight

There's no Ninth Symphony to report on because there wasn't a a Ninth Symphony, at least not one that I could hear. Of course the performances went on as scheduled on 9 27, 9/28, and 9/29 in Orchestra Hall performed by the Minneapolis Orchestra. We couldn't attend because of work schedule, my wife's, not mine. But because of high demand, fortunately for us a fourth performance was later scheduled for Sunday afternoon in Orchestra Hall, and I switched our tickets with no fuss. This way my wife takes care of both her work requirements and her spiritual needs. She completed her work tasks on 9/27 in Mayfield Village, Ohio. And on Sunday afternoon 9/30m, we'll both have our sprits enriched listening to the music of a giant, Ludwig von Beethoven. Last year The Minnesota Orchestra with its current conductor turned out a very highly praised CD of this very same symphony, so I'm sure our time Sunday will be filled with magic.

Fly the Friendly Skies

This afternoon I dropped my wife at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport so that she could wing her way to Cleveland, then drive to some town in Ohio with "Village" in its name, though its probably not a village in the strictest sense of the word. Whatever it is, it's where she'll spend Thursday working before soaring back to Minnesota to celebrate my birthday. I no longer enjoy air travel, nor does she, but it's a requirement of her job.

However, if every trip ended as the one she made last week, she probably wouldn't mind travelling quite as much. And what happened was that someone took the time to do a thoughtful thing for her, which was to return the Day Planner to she had left on the plane. If you have any kind of responsible or professional job, you probably know the value one of these magic books. My wife had both personal and professional information in it, and it would've cost her countless hours of gathering data from a range of sources to put it all back together again, if it could've been done at all.

She was close to distraught at such a loss, and our weekend began on a somewhat sour note. But on Sunday, as she was catching up on some of her work on her company computer, the phone rang. A voice asked, "Are you missing something?" She knew immediately. Someone had found her Day Planner, and that someone was a Flight Attendant for United Airlines. I could hear her talking to him somewhat animatedly, and she came out of her workspace with a huge smile. Further, not only did this United employee refuse to accept any reward, he also refused to accept payment for what turned out to be a overnight FedEx shipment.

This is a big deal for at least two reasons: the loss would have nearly shut her work down for a time; and it softened our growing belief that all civility and thougtfullness is lost in today's world. No, it's not lost. It just hides and pops up when we least expect it, sometimes when we need it most. My wife has sent a letter to United Airlines about the good this employee did for her and the good he's done for his employer. Yes, we'll try to fly the friendly skies as often as possible because one good deed deserves several others.

Take Your Choice

Sometimes when I tell someone that I lived in Southern California for 20 years, he asks me if I was afraid of earthquakes. Of course I was afraid of earthquakes and "enjoyed" two pretty large ones in the Los Angeles area between 1987 and 2006. Now that I've been in Minnesota for over a year, my question to a local would be to ask if he is afraid of tornadoes, to which I'm sure to get an affirmative. It seems, then, that wherever one lives, he has to contend with either floods, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, or something else that tears hell out of things.

As I write this post, a tornado warning is just about to expire for the area in which I live. I grew up in the South, an area accustomed to tornadoes, and I remember hunching down in some part of the house believed to be safe as a tornado roared through my part of Dixie. I was a few minutes ago reminded of all these weather disturbances, as I just returned from a trip to Cub Foods, our large grocery retailer, just after someone in the store reported a tornado warning. So I finished my checkout, headed for the car, and came home with large splats of water hitting my windshield. I saw, too, a not-fully-formed funnel, and darkness all around.

As I pulled into our parking area, I heard a loud, shrill siren, a public "announcement" given when a tornado warning has actually been issued, ie.,a tornado has actually been spotted touching down in the area. It would be nice if there were an earthquake warning! In any case, the people here are practiced in dealing with storms, and this siren indicates that they should immediately go to the safest place possible, a central room or a basement.

Once I came into the condo, the television meteorologist said that a tornado had actually touched down near U. S. 494 and France Avenue, the area I had glanced at just a few minutes before. There was no feeling of fear during any of this, certainly not the fear I felt at being nearly thrust out of bed during the large earthquake that hit Los Angeles County in early 1994. I must admit that I was scared silly that early January morning. My bookshelves were emptied by the movement of the earth, and a small glass object d'art broke. I was very lucky because the building, built back in the 50s, suffered very little damage.

There are continuous reports of funnel clouds as I sit here and write, all the while listening to our intrepid weather man (no, that's not sexist; he is a man). Whew! Now I hear that the tornado warnings for my county have been cancelled. I probably won't relax too much, as it's still quite dark out. And this is a huge storm system, complete with high winds and all. Anyway, it's good we don't overthink the natural events that can come suddenly, engulf us, maybe harm us, then leave most of us unscathed and relieved, and saying thanks to whatever we say thanks to -- if we do.

I'm glad for that part of the brain that keeps the horrible at bay, lets us "forget" the last time we hurt so much, or were so afraid. Otherwise, we'd likely not be able to go about our day-to-day tasks with optimism, hope, and all those other wonderful abstracts that give life some of its flavor. And we probably wouldn't be able to live with one another more than a day or two.

Yes, I Did Make a Difference

Some of us would like to think we made a difference in someone else's life, someone who was not blood or otherwise linked to us in any way. I'm very happy to report that not only did I make a difference in one man's life, he actually told me just how it happened. Over the years he mentioned it several more times, so I guess he was telling the truth.

His name was Ron B., and I use that appelation because we met in Alcoholics Anonymous. I don't mind if you know I'm a recovered drunk, but I don't have the right to tell you that anyone else is. Anyway, I used to attend a Men's Stag Meeting of A. A. on Monday nights on Radford Avenue in Studio City, California. Radford Avenue ran right beside the CBS Studios where "Rosanne" and many other shows were taped. I met Ron in 1987, the year I settled in Los Angeles and began to attend all those wonderful stag meetings, which I blogged about earlier.

