My late wife had a best friend whose friendship rivaled any as the benchmark of friendships. From elementary school through her death eight years ago, Naomi and Lisa were connected at the proverbial hip.
In the years since her death, Na continues to call me every few weeks to catch up. I’m pretty sure it’s the last act of friendship requested by Lisa and carried out by Na. She checks up on me, asks about the kids, and fills me in on her husband, son, parents, brother, and sister. I appreciate her calling. It’s as if she’s maintaining a thread through the universe and time whose story has expired, but no one told the cloth.
Two days ago, Na called to tell me her dad had died. I did my best to ask the right questions, say the right things, and console Na. Inside, I broke down, and despite my best efforts, some of it snuck through. The last thing I wanted on that call was for Na to console me. I did okay. At least until I hung up. I knew I now had two more calls to make. One to each of my children. They have known Na and her family their entire lives, and Na checks up on them as Lisa’s emissary, too. Those calls hurt even more. I know I didn’t do okay.
Na’s dad liked to talk. And once he started, short of a natural disaster, there was no way of exhausting the discussion. One of my memories of him was that at every party I attended at Na’s house, I always talked to her dad for hours. Everyone else seemed to drift away, leaving me alone. They chuckled. I was the fresh meat. Except I never felt stuck. There was never one conversation I had with him that I regretted. And I know why.
As the newcomer in a relationship as long-lasting and deep as Lisa had with Na (and her family), I was obviously the outsider. To be taken in by Na’s dad felt like acceptance. As if he thought, “If Lisa thinks he’s okay, he must be okay.” I felt like I belonged. Now, he may have been just as comfortable talking to a lamppost for hours on end, but I don’t regret those times talking with him. I have no idea what he thought of me, but he was genuine enough that even my dimwitted perceptive skills probably would have gleaned insincerity in him.
He was a bull who owned his own machinist shop. If asked, to a person, I know one of the first traits people would mention about him was how he was the hardest working person they knew. He would also do what he thought was right. Some would argue that his demeanor may have hindered his medical treatment over the past year. More likely, his hardheadedness kept him going. Let me explain.
Have you ever seen a football game where the running back is handed the ball, gains a few yards, and is tied up but not tackled by a defender? Then another defender makes a hit, and they still can’t take down the running back together. Then, two more join in as the running back’s legs keep moving him forward. Finally, either the pile collapses or the whistle is blown, ending the play. For Na’s dad, the play only ended when circumstances and the universe conspired to overwhelm him with too many medical priorities. He was a force any running back would envy.
As a hardheaded bull (like Lisa and her enormous personality), I know it was hard watching this once-strong man wither and finally succumb. I saw every decrease in Lisa’s health through the end. I did not see his decline. However, I know how hard witnessing it is and what a toll it takes on caregivers. He is at peace now, like Lisa. If there’s a heaven, Lisa greeted him with a smile, a hug, and a cutting joke. I hear him laughing, a cigar in one hand and a popsicle in the other.
If you’re so inclined, have a thought for Na and her family today. They lost a giant.
Christmas 2023 is two days away. Two days before the mania between Thanksgiving and December 24 relinquishes control of our lives and gives way to Winter’s solemn grip taking hold until Spring Training begins, the snow melts, and our thoughts return to warmer days.
In this time of rising nationalism, vindictive and dictatorial ethos, racist overtones, war, threats of civil war, and in an era seemingly allergic to personal responsibility, community, and accountability, here are my wishes for this Christmas season and 2024.
Number One: A return to civility. I joke that I can trace the downfall of society to the first “Casual Friday” at work. What began as a fundraiser and a sticker identifying us as having donated and, therefore, allowed to wear jeans at work devolved into wearing pajamas at Walmart. Casual Friday is now every day. When can we begin “Dress Up Friday?”
Manners and respect go a long way. Simply cordiality can do two things. First, it engenders a sense of community. We would recognize the other individual as a person, a fellow human being beset with challenges both seen and unseen. This alone can blunt the raging self-centeredness of Americans. Second, even in a tense situation, cordial interaction allows for a defusion of emotions. Perhaps it could help reduce road rage and the gun violence pandemic in America.
