We have a wonderful wedding coming up over the near horizon. It is the lovely Mary Pat who will be gliding down the aisle. It is hard to believe that in a month from today, little MP will be a Mrs. What a stunning bride she will be!
Our daily mail is full of response cards, most of them saying “yes”, with only a few regrets. And that is all well and good, since you write them out hoping people will attend. But anybody who has done this lately knows the drill. There is supposed to be something like a 20% expectancy of “no’s”, so maybe you “overbook” a little. You know, “Old Uncle Gerald and Aunt Zelda, they won’t come. They never show up, God love ‘em.”
So guess whose card showed up in the affirmative today? Boys and girls, we ain’t nowhere near that number with about a month to go.
No worries, though. I can stuff a ham sandwich in my tux coat, maybe throw a few more plates out. Jill likes celery sticks and dip, and Joanie, she can snatch a couple of chicken strips from the grandkids. I am reminded of the scene in the movie “Father of the Bride” where Steve Martin learns of the passing of an old business associate, and he yells “YES, two less!” to the horror of his family.
But really, in the grand scheme of things, it’s only money.
Speaking of which, the mail also yielded an envelope with a retirement projection I requested. I immediately began pounding the calculator, checking the numbers to see when this momentous occasion might occur. What with our investments… check that, the bequest from my parents, and Jill’s retirement account having taken a beating over the past year, this event of bidding adieu to the scholars of North County will, alas, need to be delayed. Looks like I’m showing up in khaki’s and button-down’s for a few years more.
But like I said, it’s only money.
And today, again courtesy of the friendly mailman (ours really is a nice guy), we got an annual report from an organization called Meds and Food for Kids. I think I may have mentioned them here before. It seems that this St. Louis-based foundation that produces a peanut butter-like nutritional product called Medika Mamba that saves over 4000 Haitian kids a year from starvation and malnutrition is launching a capital funds campaign. They have visions of replacing the current converted two-story house they now use to put together their life-saving concoction with a modern production facility.
And so amidst the wedding preparations, the fretting about post-work finances, and the very real fact that can you believe there are only 65 more shopping days left ‘til Christmas, it looks like a check will soon be in the mail to bring a smile to that young child with peanut butter on her chin.
Hey, you all know it as well as I… it’s only money.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
ME NO TECHY... ME JUST SLOW
You could never accuse me of being on the cutting edge of technology. I was the last kid on the family block to have such now-commonplace gadgets as a garage door opener and a cordless phone. I play the old cassette tape recorder in the basement when I work out. And I still don’t know how to program the VCR. What’s that you say… there’s something called TIVO? Well, what will they think of next?
However, tech challenged as I am, I have recently become a member of the Facebook family. This social networking phenomenon started in 2006 boasts over 200 million users. I have run into people from long-past years, and even found out some things about the family before my wife, which is a real coup since she could have been a top agent for the CIA the way she gathers information. She might tell me something and I smugly say “Yeah, I knew that, saw it on Facebook,” to which she merely rolls her eyes and laughs softly at the idea of Grampa hob-knobbing in cyberspace with the young and restless of our clan. From my exhaustive research, which mainly consisted of talking with my daughters and my students, I have found out that there are many other avenues to spread the most inane facts of ones life to the universe. They carry names like MySpace and Bebo for the younger set, Linkedin for business purposes, and Skype for those into the visual method of e-talk. Then, there’s that old reliable, texting. Speaking of which, I don’t leave messages on anyone’s cell phone anymore, since they never checked them anyway. The return call consisted of this: “Hey, you called?” “Yeah, didn’t you get my message?”
To which the answer was always “no”, delivered in a somewhat exasperated tone. So I’ve joined the ranks of the Thumb Warriors, and the results are mixed. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think the fat little digit that faces in a different direction from its four mates was made for such a dexterous activity. Maybe I can invent a new device where good old Thumbkin functions as he was meant to and we can tap-tap those miniscule keys like the Good Lord intended when He invented index fingers and Blackberry’s in the first place!
As popular as these methods may be, there are some problems.
Texting while driving is like rolling down the street with your eyes closed. Once you put something into the air, or wherever it goes, it’s out there, baby, for all to see. And talk about addictive. With all due respect to those who partake in e-talk, is it really necessary to tell your network that “I just got home and boy am I tired.” So go to bed, already!