First of all, Ron attracted attention because he wore many pieces of metal in his body, most of which one could see (I took his word for the others), and he had at least his fair share of tattoos. He had so many pieces of metal hanging from his ears that he almost jingled when he walked. And he was a rocket scientist, really! He worked for N. A. S. A., and his skills were such that he participated in some of the most interesting launches in the latter part of the century, such as the Mars probes. He was intelligent, well read, a curmudgeon before his time, and I grew to love him as a brother.

One particular Monday night, Ron was called on to share from the podium. As he shared, I noticed that he "downed" himself a lot, saying one negative thing after another about himself. Though I didn't know him except casually at the time, I stopped him after the meeting and asked him if he minded some observations on what he said. He agreed to listen, and I told him that if he continued to think and speak negatively about himself, he would eventually believe the negatives, if he didn't already. I explained that even as adults, we react to our own words as a child would if a parent continually criticizes and finds fault. How many children who turned out less than they could have were told as children that they were and always would be losers? My guess is that it was quite a few.

Ron looked at me as if I'd told him his name for the first time. He took this in, and I know he thought about it, as he later told me that it was one of the singlemost important comments anybody had ever made to him. Ron told me that it changed his life. I tried the false modesty route, but he wouldn't allow it. Finally, I said what I should've said right away, "Thank you." As a gay man, Ron truly trusted few straight men, and I was surprised that he asked me to be his sponsor in the A. A. program. I served in that capacity for several years. Then he stopped coming to the Men's Stag and went almost exclusively to gay N. A. meetings in Los Angeles. He also found another gay man for a sponsor, which I applauded when he asked if it would hurt my feelings. It didn't. He did exactly what he needed to do to continue in sobriety. Ron also told me later that he passed on what I said to him that night in 1987 to every man he sponsored in
A. A. and N. A.

There was something else about Ron that was immediately noticeable; one of his arms was shrunken, and he walked with a combination of limp and shuffle, the aftermath of childhood polio. Ron died in the Spring of 2004, the final result of that once dreaded disease. He had been going downhill slowly, and he knew it was inevitable, though he died earlier than most of would like. He was only 63. I missed his memorial service only because I didn't know about it. I telephoned him one day in April about getting together and left a message on his answering machine. It was his voice that greeted me when I called, so I fully expected to hear back from him. Instead I received a call from one of Ron's gay friends that he had died the month before. He said they didn't have time to call everybody, though I'm not sure what that meant.

I was angry at first, but I realized quickly (whew!) that it's not all about me. It was about Ron, and I know he knew I loved him because I told him each time we spoke. I think of him often, and I'm still saddened that he's not sharing the world with us. Rest in peace my dear, old friend.

Pardon The Interruption

The title of today's posting is instantly recognizeable by you real sports fans out there. It's a daily sports talk show on ESPN at 4:30 P. M., CDT, and hosted by two actual newspaper sports columnists, Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, both of The Washington Post. I'm borrowing it today to write about the aging process as we're experiencing it, and I ask the reader's pardon because few people really want to hear about anyone else's aging aches and pains.

About 2 hours ago, I dropped my wife off at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a business trip to Kalamazoo, MI, by way of Detroit. Again, she looked frail and somewhat lost, but she's going because she has to if she wants to keep her job. She had a rough weekend, the pain from her bursitis returning with a vengeance. Recently, she tried again to take her suitcase onto whichever airplane she was boarding to see if she could lift it into the overhead bin. She couldn't and had to ask for help, but it sufficiently strained the muscles in her chest to kick in the old ailment again.

In order for us to clean our slate and depart the frozen north, we recently calculated that she needs to work at least 2 1/2 more years. I'll be truly surprised if she makes it half that. And the frustration for me is that with my spinal condition, even though most of the pain has been relieved through medication, and with my oxygen deficit, I can't work. It's so hard to know that your spouse feels like hell, both physically and mentally, as you send her off on another stressful trip. If there are any of you out there who talk to a power greater than yourselves, please post a prayer for my wife who's giving her best to keep us afloat.

I'm glad that I've had recently several positive things to write about. I'm grateful for all the good we've experienced lately. But I feel so much for her situation, and I can do nothing. You have a good week, and I'll keep you up-to-date on all of it.

My Recommendations

This will be a short entry, the purpose of which is to recommend two other blogs and one domain. The person who got me into blogging is my youngest child, and you can read her work at www.southernmuslimah.blogspot.com. She is hugely intelligent and writes very, very well. The other blog I read only occasionally, but when I do, I find it quite interesting. It is also written by a very intelligent woman, and you can find it at www.dooce.com. It was recommended by my blog-writing daughter. Notice that both are from the south, as is my last recommended writer whose domain is www.veritas-anydaynow.com. He publishes each Friday, and he is my oldest friend, a man I met in college back in 1964. He, too, is intelligent. So, if you want to peruse well written, thoughtful pieces, go to any or all of these, one at a time, of course. I hope you like them all. And don't forget to continue reading mine, too, from time to time. I hope to be more regular in the future.

Birthday Month

Yes, it's birthday month again, though the number is not one I ever anticipated reaching. I'll be 67 years old on the 27th of September. I've always enjoyed birthdays, and this one should be little different. On this birthday, my wife and I will go to Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis and hear Beethoven's 9th Symphony, "The Chorale." Although I've heard this work on record, tape, and CD, I've never heard it live, and it should be a treat.

Over the years, I've had some quite enjoyable birthdays, the earliest of which I remember is my 7th. There was a big party on our large back yard, complete with neighborhood children, gifts, ice cream, and a huge cake. Somewhere in all our boxes, I have a picture of that memorable celebration.

My 18th birthday was something special in that it was the first birthday I'd ever spent away from home. On 9/27/58, I was at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, undergoing training to become a member of the Corps. It wasn't special because anybody celebrated. It was just another training day, hot, sweaty, difficult.

I spent my 40th birthday in Los Angeles, visiting a friend from college who worked as an actor until his retirement a few years ago. I also attended an art opening at the Frank Lloyd Wright house on Doheny Drive, which celebrated a friend of his, a local artist whose work I really enjoyed. My friend, his wife, Sandy the artist, and I, all broke bread at a wonderful steak house on Ventura Blvd. that has since been torn down. Sandy and I shared a Chateaubriand for two. And it was during this birthday period that I had my first Haagen-Dazs ice cream, vanilla. I also ate my first sushi and sashimi during this visit.