Number Two: A return to a sense of community. The world where employees spend a lifetime at one company is no more. The end of the pandemic saw the “Great Resignation.” Companies blamed employees. Employees blamed capitalism. And the stock market blamed the government. The only loyalty still in existence is the loyalty Donald Trump expects of everyone on the planet (without reciprocity).
Business claims to value people, their employees, as their greatest resource. That should tell you all you need to know about the state of American capitalism. Employees are not resources. Iron ore is a resource. Paper clips are a resource. Employees are people. By relegating employees to the inanimate, companies feel justified and vindicated when conducting mass layoffs (resource inventory reductions), demand more of those “fortunate” to remain (without any corresponding wage increase), and have their equally productive remote positions reallocated to “hybrid” or permanently reclassified as in-office only. If the stock goes up, the decision is correct. The greatest resource be damned.
Leviticus 19:18 reads, “… you shall love thy neighbor as yourself.” Matthew 19:19 says, “… love your neighbor as yourself.” Given how America has a “you first after me” mentality, this wish alone could alter humankind. By changing this aspect of society, selfishness would abate, civility would return, and manners would be insisted upon.
And Number Three: A return of respect. Do not expect or wait for me to apologize for your bad behavior. Seemingly gone are the days of respect for our neighbors, community, family, friends, strangers, co-workers, and countries. We would solve many of the world’s problems if only respect lived. We have chipped away at respect to the point where we do not even respect ourselves. Personal accountability no longer exists. We do our children a disservice when we tell them to respect others, be kind, and work hard, and success will follow. There is no longer any downside to bad behavior. Instead, it seems those who exhibit deviant behavior excel in life at the expense of every other person. This slide away from civility and toward self-centered American society began long ago, probably in the 1960s, when the youth dared question the government and demands for equality were met with violence.
Mafia movies and TV shows would have us believe that respect made for an orderly business and kept everyone in line. Fear may have been a better term. And that was until everyone flipped and became an informant to the FBI. The cause? See wishes Number One and Two above. Specifically, being self-centered. Self-interest is superseding the community. Sensing a theme? We were taught, “Respect is earned.” However, the default position upon meeting someone should not be disdain or an immediate dismissal. Perhaps we should alter the phrase. Instead of “respect is earned,” maybe it could be “respect is offered, maintained if reciprocated.”
That’s my list. Three items.
The King James Version (KJV) reads, “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”
The English Standard Version (ESV) (and most other versions I researched) is less global and more subservient, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” Peace, but only for some. Got it.
I want civility, community, and respect. This does not make me a “Make America Great Again” acolyte devoid of compassion and a wish for a time that never was. In many ways, I would argue that what I wish for is the opposite of what the MAGA crowd expects. Mine is a wish to return to what was once respectful, but this time applied equally to all. Peace on earth, goodwill to all humankind. All humankind. Happy holidays, everyone.
This will be a different piece today. I won’t pontificate on any subject, denigrate any group, or judge any policy. Of course, it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t hit someone, so here’s a joke from Bob Newhart:
I don’t like country music, but I don’t mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means’ put down’.
Sorry.
Today, I want to write about the state of baseball, specifically professional Major League Baseball. As much as I love the game (and always will), it is a shadow of the game it used to be. To back this up, I’ll use charts and graphs from 1967 and 1970 to the present.
Initially, I wanted to title this “Where Have All the Workhorses Gone.” Specifically, I was thinking about complete games. I checked, and in 1970, there were 852 complete games thrown by pitchers, and (as shown in the chart below) that was the lowest number of the 1970’s. Although it was the lowest number of complete games in the decade, it still accounted for 43.83% of all games played.