I have a theory. All these electrical impulses bouncing around in the stratosphere at all hours of day and night may be the real reason behind global warming.
Hey, maybe I should Tweet about it?
(SUBURBAN JOURNALS OF ST. LOUIS, MO SEPTEMBER, 2009)
However, tech challenged as I am, I have recently become a member of the Facebook family. This social networking phenomenon started in 2006 boasts over 200 million users. I have run into people from long-past years, and even found out some things about the family before my wife, which is a real coup since she could have been a top agent for the CIA the way she gathers information. She might tell me something and I smugly say “Yeah, I knew that, saw it on Facebook,” to which she merely rolls her eyes and laughs softly at the idea of Grampa hob-knobbing in cyberspace with the young and restless of our clan. From my exhaustive research, which mainly consisted of talking with my daughters and my students, I have found out that there are many other avenues to spread the most inane facts of ones life to the universe. They carry names like MySpace and Bebo for the younger set, Linkedin for business purposes, and Skype for those into the visual method of e-talk. Then, there’s that old reliable, texting. Speaking of which, I don’t leave messages on anyone’s cell phone anymore, since they never checked them anyway. The return call consisted of this: “Hey, you called?” “Yeah, didn’t you get my message?”
To which the answer was always “no”, delivered in a somewhat exasperated tone. So I’ve joined the ranks of the Thumb Warriors, and the results are mixed. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think the fat little digit that faces in a different direction from its four mates was made for such a dexterous activity. Maybe I can invent a new device where good old Thumbkin functions as he was meant to and we can tap-tap those miniscule keys like the Good Lord intended when He invented index fingers and Blackberry’s in the first place!
As popular as these methods may be, there are some problems.
Texting while driving is like rolling down the street with your eyes closed. Once you put something into the air, or wherever it goes, it’s out there, baby, for all to see. And talk about addictive. With all due respect to those who partake in e-talk, is it really necessary to tell your network that “I just got home and boy am I tired.” So go to bed, already!
I have a theory. All these electrical impulses bouncing around in the stratosphere at all hours of day and night may be the real reason behind global warming.
Hey, maybe I should Tweet about it?
(SUBURBAN JOURNALS OF ST. LOUIS, MO SEPTEMBER, 2009)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
EVERY NEW BEGINNING COMES FROM SOME OTHER BEGINNINGS END
Yellow seems to be the prevailing color these days, especially on the highways and byways of our fair community. Those large purveyors of our youth, the school buses, are signaling the start of yet another school year.
For some, kids and parents alike, it’s just the latest piece of the recurring puzzle. Shopping for shoes, a new backpack, maybe even a computer on tax-free weekend. A fond farewell to the lazier days of a summer well spent.
But for others, those entering into a new era, it can be a time of tears and trepidation.
Our little clan is feeling it at both ends of the school age spectrum. At the front side, the older grandkids are stepping out into the world of pencils and crayons with full force. The first two girls are big-shot first graders now, relative veterans in the game. The next, the first boy, is tackling full day kindergarten. It was a precious moment when Clara, one of the vets, called her younger cousin the day before school started.
“Don’t be nervous, Bubba. I was at first but then it’s okay. You get used to it.” A bit of love at the “littles” level.
Now at the other end of the school span, we have the story of the Joanster. Off to mid-Missouri we trekked last week, two carloads of clothes and bags and shoes and hampers in tow. As we packed up that morning, I stopped for a moment and looked around the neighborhood. Where did that little kid go who at two years old grabbed the string of ID cards and her big sisters swimsuit and toddled 2 blocks to the community pool? Who at four insisted she spoke Spanish, and jabbered incessantly to her Cabbage Patch doll with the broken piece in the noggin that she named Baby Shaky Head? The kid who rolled up and down the sidewalk for hours on her scooter with best friend Sammy, their pink oversized helmets jostling all the way?
How could it be that this beautiful birdie was about to fly?
Those nests we build seem to take a lifetime to finish. Then, in a day, in an hour, in an instant, they’re empty. For us, this marks the end of a 34-year era. For her, it’s the start of a grand adventure. Joanie’s mommy, who has used up her yearly allotment of Kleenex during these past few days, has a favorite quote for moments such as this. It comes from the song “Closing Time”, and it goes “Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end.”