The last memorable birthday I can recall is my 55th. My wife and I were working at a pharmaceutical research facility in Los Angeles, and she surprised me with a party that day at work. Some of my co-workers bought me a very nice gift, a briefcase, also a surprise. There was and is a specialty cake shop in L. A., and my wife bought me a quite appropriate birthday cake, one topped with a set of rather lovely female breasts. The cake was tasty, too.

It will be one more year to add to my total so far. It will be a night of tremendous music. It will be another birthday with cake and ice cream. And whenever each of yours is, Happy Birthday.

Hunters Be Damned

The page one headline below the fold in the Star-Tribune was as follows: "New target: Famale hunters." Yes, and if I were looking for a companion, girlfriend, mate, or just plain sex buddy, I would certainly demand that she be able to kill, for no reason, at least one, probably more, of the sundry creatures besides humans that "share" the earth with us. Yes, she'd have to be able to trap, shoot, stab, hook, or even kill with an arrow some gentle creature covered with fur. Maybe she could start with cats, since there are so damned many of them!

When I saw that headline, I was disgusted. I know I live in macho-man, hunter country here in Minnesota, but do we need more killers, more takers of life of any kind, than we already have? I don't think so. Today we need more people in this country who don't want to kill anything. This headline took me back to my childhood in Alabama, from where each summer, my grandmother and I would drive to where my grandfather was working as a brickmason supervisor repairing blast furnaces in steel mills all across this nation of ours.

One particular trip took us to Lynchburg, Virginia, no doubt the home of many hunters bumping into each other. My grandmother and I went to the movies one night, as my grandfather was much too tired after a day of hot, difficult work. And the movie we saw was Bambi. I was 7 years old, and I probably don't need to tell you how much it affected me. But I will anyway! Afterwards, as she and I sat across from each other in a booth in a drugstore (do you remember soda fountains in drugstores?), she noticed I was very quiet. When she asked what was wrong with me, I burst into tears and blurted, "They killed Bambi's mother." And I didn't become a hunter. I recently saw a "personality" in this country say the same thing, that Bambi kept him from killing animals for sport. Good for him.

I have two cousins, decent human beings, who live in North Alabama and whose mother was my favorite aunt, my biological father's sister. I was in the older cousin's home many years ago, and I noticed a book of Bible stories for children sitting on an end table. Then I looked up and saw one of the several deer heads he had mounted and hanging on his wall. To me it was incongruous, to say the least. Just after I moved to Los Angeles in 1987, I was taking a course at The American Film Institute titled "Writing About the Movies," a course designed to help us evaluate books and movie scripts, to learn which ones (we hoped) to recommend for a film. Much to my great pleasure, one of the speakers' father had produced Bambi for Walt Disney, and I was able to tell her just how much the movie had meant to me. It was one of those magical moments that we need more of.

The number of hunters, however, does not need to increase! Hunters be damned!

Coming Attractions

At 4:17 A. M., on Friday, September 27, 1940, I was born in The Holy Name of Jesus Hospital in Gasden, Alabama. My mother later told me that she laughed out loud when she first saw me. I'm glad that she got at least one laugh because of me.

And it takes only minimal skills in arithmetic to see that I'll be 67 years old next month. This comes at something of a surprise to me, as I never really thought about, or believed I would ever be, this damned old. But here I am, a certified senior citizen, though my head doesn't believe it. Further, at this age, when one's head won't tell the truth, one's body certainly will. I am today, all things considered, at least grateful to be on this side of the great beyond.

This birthday will definitely be celebrated. Though my wife doesn't know it yet, I'm going to purchase an ice cream cake for myself, not only to celebrate my birthday but to celebrate losing over 30 pounds in the last few months. Sensible, huh? Well, it makes sense to me; besides, I can rationalize darned near anything. No gifts, please, just ice cream.

But the largest part of our celebration will be another trip to Orchestra Hall in downtown Minneapolis to hear the Minnesota Orchestra entertain us and itself with Beethoven's 9th Symphony. Standing alone, this work is magnificent. I'm further awed, however, with the knowledge that Beethoven never heard this symphony performed. He was totally deaf when he composed it. And when he conducted it, he had to be turned around by an orchestra member to "see" the waves of applause that the audience gave back to him. It truly is an "Ode to Joy."

I wrote in a previous post that the music on my first Orchestra Hall trip didn't lift my spirits as I thought it would. But the fault wasn't in the music; the fault was in me. My mood was dark, and truthfully, the seats in Orchestra Hall are some of the most uncomfortable theatre seats I've ever sat in. Now that my physical pain is being relieved, I'll surely enjoy the music more. I'll also take my own, special ordered seat cushion, the one I'm sitting on now as I write. This is a world-class orchestra, and I look forward to sharing my birthday with them. I plan to talk about music more in later postings, and I thank you for being here!

Rational-Emotive Therapy

Albert Ellis, PhD, co-author of the book A New Guide to Rational Living, says "...almost the only sustained and 'unbearable' misery that we accept as legitimate or justifiable results from prolonged and undownable physical pain. You needlessly manufacture virtually all other prolonged agony." While I accept physical pain as a legitimate basis for misery, there may also be one or two other reasons for misery, though that's for another posting.

What happened to me during the recent very dark period in my life was that I was suffering from untreated chronic physical pain, which compounded the depression I already had. And when I found a pain clinic with professionals who listened and prescribed medication that actually relieves, the darkness began to lift. Another reason that the darkness began to lift is that my son telephoned me and offered to be my sounding board if need be. He also suggested that I go to A New Guide to Rational Living, as it spoke quite clearly to other aspects of my discomfort. I had read it years ago, then again later, during difficult emotional times, and it had helped then. So I ordered another copy (I couldn't find the copy I had had for over 20 years). And he was absolutely right -- it helped. As I mentioned some weeks back, my son recently took a Master of Science in Psychology, and as his second (after himself) "patient,"I am quite pleased.