Contrast that with 2023, where there were only 35 complete games thrown. As a percent, 2023 matched 2022 as the lowest percent of complete games pitched at 1.48% of all games played. Here’s a chart showing complete games thrown from 1970 through 2023:
You might argue that the rise of free agency and sabermetrics, relief pitchers, and specialists has mitigated the pressure on starting pitchers, allowing teams always to have fresh arms. If that were true, you would expect the number of strikeouts to have increased over the years. And you’re right, although, as I’ll explain, that results from other factors. In fact, the number of strikeouts per game (and innings pitched) has increased since 1970.
As fans will tell you, if there are 27 outs in a game (24 if the winning team is playing at home) and 17 of them are strikeouts, that’s a boring game. And Major League Baseball listens.
Put that aside for a moment, and now consider the batter. In 1970, 27 players hit over .300. That number was steady, with an average of almost 25 players batting over .300 between 1970 and 1993. Note: 1981 was a strike-shortened season.
What happened in 1994? 1994 is considered the beginning of the “steroid” era. In 1994, 50 players hit over .300, which remained high throughout the steroid era of 1994 -2004, with an average of about 45 players batting over .300! Note: 1994 was a strike-shortened season.
After that, the wheels fell off. Between 2005 and 2023, the number of .300 hitters has steadily declined. The season that just ended only saw nine batters hit over .300. Nine.
The number is downright anemic if you look at the period from 2018 through 2023. The “high point” in that period was 2020, a season shortened not by a strike but by COVID-19 when teams were fielding players who did not opt to sit out for health reasons and when MLB was a welcome distraction from the pandemic but a shadow of its normal strength.
Okay, so if players aren’t hitting for average, they must be doing something else. Hitting for power! And the statistics bear that out.
The average number of home runs per game has increased every decade since the 1970s. The average number of home runs per game now (2.39 this decade) is higher than the average during the steroid era (2.16).
Decade
Average Number of HRs per Game
1970’s
1.49
1980’s
1.61
1990’s
1.91
2000’s
2.15
2010’s
2.14
2020’s
2.39
Of course, the offset to swinging for the fences is a proportional increase in strikeouts. This brings us back to the beginning of this piece. However, instead of looking at strikeouts from the pitcher’s perspective, let us look at them from the batters. Lacing singles and hits to the gaps requires a relatively level swing. Like everything else in baseball, “launch angle” is now tracked. To hit home runs out of the stadium, your swing must be at more of an angle. Simple physics tells me that having the ball on one plane and a bat on the same plane has a better chance of contact than crossing the ball’s plane only at one point due to the increased uppercut swing. This alone should account for the drop in .300 hitters. But it has also resulted in an astronomic increase in seasonal strikeouts. Last year, there were 41,843 strikeouts during the season.
The number of players who struck out 100 times or more has increased substantially since 1970. Remember, 2020 was the pandemic-shortened year, and still, one player struck out more than 100 times!
And a new phenomenon has emerged. There are now everyday players who strike out more than 200 times a year!
There are other factors at play here. I can hear my pitcher brother talking about how the ball has changed over time, how the rules have changed, how umpires have changed. And I agree. I am identifying concerns as a lifelong fan of the game and how it has changed.
In 1967, the minimum salary in MLB was $6,000. The real median personal income in America was $4,527. Baseball players earned a multiple of 1.33 times more than the average American. The average MLB salary was $19,000, a multiple of 4.20 the average American. In 2020, the minimum MLB salary was $563,000, and the average MLB salary was $4,430,000. The median personal income in America was $62,797. The multiples for minimum and average to the average American are now 8.97 and 70.54, respectively. Put another way, the Real median personal income in America has gone up 1,287% from 1967 to 2020 ($4,527 to $62,797), whereas the minimum MLB salary has gone up 9,292% from 1967 to 2020 ($6,000 to $563,000). The average MLB salary has gone up 23,216% in the same period ($19,000 to $4,430,000).
I like home runs; I don’t like strikeouts. I love baseball, and I always will.
These are my notes. Maybe you love the modern game. I welcome any comments you may have.