For years, we had a poster that also helps sum up what this is all about. The script is simple, yet profound.
“There are two great things parents can give their children. One is roots. The other, wings.”
As we and countless others out there bid goodbye to our own, some for a day, some for longer, we pray that these roots have grown deep enough.
And that those wings may they have the strength to reach heights unimagined.
For some, kids and parents alike, it’s just the latest piece of the recurring puzzle. Shopping for shoes, a new backpack, maybe even a computer on tax-free weekend. A fond farewell to the lazier days of a summer well spent.
But for others, those entering into a new era, it can be a time of tears and trepidation.
Our little clan is feeling it at both ends of the school age spectrum. At the front side, the older grandkids are stepping out into the world of pencils and crayons with full force. The first two girls are big-shot first graders now, relative veterans in the game. The next, the first boy, is tackling full day kindergarten. It was a precious moment when Clara, one of the vets, called her younger cousin the day before school started.
“Don’t be nervous, Bubba. I was at first but then it’s okay. You get used to it.” A bit of love at the “littles” level.
Now at the other end of the school span, we have the story of the Joanster. Off to mid-Missouri we trekked last week, two carloads of clothes and bags and shoes and hampers in tow. As we packed up that morning, I stopped for a moment and looked around the neighborhood. Where did that little kid go who at two years old grabbed the string of ID cards and her big sisters swimsuit and toddled 2 blocks to the community pool? Who at four insisted she spoke Spanish, and jabbered incessantly to her Cabbage Patch doll with the broken piece in the noggin that she named Baby Shaky Head? The kid who rolled up and down the sidewalk for hours on her scooter with best friend Sammy, their pink oversized helmets jostling all the way?
How could it be that this beautiful birdie was about to fly?
Those nests we build seem to take a lifetime to finish. Then, in a day, in an hour, in an instant, they’re empty. For us, this marks the end of a 34-year era. For her, it’s the start of a grand adventure. Joanie’s mommy, who has used up her yearly allotment of Kleenex during these past few days, has a favorite quote for moments such as this. It comes from the song “Closing Time”, and it goes “Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end.”
For years, we had a poster that also helps sum up what this is all about. The script is simple, yet profound.
“There are two great things parents can give their children. One is roots. The other, wings.”
As we and countless others out there bid goodbye to our own, some for a day, some for longer, we pray that these roots have grown deep enough.
And that those wings may they have the strength to reach heights unimagined.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
RECAREERING IS NEW BUZZ WORD FOR THE DAY
It seems that everywhere you turn lately, people are losing their jobs. Or their organization is downsizing, leaving them wondering if the next visit to the boss’s office will include a complimentary cardboard box for their personals. This economic downturn that we are experiencing is being felt in every facet of our lives, every profession, and every community, as well as every age group. I know of more than a few men and women who have been cut from the payrolls and are having considerable trouble securing a new job. Age discrimination is supposed to be illegal, but one friend of ours decided to color her hair from a lovely silver to up her chances in the job derby. And guess what… it worked.
My own profession of teaching is not immune to troubles. Generally considered a recession-proof field, education is seeing not only cuts in staff numbers but also an overall reduction in new hires. Some boards of education are being forced to face the problem of increased classroom numbers in order to meet their fixed budgets. They are simply not filling the open jobs that have come about through attrition.
There is a problem here. Some folks in the older ages who find themselves jobless have taken up “re-careering”. Originally termed for those who have retired and then still find a need to use their skills in other full-time pursuits, we are finding many who are looking to education as their ace in the hole. Our own state has a controversial program that is designed to speed up the certification process for those who currently have a degree. Those for this plan see it as an opportunity to bring experienced and mature professionals in the sciences and other areas into the classrooms. The opponents, some of whom are the teacher associations and some of whom are school districts themselves, cite the lack of methods training offered in the certification process.
I can see both sides as having valid points, but lean toward the former, especially if the new teacher can handle the rigors of 25+ not-always-so-eager learners for 7 hours a day, 186 days a year. Of course, what with the aforementioned cut backs in many districts, these folks may have difficulty finding that opening.