It helped that he called to see how I was doing and to suggest the book. It further helped that he called a second time last week to check up on me. I'm certainly not suggesting that this one book is "the answer." But it's an intelligent, rational approach to human behavior which I needed to peruse again. And between the medication and the rational thinking I've been exposed to these last few days, I feel better than I did when I wrote what I thought might be my final blog posting. I go again Thursday to the pain clinic, where my medication will probably be adjusted. And I'm so grateful that I don't feel so damned lousy today, for several days, actually.

Thank you to my M. D., my C. M. T., and thank you to my son. I know I have other work to do on my depression, but thank you all three!

Prescription

Had I remained in the black hole I found myself in, I wouldn't be writing this. But I didn't. I found some relief, some relief for the constant, battering physical pain I was in. I actually found a physician in Minnesota who believes in getting patients in as soon as possible and also believes in prescribing medications that have a good probability of relieving pain. And so he treated me. I now have 2 prescriptions for medications that don't contain Tylenol and thereby don't damage my liver. They are, however, medications that no other doctor I've been to or spoken to was ready to prescribe, and they work. The relief is palbable. And it so lifted my spirit that a physician I was talking to truly understood the debillitating effects of chronic pain. I can't express how relieved I am. After years and years ...

Last Post

This is my last post. I no longer labor under the illusion that there's anything left to be happy about. I feel no contentment, and I certainly feel no joy. Not even Mendelssohn and Mozart last Friday eve could ease the pain. Angels' wings should be able to balm and console, but they could not. At the risk of being a second-hand plagiarist, I leave you with a quote from Franz Kafka, taken from a newspaper article about a woman who posted it on her blog just before she eliminated all her pain: "We are as forlorn as children lost in the wood. When you stand in front of me, what do you know of the grief that is in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful?" Thank you for reading.

Orchestra Hall

Tomorrow night my wife and I will be at Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, provided we can get there from here after yesterday's bridge collapse, to hear the Minnesota Orchestra and its soloist, a woman I'm not familiar with, entertain us with Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto, his only one. If you haven't heard it, listen carefully and fully -- and be swept away by its sheer Romanticism. That's always a good way to be swept away. I'll write more about this night out afterwards. As for you, dear reader, go listen!

July is Finished

Whew! I got through July alive. For a tiny while, I wasn't so sure. The depression comes in huge waves and more often than ever in my life. The medication isn't working very well. And I'm not sure all the talk in the world will help, but then, neither are the people who are licensed to talk to me. The way out appears obvious. God, I feel awful. Going to Birmingham didn't help.

Loathing Without Fear

It's very difficult for me to write about something I truly dislike. And since I truly dislike Birmingham, Alabama, I may never write about my recent visit there except to say that I really enjoyed seeing my youngest child and her four children. That's it.

Thank You, Dr. Freud

It's a quiet Sunday in Bloomington, Minnesota, and I'm very, very tired. I travelled to Birmingham, Alabama, on 7/16/07 to visit with my youngest child and her four children. I'll write about that trip later.

But yesterday, 7/21/07, I attended the graduation of my only son from Walden University at Walden's Thirty-Eighth Commencement Ceremony. He took an M. S. in Psychology, a very nice complement to his B. S. from Auburn University. The title of his M. S. thesis is Effects of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Gambler's Anonymous on Pathological Gamblers. The ceremony was held in Northrop Auditorium on the East Bank Campus of the University of Minnesota, and it's a good thing not all graduates listed in the graduation program showed up. The Northrup wouldn't have held them. Northrop is a lovely, old theatre which looks as if it was built during the W. P. A. It's being prepared for remodeling and will lose the incredible pipe organ on which a woman played the relevant graduation music during the afternoon. A recent article in the Star-Tribune lamented this loss, which apparently can't be avoided if the remodeling is to be completed properly.

My son turned 45 years old on 6/29/07. When I celebrated my 45th birthday in 1985, I had had my M. A. in English for only about 20 months. I guess you could say that we're late bloomers, but we're persistent. I remember that after finishing my thesis in November 1983, I went to bed for about 2 days, alone. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings, and what's interesting to me is that when I was an undergraduate, I took all the core courses to prepare me for graduate work in Psychology, which I first entered before returning to the study of literature. And my son writes well above average poetry. What does all this say about genetics? I don't know, but my son and I obviously have similar interests. And now we both have advanced degrees, though he has a decade + experience working with disturbed youth.

I remember a Psychology professor telling our huge class at the University of Alabama at Birmingham many years ago that other than psychology, a quite effective method of studying human behavior was the study of literature. And I learned over the years that if one wants to find out what really happened in a particular society, he should read that society's fiction, not historians. In any case, yesterday was a wonderful , blue-skied day for graduation, and my son strode across the stage, all 6' 3", 240 lbs of him, as if he were striding across the world. Congratulations, young man!

Finally, if this post seems somewhat disjointed, so am I! Have a wonderful work week!

Turn Your Clocks Back 100 Years

I'm going to Birmingham, Alabama, tomorrow. If it weren't for the fact that my youngest child is visiting from the Middle East, I wouldn't even consider it. I look forward to seeing her and her 4 beautiful children, as it may be the last time I see them in this life, but I am near nausea thinking about being in that city. I hope you had a Happy Bastille Day.

Fatboy

Before I began Nutrisystem, I was weighed in at 280+ lbs by my primary physician's nurse. Recently, I was weighed in at 255, again by my primary physician's nurse. When I began this change of course, I could hitch my size 50 belt only to the first notch. After two food deliveries from Nutrisystem, I can now go to the very last notch. I've not kept a close eye on my weight drop but rather allowed myself to feel the differences in my life.

A quite noticeable difference is the reduction in pain in my lower back and legs. After I had spinal surgery in December 2005, I couldn't consistently keep the pain down no matter how much medication I used. Now, though the pain isn't gone and probably never will be, it's less than it's been for a very long time. And tonight I bought a size 46 belt at Macy's, a Perry Ellis on sale for $9.99. It won't be long before I fit into my old size 42 belt, and if I don't do something monumentally stupid, I could eventually fall below 200 lbs again, a weight I can carry well even though I'm not Wilt Chamberlain.