As we continued our path toward Paris, the names of the places we passed leaped from the road signs. I envisioned high school history books opened to the Great War. Verdun, Ardennes, the Maginot Line. How incredible it was to me that this magnificent countryside might once have been the sight of endless mud, cold rain, trench warfare, mustard gas, blood, and death. How many farms, I wondered as we passed their crops, had once been watered with blood. How far below the surface must one dig to uncover a shell casing, helmet, rifle, bayonet, or bone? History was outside my car window. Consequential, sequential, and still current.
Coming from the United States, it is hard to contemplate the size of Europe. We drove from Germany (slightly smaller than Montana) to France (slightly smaller than Texas), stayed in Luxembourg (slightly smaller than Rhode Island), stayed in Switzerland (slightly less than twice the size of New Jersey), just missed passing through Lichtenstein (slightly smaller than Washington, D.C.), and kissed Austria (roughly the size of South Carolina) on the train from Zurich to Munich. When viewed from the perspective of America (despite our regional and cultural differences), Europe seems quaint. World wars seem more like well-armed neighborhood skirmishes. The fact that an area so small can have countless languages, always a barrier to community cordiality, could only have exacerbated prejudices and fostered nationalistic passions. And America is by no means exempt from history’s gaze.
When visiting San Antonio while living in Houston, we did the obligatory tour of the Alamo. In addition to the diminutive size of the fort, what struck me was the tour itself. “Here is a rock that represents where a wall once stood,” said the audio guide. So much of what remained was reduced to reverence, folklore, and a gift shop. When touring many of the castles, palaces, residences, and “old towns” in Europe, English-speaking audio guides told of how this section of (fill in the blank) represents what originally stood here because the original was blown away during World War II. I do not write this as an accusation or judgment. It was not iconoclasm but brutal warfare that destroyed these architectural gems. And yet, I could not help but yearn for the lost treasures destroyed by the ruthless passions of men.
America has two main deadly exports, both found in European history, modern politics, and among the people. The first is war; perpetual and ever more efficient. Eisenhower’s military-industrial complex continues to thrive, indeed feeding on itself for oxygen. Ramstein Air Force Base exists because of it. We arm both sides of modern conflicts, raking in dollars and ready to respond with lethal interdiction. The second is tobacco. Everywhere we visited locals smoked. Ashtrays are ever-present, and smoke fills every street corner as we wait for the pedestrian light to turn green. Two deadly exports, alive and well across Europe.
And while we Americans wave the flag and chant Make America Great Again, thumbing our nose at our bumper-sticker understanding of socialism, Europeans today live in relative harmony with one another. I found Europeans courteous, patient, law-abiding, and friendly. Drivers routinely defer to others, follow posted speed limits, obey warnings, and arrive safely. American drivers (and Parisian cabbies) ignore all posted speed limits and ignore all rules of the road. And when slighted we Americans, too often respond in road rage and gunfire. Socialism is the appropriate doctrine for specific issues, just as capitalism is the appropriate mechanism for other issues. America’s lack of nuance and knee-jerk aversion to “socialism,” coupled with a worldview ignorance and almost allergic reaction to responsibility makes us look juvenile and unsophisticated when compared to the Europeans.
I can hear you! Stop shouting! “If Europe is so wonderful, why do so many want to move to the United States? After all, we are the greatest country in the world!” First, we are not the greatest in many meaningful categories and they don’t all want to move to America. Every country has a certain percentage of their population who wishes they lived somewhere else. Sit down for this next sentence. So, too, does the United States. There are thriving expat communities the world over, populated by Americans. Second, might not a certain percentage of Europeans want to indulge their juvenile penchants and selfish streak and see America as the place where one can do and say anything they want, essentially without accountability? Or maybe, third, they may see America’s openness through the prism of a European upbringing and see opportunities beyond those available in their small town. You can criticize me for America bashing all you want; these are my travel notes. However, I would rather you consider broadening your horizon to include implementing courtesy, patience, socialism (when appropriate (military costs, public roads)), accountability, and responsibility within the American community.
Mark Twain (an American) said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of man and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
Another more recent American, the late Anthony Bourdain, said, “If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food, it’s a plus for everybody. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.”