There is an emotional side to all of this, to be sure. Having to leave a place where you have enjoyed not only the work but also the people you see everyday is not easy. Then, the task of retooling the resume, seeking job leads, working the internet, networking and otherwise selling yourself all over again can take its toll on even the most optimistic job-seeker. Especially now, when much of what they are hearing is not good news. On the other hand, some have been able to use this time as a rebirth. They really didn’t like the job, or the people. This layoff might just be a blessing in disguise, giving them a good excuse to branch out into areas they have always wanted to try but feared to because of the security of their current position. But now that the rug has been pulled out from under them, they have the chance to take that road less traveled.
I guess the message here is one of hope. In spite of the times, there are opportunities.
(SUBURBAN JOURNALS, ST. LOUIS, MO JULY 29, 2009)
My own profession of teaching is not immune to troubles. Generally considered a recession-proof field, education is seeing not only cuts in staff numbers but also an overall reduction in new hires. Some boards of education are being forced to face the problem of increased classroom numbers in order to meet their fixed budgets. They are simply not filling the open jobs that have come about through attrition.
There is a problem here. Some folks in the older ages who find themselves jobless have taken up “re-careering”. Originally termed for those who have retired and then still find a need to use their skills in other full-time pursuits, we are finding many who are looking to education as their ace in the hole. Our own state has a controversial program that is designed to speed up the certification process for those who currently have a degree. Those for this plan see it as an opportunity to bring experienced and mature professionals in the sciences and other areas into the classrooms. The opponents, some of whom are the teacher associations and some of whom are school districts themselves, cite the lack of methods training offered in the certification process.
I can see both sides as having valid points, but lean toward the former, especially if the new teacher can handle the rigors of 25+ not-always-so-eager learners for 7 hours a day, 186 days a year. Of course, what with the aforementioned cut backs in many districts, these folks may have difficulty finding that opening.
There is an emotional side to all of this, to be sure. Having to leave a place where you have enjoyed not only the work but also the people you see everyday is not easy. Then, the task of retooling the resume, seeking job leads, working the internet, networking and otherwise selling yourself all over again can take its toll on even the most optimistic job-seeker. Especially now, when much of what they are hearing is not good news. On the other hand, some have been able to use this time as a rebirth. They really didn’t like the job, or the people. This layoff might just be a blessing in disguise, giving them a good excuse to branch out into areas they have always wanted to try but feared to because of the security of their current position. But now that the rug has been pulled out from under them, they have the chance to take that road less traveled.
I guess the message here is one of hope. In spite of the times, there are opportunities.
(SUBURBAN JOURNALS, ST. LOUIS, MO JULY 29, 2009)
Saturday, July 18, 2009
BOOMER ICONS HAVING BAD WEEK
It was a tough stretch a few weeks back for some iconic Baby Boomers. After a long and many would say courageous battle with cancer, Farrah Fawcett passed away. The Texas girl with the fabulous set of teeth who did more for the feathered hairstyle than The Six-Million Dollar Man did for slow-motion running burst on to the scene with her 1976 poster that became the best-selling pinup in history. That shot was considered somewhat risqué at the time, but when you see it again, it is tame by today’s standards. Hard to believe she was one of “Charlie’s Angels” for just the first season. To many, she will always be the Ultimate Angel. Maybe she is again.
Then, some mere hours after her passing, another Boomer of renown hit the deck. The self-proclaimed “King of Pop”, Michael Jackson, ended his time on this stage in characteristically controversial fashion. The news was abuzz with “was it a heart attack, an overdose, an accident? Did his doctor have something to do with it?” Of course, as in many stories such as this, we may never know the true cause of his demise. The world went into a weeks-long mourning (at least the news world) over the loss of an inarguably talented but equally tormented soul. Nothing can diminish the stamp he put on the face of music. His contribution to the genre of music videos may never be equaled. I stood as enthralled as the next person the first time I saw “Thriller” performed. He had a gift like no other. But, like many in that business, his demons managed to overwhelm any good he had to offer. There will forever be the questions regarding the nature and extent of his involvement with young boys, acquittals notwithstanding. Wonder will always exist concerning his bizarre physical transformation. And now, the allegations of his possible drug abuse.