Another difference is the general increase in energy. At my age, I need all the help I can get keeping my energy up. I now find myself looking for excuses to get out and about instead of excuses to remain in my recliner. It's something like a rebirth of the senses. A contributory to this rebirth could very well be my recent titration from Prednisone, initially prescribed for me because of my lousy lungs. My pulmonary physician at the University of Minnesota recently examined the slides that were made during my lung biopsy in 2006 at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, and with all the other information he had gleaned through examination, decided that I didn't need steriods anymore. Good for him!

In addition to the steroids, I had done a huge amount of emotional eating after my back surgery and respiratory failure. It's not difficult to put on weight when one eats a pint of ice cream at a time, stuffs chocolate down his throat almost non-stop, avoids anything green except money, and inhales pastry like a drowning man. On top of all that, I found myself adrift in Minnesota, surrounded by blonde-headed people who talk funny. It all seemed like a good idea at the time, and most of it tasted good, too. But now, I'm on the road to another recovery, thanks to Dan Marino and all the other athletes who advertise for Nutrisystem.

Way Back When

I had actually begun a blog entry about my first car when I stopped to watch a 2-hour "Secret History of the Klu Klux Klan" on The History Channel. How easy it is to forget or suppress or put aside unpleasant feelings about the past. I know that we all have selective memory, but this documentary stirred up old anxieties, old fears, old queasiness. It's especially discomforting today, since I'm going to Birmingham, Alabama, next Monday, a city I miss about as much as I'd miss skin cancer.

When I was hired as by the U. S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission in Birmingham in 1971, I asked one of my superiors for the name of a photographer to take my official government I. D. picture. I was given the name of Chris McNair. The name didn't immediately ring my bell, though I realized who he was before he took my photo. His 11 year old daughter, Denise, had died violently when the 16th Street Baptist Church exploded on September 15, 1963, dynamited by Klansmen Robert Chambliss, Bobby Frank Cherry, and two others, cowards and terrorists who slithered through Southern nights in their many attempts to stop the march of freedom of former slaves and their descendants.

When the news of the bombing was announced, I simply couldn't believe it, even though I had lived much of my then 23 years in Birmingham. I had grown up in a racist society, but even this surprised, shocked, and truly saddened me. In later years, my work with the E. E. O. C. and other federal agencies was particularly medicinal, though not a complete antidote to the hatred I had seen around me and that I can still feel even over so much time and distance.

I don't know what I expected when I walked into Chris McNair's photography studio. I just didn't expect him to be so pleasant, almost soft spoken. He was a real man, have no doubt, but he exuded kindness, gentleness even. I suppose I expected an angry facade, a man still seeking revenge for what had been so unfairly taken from him and his wife, for nobody had yet been put on trial for the murders of four little girls that awful Sunday just outside downtown Birmingham. Because I'm white, I really expected him to view me with at least a hint of suspicion. But he met none of these expectations.

On the day they lost their child, both Chris McNair and his wife were at worship. I suppose faith is the only way out of that awful place that the death of a child puts the parents in. It took years for anybody to go to trial for these awful murders, the last one just into the 21st Century. But not only did Chris McNair continue his life as a photographer, he also served a public which had allowed such an atrocity. He was later elected to the Alabama State Legislature and the Jefferson County Commission, retiring from public life in 2001.

I met Chris McNair in life that one time only. But I'm still awed and amazed. You can meet him, too, as I did again many years later, in a film entitled "Four Little Girls," a heart-wrenching documentary by Spike Lee, which should've won the Academy Award the year it was eligible. Watch it, please, and you might gain a better understanding and a bigger heart.

Medic!

I don't know if it's a permanent change, but it's been with me for a while now. Actually, it's been over 18 months. The change is that I don't see the world in any way similar to how I saw it in the past. The world seems foggy, out of focus.

When I went to the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles in late January 2006, for the second time in 3 days, I was about to die. The ER doctor put me on oxygen almost immediately and prepared to admit me with a horrible lung infection. As I lay in a room near the ER, I went into respiratory arrest. The staff knocked me out and intubated me as I lay in the dark, so to speak. The next thing I remember is going in and out of consciousness, finally awakening some days later with my wrists tied to the hospital bed and a respirator doing my breathing for me. I was told that after admission to the Pulmonary Critical Care Unit, I had experienced critical care room psychosis and had tried to pull all the tubes out of my body.

I stayed in the unit on a respirator for about 15 days. Obviously, I survived, but everything has been different since. It's almost as if a thin, gauze screen has been erected between me and the world. The emotional pile up has had me often feeling disconnected and anxious, then later, depressed, then briefly whole, but not for long, only minutes. For now, I'm going to chalk it up to coming face to face with my own mortality for the first time in my 6+ decades of life. I never felt anything like this before, and though I'll chalk it up, as I said, I'm not absolutely sure just what it is. All I'm certain of is that I wish it would go away.

The Caboose

It was a regular comment where I grew up that the last child born to a couple was called "the caboose." My fourth child was just that. But she will be 35 in July, and I feel a little old. She was, as all my children were, a surprise, as her mother and I didn't have the sense to plan a family. Also, the things that are discussed openly now simply weren't discussed back then. So, approaching 32 years of age, I learned I was to be a father again. And there was no thought of anything but bringing this child into the world.

I learned that my fourth child was a girl only when she was born. Again, at that time, couples simply didn't find out until until the baby arrived. I was waiting in the wee hours of the morning when a nurse came out with this beautiful newborn and said she was sorry, it's a girl. And I said that was fine. I suppose she thought because I had 2 girls and 1 boy that I had wanted another son. In truth, it didn't matter to me. She was absolutely beautiful even before she was cleaned up. She was born 17 days shy of my one year anniversary in Alcoholics Anonymous.

Part of the joy I felt came from the fact that I was going to get a chance to be a sober father, something my three other children hadn't enjoyed in their early years. She never saw me drinking or drunk. For the first 7 1/2 years of her life, I did a pretty good job overall. She attended a private Episcopal kindergarten, then school. She was an open, laughing, happy child whom I took with me everywhere I could, even to the grocery store. Then came the divorce, but that's another story.