The memorial to his life, televised live throughout the day and costing the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles a reported $4,000,000, just seemed to punctuate how skewed this planets values have turned during his tenure as pop icon. Every news outlet that could hustle a camera had its crews poised to capture the most minute overdone moment. And now that it is over, we will have a front-row seat at the sad drama of his family’s fight over custody of his children and control of his estate.
Then there is the story of Billy Mays. Born in 1958, this hard-charging guy from Pennsylvania, who got his sales chops hawking portable wash machines along the Atlantic City Boardwalk, takes an early exit from what was promising to be a fast climb to an iconic status of his own. A tag line on his website, “Life’s A Pitch, Then You Buy”, seemed to be ironically prophetic for the way he went out. For me, this man’s death was the saddest in the string. Regular guy hits it big, and then, kaboom, it’s over in an instant.
So it’s “Farewell, Farrah”, “Later, Michael”, and “Godspeed, Billy.”
Three very different additions to the pages of history.
(From "A Boomer's Journal". Suburban Journals of St. Louis, MO July, 2009)
Then, some mere hours after her passing, another Boomer of renown hit the deck. The self-proclaimed “King of Pop”, Michael Jackson, ended his time on this stage in characteristically controversial fashion. The news was abuzz with “was it a heart attack, an overdose, an accident? Did his doctor have something to do with it?” Of course, as in many stories such as this, we may never know the true cause of his demise. The world went into a weeks-long mourning (at least the news world) over the loss of an inarguably talented but equally tormented soul. Nothing can diminish the stamp he put on the face of music. His contribution to the genre of music videos may never be equaled. I stood as enthralled as the next person the first time I saw “Thriller” performed. He had a gift like no other. But, like many in that business, his demons managed to overwhelm any good he had to offer. There will forever be the questions regarding the nature and extent of his involvement with young boys, acquittals notwithstanding. Wonder will always exist concerning his bizarre physical transformation. And now, the allegations of his possible drug abuse.
The memorial to his life, televised live throughout the day and costing the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles a reported $4,000,000, just seemed to punctuate how skewed this planets values have turned during his tenure as pop icon. Every news outlet that could hustle a camera had its crews poised to capture the most minute overdone moment. And now that it is over, we will have a front-row seat at the sad drama of his family’s fight over custody of his children and control of his estate.
Then there is the story of Billy Mays. Born in 1958, this hard-charging guy from Pennsylvania, who got his sales chops hawking portable wash machines along the Atlantic City Boardwalk, takes an early exit from what was promising to be a fast climb to an iconic status of his own. A tag line on his website, “Life’s A Pitch, Then You Buy”, seemed to be ironically prophetic for the way he went out. For me, this man’s death was the saddest in the string. Regular guy hits it big, and then, kaboom, it’s over in an instant.
So it’s “Farewell, Farrah”, “Later, Michael”, and “Godspeed, Billy.”
Three very different additions to the pages of history.
(From "A Boomer's Journal". Suburban Journals of St. Louis, MO July, 2009)
Friday, July 03, 2009
TO MOVE OR NOT TO MOVE... THAT IS THE BOOMER QUESTION
Remember that old cliché that the only thing constant is change? Well, this took on a whole new meaning the other Sunday when we watched a rainy afternoon’s worth of old home movies. How little the trees were 15 years ago! And where did all our neighbors go?
That kid in the movie riding her training-wheeled bike is now getting ready for college. Jill and I had legitimate dark hair. And how about that cordless phone! Looks like a walkie-talkie from an old WW II flick. But one of the things that struck us most was wondering how the holy heck we survived six kids in this house.
Speaking of this house, it has indeed served us well. But now, as littlest birdie gets set to fly, it’s a bit more than we need.
This ticklish subject of downsizing enters our conversation more and more these days, as it does for many of the Baby Boomer generation. Talk of moving brings many questions to this demographic as they leave behind the family homestead to enter condos, apartments lofts and active adult communities. This last is a fairly new idea in the housing market, offering amenities such as pool and spa, golf courses, card rooms and planned outings.
People are selling off their extra furnishings, gifting their progeny with their very own “Amazing Rubbermaid Tubs O’ Stuff” accumulated over a lifetime of kid-raising, and rolling the lawnmower down to the curb with a “Free” sign slung over the handle.
And maybe this is a good thing.
When our parents died, we had plenty of issues to contend with, not the least of which was what to do with their life’s accumulation.
My brothers and I still marvel at how much mom was able to squirrel into her small two bedroom retirement apartment. And Jill’s parents had a two-story house-full that took over a year to parcel out.
My bride’s semi-annual purging party will pretty much save our kids from that task. But there are just some things you can’t part with.
I’ve managed to hang on to a few containers of my past, in spite of her not-so-subtle hints to toss my Boy Scout badges and City Champ jacket.
Any move would require some decisions. Even a math-challenged dude like me can figure out that it makes no sense to go smaller but keep a similar mortgage. We’ve considered condos and even renting, but that means no yard or basement for the kids to escape to when grandpa has had it with the eleventeenth screaming lap around the family room.
Our ideal getaway would be a ranch style with a yard and garage and finished basement, near highways and shopping and some nice restaurants, and within shooting distance of at least 3 cheap golf courses (I snuck in that last one, Jill). And honestly, we can’t imagine a life where the short-bus ride to the casino is the highlight of the week.
So do we stay or do we go?
This old neighborhood is looking better every day.
( From "A Boomer's Journal", Suburban Journals of St. Louis, MO July 1, 2009)
That kid in the movie riding her training-wheeled bike is now getting ready for college. Jill and I had legitimate dark hair. And how about that cordless phone! Looks like a walkie-talkie from an old WW II flick. But one of the things that struck us most was wondering how the holy heck we survived six kids in this house.
Speaking of this house, it has indeed served us well. But now, as littlest birdie gets set to fly, it’s a bit more than we need.
This ticklish subject of downsizing enters our conversation more and more these days, as it does for many of the Baby Boomer generation. Talk of moving brings many questions to this demographic as they leave behind the family homestead to enter condos, apartments lofts and active adult communities. This last is a fairly new idea in the housing market, offering amenities such as pool and spa, golf courses, card rooms and planned outings.
People are selling off their extra furnishings, gifting their progeny with their very own “Amazing Rubbermaid Tubs O’ Stuff” accumulated over a lifetime of kid-raising, and rolling the lawnmower down to the curb with a “Free” sign slung over the handle.
And maybe this is a good thing.
When our parents died, we had plenty of issues to contend with, not the least of which was what to do with their life’s accumulation.
My brothers and I still marvel at how much mom was able to squirrel into her small two bedroom retirement apartment. And Jill’s parents had a two-story house-full that took over a year to parcel out.
My bride’s semi-annual purging party will pretty much save our kids from that task. But there are just some things you can’t part with.
I’ve managed to hang on to a few containers of my past, in spite of her not-so-subtle hints to toss my Boy Scout badges and City Champ jacket.
Any move would require some decisions. Even a math-challenged dude like me can figure out that it makes no sense to go smaller but keep a similar mortgage. We’ve considered condos and even renting, but that means no yard or basement for the kids to escape to when grandpa has had it with the eleventeenth screaming lap around the family room.
Our ideal getaway would be a ranch style with a yard and garage and finished basement, near highways and shopping and some nice restaurants, and within shooting distance of at least 3 cheap golf courses (I snuck in that last one, Jill). And honestly, we can’t imagine a life where the short-bus ride to the casino is the highlight of the week.
So do we stay or do we go?
This old neighborhood is looking better every day.
( From "A Boomer's Journal", Suburban Journals of St. Louis, MO July 1, 2009)
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
STOP AND SMELL THE SUMMER
Here is the latest column from the Suburban Journals, St.Louis, MO
**************************************
I have many gifts in life, not the least of which is the gift of time. My job gives me some summer days when I have really nothing to do. That is a bonus that I do not take lightly. If you ever get a day like that, or even a few hours, here are a couple of things that you might consider.
* Get under a tree, lie on your back, and observe the intricacy of the branches. Watch how they interact with the wind, how the sun shifts across the spaces, the shadows on the leaves, and how you can just barely make out a patch of blue here, a cloud there.
* Next time there’s a rainstorm, don’t be afraid to get wet. Be careful of lightning, and be somewhere where you can change easily, but try standing out in it for even a few minutes. You will laugh out loud at how totally drenched you can get in such a short time.
* Wake up before sunrise and turn east. See the horizon as it lightens, first pink, then pale blue, then into the days yellow. Close your eyes and feel the warmth grow as the minutes pass.