My beautiful daughter later graduated from high school with honors, then graduated from university Magna Cum Laude. She has completed almost all requirements for an M. A. degree, and she has been a teacher both in the United States and in Jordan. While she was working her way through university, she met a man from Amman, Jordan, who had come here as a student. They were both working at a barbeque joint in Birmingham, Alabama. He is a Palestianian, one of many whose family was forced off their land by the Israelis many years ago. He and my daughter fell in love and married.

My son-in-law is a handsome and intelligent man who is a good husband, provider, and father, and who, with my daughter, has brought into this world four of the most beautiful children I've ever seen who love their "Baba." Some years ago, my son-in-law decided to return sincerely to the religion he was born into, Islam. He quit working in an establishment that sold alcohol and went to work at the local mosque. He later became a successful automobile dealer, which work he continues in Jordan. And he continues to be a good husband, provider, and father.

On her own, my daughter converted to Islam and is today a person whose life is guided by the precepts of her religion. Out of the home, she dresses in traditional Muslim clothing for women. But thank God her beautiful face is still uncovered for all to see. I would love to post a picture of her taken in a Japanese restaurant in Los Angeles when I was hospitalized near death. But obviously, for privacy's sake, I can't do that. At present, she lives in Amman, Jordan with her family, and I miss her.

She's visiting in Birmingham now, and I plan to go down as soon as I can. She has two small children whom I've never met, and they need to meet their "Giddo" but not nearly as much as I need to meet them. Parts of my life have been absolutely wonderful, and I've just written about one of them.

California Dreamin' Two

Sometimes the elephant sits in the room for months and months before anybody says anything. That's what happened with me and my wife once it really hit us that we really are living in Minnesota. Today, after my physical therapy, I came home to pick her up and take her to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a flight to Cleveland for her company. I'd been fighting back tears all day, not exactly sure why, so when she sat down on the day bed across from my favorite chair, I just lost it.

After I let the pressure out, I said, "I hate it here." She replied immediately, "So do I." Finally! Both of us had been feeling this for quite some time, but neither wanted to say it, so as not to cause the other to feel bad or worry for the other. Now we were able to talk about it. We both agreed that almost everybody we know and love is in Los Angeles, where we lived for almost 20 years and left a year ago. We came to Minnesota for good reasons and with all the information we could've had at the time. But this isn't home and never will be.

Regardless of all the negatives you've probably heard about the City of Angels, it's a fascinating place to live. There's so much more to do in L. A. than most of its citizens ever get around to. There are restaurants of every variety and price range. And the A. A. in Los Angeles is the best in the world, not to mention that our oldest and dearest friends are there.

I don't know what we're going to do, at least for a while, as my wife's very good job is only three months old. Lucky for us, her multinational employer also has locations all over the United States.

For now, we'll take it one day at a time, do what's in front of us, and let the future unfold as it will. Wish us luck.

The Day After Fathers' Day

When I look back on my childhood and adolescence, there is one constant: baseball. The only significant man in my youth, my grandfather, told me stories about the baseball players he had seen as younger man, such as Dizzy Dean. And one of the places we went together was Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Alabama, where the Class AA Birmingham Barons played. This was back when major league baseball wasn't so watered down and also a time when many, many cities and towns supported a minor league team, Class AAA down to Class D. Rickwood Field, where I spent so many happy hours, is the oldest baseball stadium in the United States, opening in 1912, days before Wrigley Field in Chicago.

There were only 16 major league teams then, so few of the thousands of minor leaguers could ever hope to spend time in the majors. But we pulled for our minor league players because they were our own, and the Birmingham Barons usually fielded a respectable team. They were in the Southern Association with the New Orleans Pelicans, the Little Rock Travelers, the Memphis Chicks, the Atlanta Crackers, the Chattanooga Lookouts, the Nashville Vols, and the Mobile Bears. The pennant winner played the Texas League pennant winner in a mini-World Series each year.

Going to Rickwood Field with my grandfather is one of my fondest childhood memories. He and I went to the Southern League All-Star game one year, and I saw Jim Lemon hit 4 home runs and barely miss a 5th. Lemon, of course, made it to the major leagues and stayed for a while. Also at Rickwood, in later years, I got autographs from Hank Aaron, Andy Pafko, Eddie Matthews, and Mickey Mantle. Mickey and the Yankees were coming off the field after an exhibition game with the Barons, and I reached through a metal fence and asked for his autograph. He just grumbled. Then Yogi Berra said, "Aw, come on, Mick, give the kid your autograph." And he did. Mickey wasn't much more than a kid himself then. How I wish I had all those autographed scorecards that I kept for years.

Jim Lemon wasn't the only future big leaguer I saw in Class AA baseball on his way up to "the bigs." There was also Bill Virdon, who later played for and managed the St. Louis Cardinals. There, too, was Gus Triandos, who played for the Yankees after his stint in Birmingham. But the last great player I saw during his minor league days was Reggie Jackson. The Barons were associated with various major league clubs during those years, a farm team of the big team. And I saw many of these wonderful players because several major league teams would, upon breaking camp after Spring Training in Florida (they all went to Florida then), play exhibitions with various minor league teams on their way north to their major league home cities. I saw a Baron pitcher strike out Ted Williams twice in one of these exhibitions. If that pitcher is still alive, I'll bet he's telling his grandchildren about it even now. And even striking out, Ted Williams had the sweetest swing I ever saw, before or since.

In those days, I listened to Barons' games on the radio. On a good night for the team, I can still hear the announcer saying when the bases were loaded, that they were F. O. B., Full of Barons. Road games were also broadcast but with a twist. The announcer wasn't actually with the team! He was calling the game in a Birmingham studio from a ticker tape that tap-tap-tapped each play as it happened. His obvious embellishments made it seem almost as if he were there, but our love for baseball was such that we didn't really care. My love for baseball carried into my teen years, and I still have a copy of the 1954 Mutual Baseball Almanac that I ordered through the mail. It cost a dollar, and it's in pristine condition still. Mutual Radio carried the Game of the Week. Television broadcasts were quite rare, though the World Series was televised.

One last, very important thing. As kids, most of us didn't join any formal leagues. We just got a team together and challenged another group of kids. We played baseball for pure fun. There were few, if any, adults around to mess things up. If we won, fine. If we lost, we still got on our bikes and pedaled to the nearest store for a cold drink (that's what we called soda pop back then) to take the edge off the hot Alabama summer.