* Sit with a one-year-old and watch her eat a popsicle with only a diaper on (the kid, not you!). Fight the urge to wipe away that sweet goo rolling down her chin and drip-dripping onto her fat tummy. After all, it doesn’t bother her one bit. All she knows is how great that cold feels on those swollen gums. Marvel at how she fights to get that last morsel in the middle, by now a soft, slippery sliver that will not be lost. Then, when she hands you the empty stick… get her another.
* Read a book in two days. Keep it under 250 pages. Blaze through it like Mine That Bird shooting the rail at the Kentucky Derby. Escape into the characters, devour their world. Laugh, and cry. (I have a suggestion, but that would just be too much self-promotion.)
* Play 9 holes by yourself on a weekday. The crowds are back to work (sorry, guys), and you can be as bad as you want, with no pressure from buddies commenting on your shots, or worse, saying nothing as they suppress their grins as you smoke that egg hard right and a good 20 yards into the thicket. On the flip side, you also have no obligation to insincerely mumble praise at your opponents drive, even as you secretly wish it had hop-skipped just past the ladies tee. Playing alone is underrated, really. You can talk to yourself without fear of commitment to an institution, doing your own hushed commentary…”Anselm needs this slippery 15 footer for his first U.S. Open.” Or drop a few balls anywhere you want and keep hitting til you get it right. Then, after paring that #5 where you always go 2 over, just sit in the cart and let the waving breeze cool your forehead. Oh, and don’t dare keep score. No one would believe you anyway. Hey, it’s a practice round, dude.
Yeah, I know I’m spoiled. My wish for you this fine day is one of time, time to do something simple that adds to your enjoyment of this wonderful season called summer.
**************************************
I have many gifts in life, not the least of which is the gift of time. My job gives me some summer days when I have really nothing to do. That is a bonus that I do not take lightly. If you ever get a day like that, or even a few hours, here are a couple of things that you might consider.
* Get under a tree, lie on your back, and observe the intricacy of the branches. Watch how they interact with the wind, how the sun shifts across the spaces, the shadows on the leaves, and how you can just barely make out a patch of blue here, a cloud there.
* Next time there’s a rainstorm, don’t be afraid to get wet. Be careful of lightning, and be somewhere where you can change easily, but try standing out in it for even a few minutes. You will laugh out loud at how totally drenched you can get in such a short time.
* Wake up before sunrise and turn east. See the horizon as it lightens, first pink, then pale blue, then into the days yellow. Close your eyes and feel the warmth grow as the minutes pass.
* Sit with a one-year-old and watch her eat a popsicle with only a diaper on (the kid, not you!). Fight the urge to wipe away that sweet goo rolling down her chin and drip-dripping onto her fat tummy. After all, it doesn’t bother her one bit. All she knows is how great that cold feels on those swollen gums. Marvel at how she fights to get that last morsel in the middle, by now a soft, slippery sliver that will not be lost. Then, when she hands you the empty stick… get her another.
* Read a book in two days. Keep it under 250 pages. Blaze through it like Mine That Bird shooting the rail at the Kentucky Derby. Escape into the characters, devour their world. Laugh, and cry. (I have a suggestion, but that would just be too much self-promotion.)
* Play 9 holes by yourself on a weekday. The crowds are back to work (sorry, guys), and you can be as bad as you want, with no pressure from buddies commenting on your shots, or worse, saying nothing as they suppress their grins as you smoke that egg hard right and a good 20 yards into the thicket. On the flip side, you also have no obligation to insincerely mumble praise at your opponents drive, even as you secretly wish it had hop-skipped just past the ladies tee. Playing alone is underrated, really. You can talk to yourself without fear of commitment to an institution, doing your own hushed commentary…”Anselm needs this slippery 15 footer for his first U.S. Open.” Or drop a few balls anywhere you want and keep hitting til you get it right. Then, after paring that #5 where you always go 2 over, just sit in the cart and let the waving breeze cool your forehead. Oh, and don’t dare keep score. No one would believe you anyway. Hey, it’s a practice round, dude.
Yeah, I know I’m spoiled. My wish for you this fine day is one of time, time to do something simple that adds to your enjoyment of this wonderful season called summer.
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