It's been said that it was a more innocent time. I think it was for most of us. And baseball was a part of my innocence and my life with my sweet grandfather. What more could a kid ask for?

An important social footnote should be added to this near idyllic description of my life growing up in Birmingham, Alabama. It wasn't an innocent time for everybody. Until I was an adult, there were never any black faces in the stands at Rickwood Field when the Barons were playing. There was another team back then, the Birmingham Black Barons, a team that Willie Mays played for on his way up. He's from a little town, Fairfield, Alabama, where the steel mills roared and belched, not far from where I lived. Further, in the early sixties, as blacks demanded their freedom with marches and demonstrations in Birmingham, there was no baseball at Rickwood. The locals thought it better to shut down than to risk that they might have to attend games with blacks. Fortunately for everybody, Rickwood Field opened up again, and it was after the re-opening that I saw Reggie Jackson play for the Barons. But today Rickwood is empty to professional baseball. The new stadium is located in Hoover, Alabama, across Red Mountain, in a white neighborhood. The area around Rickwood Field is now peopled by black folks.

Fathers' Day

The phone rang about an hour ago, and my only son said cheerfully, "Happy Father's Day." And I told him it was. He's one of those people who would rather call than send a card, but I like to hear his voice. A lot of men aren't good at cards. I, however, am one who is. I love sending cards of all kinds. In both my marriages, I've sent out most of the Christmas cards. In fact, I've been sending them out for almost 45 years. I send out cards on almost any occasion I can find.

My son had his only child, also a son, with him today down in Alabama. The divorce decree allows limited visitation, with more time in summer than during the school year. My grandson, who's 5 1/2 years old, had attended Vacation Bible School last week, which truly rang a bell with me, as it was one of the activities I enjoyed back in Alabama in the late forties. The religious instruction didn't take with me, but I remember the experience of Vacation Bible School as a positive.

I never got to give a card to my father, as he left my mother and me when I was about 5 years old. I never saw him again. He died alone, an unrecovered alcoholic, in a small apartment above a grocery store in Sacramento, California, in 1981. He was found on the floor of the apartment by the grocery store owner. His sister, my favorite aunt, told me he had cut his drinking down to a few beers. I never could do that, so if he did, I salute him. I missed him for so many years and was angry, but when I found out about his alcoholism, I at least understood his behavior, for I was one, too. It didn't excuse what he did, but it certainly made it comprehensible to me, and I was no longer angry with him.

Fathers' Day may be one of those holidays made up by card companies, but so what? I enjoyed hearing from my son.

Easy Rider

In the most recent issue of Newsweek, Sir Paul McCartney said that he felt it hard to believe it's actually he who is approaching the age of 65. I certainly understand the sentiment, for I, as most who live this long, still feel in our minds that we're much younger. Also, for most, all we have to do is look in the mirror to confirm the reality we sometimes just don't want to face.

With aging, for me, has also come a degenerative spinal condition combined with arthritis and stenosis, the surgery for which left me in about as much pain as I experienced before the surgery. It's difficult for me to walk more than ten feet or so without stopping to allow the pain to ease, even with my cane or walker. As a result, our outings are always taken with any walking distance in mind, such as our last Sunday on the banks of the Mississippi River. Had a bench not been relatively close to the parking, I simply would've missed the duck show I described in a recent blog.

But there is a solution, though not physiologically. Have you ever seen those commercials for The Scooter Store? They've probably been showing for years, but of course I never paid much attention until I couldn't walk very well. So I sent for literature and came to find out that they fold up such that I could get one in the back of my PT Cruiser if the back seats are down. And I'm no novice. I've had a little scooter driving practice at such places as Cub Foods and Home Depot, which are huge buildings that I couldn't walk around if I wanted to. Of course I used a scooter at the Mall of America. Actually, I look pretty cool zipping around.

It's just another one of the adjustments to aging and physical deterioration. But it is what it is! Hell, all I need is a Captain America motorcycle helmet and people will think I'm Peter Fonda!

Back to the Future

Even after the wonderful Sunday my wife and I had on the banks of the Mississippi River, one of my first thoughts this morning after waking before sunrise (not by choice) was how much I still miss Los Angeles. I love the beauty of nature, but I love a city more. Sitting beside the Mississippi yesterday reminded me of the canoe/camping trips I'd taken as a boy on the Tennessee River near Chattanooga, Tennessee. I went to a summer camp for six weeks in each of four summers, and that was one of our activities. I was as much an outdoor kid as any. But somehow over the years, I fell in love with the idea of a city, and every visit to Los Angeles only confirmed what I felt.

So, when I moved to L. A. in 1987, I felt at home. Of course, when my wife and I decided to leave Florida, we could've gone other places. But as I obliquely mentioned in an earlier blog, the deciding factor for us was the quality of the Alcoholics Anonymous program as we saw it in the city on a visit six years earlier. Because we have a daily reprieve from our disease, we knew that it was important for us to be in a place where our recovery program was strong. It was strong in Los Angeles and still is. As for anonymity, I break no traditions in revealing my own membership in A. A. My wife allows me to identify her as a recovering drunk, too.

Just after we arrived in our new home, I returned to a place where we had attended meetings during our 1981 visit, the Radford A. A. Clubhouse on Radford Avenue, adjacent to the CBS Studio in, of all places, Studio City, California. I soon discovered a Monday night Men's Stag meeting at Radford, which I attended each week for years after. What I found in this gathering was a fellowship of men which I hadn't felt since the Marine Corps. The Men's Stag at Radford was a sometimes racous, sometimes somber meeting of men who wanted to recover. There were laughter, tears, and sharing with one another at surprisingly deep levels, and there was that wonderful feeling of belonging, of family.


The Radford Clubhouse has since been evicted from the old location because some of our members couldn't respect the neighbors sufficiently. Their noise and other infractions caused the city to force us to leave after people living nearby complained, and even with free legal help from one of our members, it was a lost cause. There is a new Radford Clubhouse on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. It's nice but doesn't have the history, the feel I used to get just walking into the old place. And there is a Monday night Men's Stag in the new place, but the bulk of the men who used to populate the old meeting now meet in a church in Sherman Oaks, which I attended regularly before I moved to Minnesota. I miss it mightily, and even though it's not what we once enjoyed, it's still the best meeting in town.

Now you know. My wife and I are recovering alcoholics. It's been many, many years since I was an active drunk, my wife, too. Today I'm especially grateful to A. A. for always being there for me to use, participate in, and occasionally, do some good outside myself. And when one of us goes to a strange town, he or she automatically has a temporary "home" to go to. Last weekend, my wife and I attended the Gopher State Roundup, a huge gathering of members and friends from all over Minnesota and nearby Wisconsin. One of the speakers we heard share his story was from Covina, California, just outside Los Angeles. It was almost like being truly home again.

Old Man River

This afternoon my wife and I spent some quiet time on the banks of the Mississippi River as it slowly wound its way through Minneapolis. There are many parks along the banks on the edge of the city, and this one allowed us to be close to the river. We just sat and listened to the silence. Then my wife turned and said, "Look at the Canadian Geese." I turned to my right, and about twenty yards from us were a number of adult geese and many fuzzy ducklings walking and feeding in the grass. They were headed right toward us. The adults were larger than I would have thought, never having seen one so close to me.

As they got closer, I counted 17 little ones walking with two adults. They continued their path toward us, got on the sidewalk in front of our bench, and walked right in front of us, almost within touching distance. The two adults, as they passed by with their babies, lowered their heads, extended their long necks foward, and gave out a little "honk." We were both just flabbergasted. I had never been so close to untamed animals living their lives as animals do. Wow!

Then two more adults with seven ducklings a bit older and larger did the very same thing. And each lowered its head, stretched its long neck out, and give out a little "honk" as it passed. It was all so beautiful. The third group with two adults and several older ducklings, however, got almost to us, when one adult gave a sharp "honk," and they turned and went behind us. She obviously was not as trusting as the others.

As the ducks moved slowly away, feeding as they walked, my wife and I just looked at each other with smiles of amazement and wonder at the beauty all around us: the ducks and their babies; the river; the lush greenery of a Minnesota Spring. I'm so glad we went out today.

Memorial Day -- Part II

As you enjoy your holiday activities this Memorial Day weekend, please take time to remember those who died in defense of our liberties. I joined the U. S. Marine Corps during my senior year in high school on what was called a delay basis. I arrived at Parris Island, South Carolina, for basic training on August 1, 1958. In many ways I was fortunate in that there wasn't a war for me to fight at that time. And nobody started one during the three years of my military service. But many were lost in war before I arrived, and many would be lost after I was discharged. So I ask you to remember them today, not as a publicity stunt or a photo-op, but as a sincere prayer for those young men and women who never got the chance to fulfil their dreams, to grow old, to live a full life as I've done.

It's difficult to talk of politics in these times, as our leaders have no sense of shame and no connection, however tenuous, to reality. On the worst day of life loss in Iraq, we can easily be told that the situation is improving. On a day when a normal man would be completely embarrassed by his past actions, our president can voice support that this man keep his job as our top law enforcement officer. In a period when science offers us an opportunity to cure some of the most insidious diseases, our president ensures that stem-cell research is thwarted. And the world is about 6,000 years old!

Send your prayers wherever you send them, but remember our fallen troops of all our wars, both necessary and misguided. I'm just so sad and angry that I can hardly write without falling into polemic. Enjoy this holiday, but remember.

Memorial Day - Part I

It pains me to know that we're going to have so many more young men and women to remember this Memorial Day than last. And it pains me to know that George W. Bush will be participating in nothing more than a photo-op as he puts a wreath on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. Bush doesn't honor our fallen military when he shows up on Memorial Day -- he dishonors them. "Cut and Run" was his modus operandi during the Vietnam War, and his political murder of so many thousands since we invaded Iraq is unconscionable. George W. Bush is not only a coward, he's a war criminal. Jimmy Carter was right when he described Bush's foreign policy as the worst in history. And to compare Carter's administration, as bad as it was, to today's Republican gang of thugs is vile. God Bless our men and women who serve, even if their "leader" is a dim-wit.

Springtime in Minnesota

Since I lived in Southern California from January 1987 to June 2006, I simply wasn't used to Spring. There are no seasons to speak of in SoCal, unless you count Fire Season and Rainy Season. So, I wasn't ready when everything here turned green, another thing sparse in SoCal, greenery. I went to bed one night here in Minnesota, and everything was brown. When I awakened the next morning, everything had turned green. Spring had announced itself boldy and beautifully. Since then there have even been frosts in parts of the state, but the green proclaims intself loudly, and I'm enjoying a real Spring, however long it lasts.

Thoughtfulness and Civility

Because of my degenerative spinal condition, the screws in my spine, and the probable nerve damage done during my surgery, I can't lift anything heavier than 5 pounds. The constant pain I feel actually gets worse when I lift almost anything. And I walk with a cane.

So, I just returned from buying two 1-Liter Diet Cokes and two 1-Liter Aquafina waters at the Shell Service Station near our condo. One of the clerks, after I asked if there were any 2-liter sodas available, walked back to the cooler, and pointed out the largest they carried, 1-Liters, which happened all to be on the bottom shelf. When I told him I couldn't bend down that far, he retrieved the 2 Cokes for me and also carried them up to the cash register. I carried the two bottles of water. This clerk had been solicitious from the time I hobbled into the store on my aluminum cane.

As I approached the counter to pay, after I picked up a king-size Kit-Kat bar, there was a young, Nordic looking lad, as there are nearly everywhere here in Minnesota, standing at the counter getting ready to pay for his gasoline. He moved back to let me go first, but I said I was in no hurry. So he paid his bill and walked out the door. Then I paid my bill, and the clerk put the four 1-liter bottles in a paper bag. As I started to try to pick them up, the young Nordic man walked back in the door and asked me if he could carry the sack for me. Wow! I accepted as graciously as I could, thanked him, opened the trunk for him to deposit the sack, thanked him again, and got into my car. He walked to his green Chevy truck and got in. And we drove away, both of us, without a doubt, better for the experience

What a nice evening!