Travel and return home. You will never return home the same person who left.
“What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.” – Carl Sagan, Cosmos
It may seem strange to begin an article about traveling with a quote about a book but hear me out. Books let us travel the world, even through time and to fantastic places, without leaving our homes. I am not alone in thinking this. John Lubbock wrote, “We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth.”
Books are to travel as dreams are to experience. “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page,” wrote St. Augustine. And for the past two weeks, I have experienced a world beyond my dreams. My wife, sister-in-law, and I traveled to Germany to visit my niece at Ramstein Air Force Base. What was originally a two-week visit to spend time with my sister-in-law’s daughter blossomed into a whirlwind jaunt across several European countries. We landed in Frankfurt, Germany, and traveled to my niece’s apartment in Heiligenmoschel, about thirty minutes from Ramstein. From there we drove to Paris for two days, then we drove to Luxembourg, and back to Heiligenmoschel. From there we took the train from Ramstein to Zurich, Switzerland, went into the Alps to Jungfraujoch, then a train to Munich, a bus to Neuschwanstein Castle, back to Munich, then back to Heiligenmoschel. Then, we drove from Heiligenmoschel to Strasbourg, France before returning to Heiligenmoschel and then Frankfurt for the flight home. Home to our little corner of the world, same as before but we were different.
My initial thoughts, driving through Germany and western France were of the stunning beauty of the landscape. We drove in late fall; however, the summer was longer than usual (climate change?) and the trees still exhibited their autumnal magnificence. Colors orange, red, green, and yellow danced on the trees as we whisked by them, bidding us stop to appreciate their performance. The rolling hills and bright green winter crops made me think I had jumped into my Windows start-up screen.
Paris is Paris. It’s a big city with big city swagger. History drips from every street corner. It is big, loud, frenetic, always moving, almost breathing, and teeming with people. Locals mix with tourists and every restaurant seems full. Cabbies are nuts and motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles swarm around cars like fruit flies around overripe bananas. And yet, somehow, it works for them. I love big cities and Paris is wonderful. The Louvre is closed on Tuesdays, so we did not get to see the world’s greatest museum. However, I checked off the Pantheon on my bucket list on this trip, revisited the Eifel Tower, Sainte-Chapelle, ate at a charming local restaurant so small we felt part of the conversation at the loud table next to us, and had dinner on a boat cruising the Seine. To see the transformation of a church (Sainte-Geneviève) into a revolutionary monument was incredible. Visiting evidence of the earth spinning while watching Foucault’s pendulum took my breath away. So, too, did visiting the mausoleum and visiting the graves of Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Rousseau, Marie Curie, Alexandre Dumas, Josephine Baker, Emile Zola, and other luminaries. Paris has so much to offer, one visit is not enough. This was my second visit; still, there is so much to see. I could go on and on about Paris, however, others have written about it better than I could ever attempt.
Sainte-Chapelle, there are no words to capture its beauty
From Paris, we drove to Luxembourg. Like New York, there is a Luxembourg City. We stayed in a magnificent Airbnb apartment just outside the city in Strassen. We took the free bus into the city and walked around most of the day, eyes turned upward as each corner revealed yet another postcard view. Luxembourg City is essentially built on and around a steep hill. Houses seem carved into the scenery. The Grund is the lowest point and the view up from there to the cathedral and bridges is awe-inspiring. When viewed from the top, the view down is equally spectacular.
The Grund, Lux City
Where Paris is potentially overwhelming, Lux City is approachable and digestible. The architecture alone is worth a visit. Appreciating the history there for your taking if you take the time to look and listen is everywhere in front of you. We also drove to Vienden Castle and were overwhelmed by the magnificence of the castle. Home to two families over about 33 million years (or so it seemed), the castle was the first of many we toured. Like many castles, it sits above the town, commanding an inspiring view. Here again, the photos I’ve seen that we took do not do what we saw justice.
Vienden Castle
Zurich, Switzerland was our next stop. Ostensibly just a spot we had to visit to catch the tour to the Alps, Zurich, too, found its way into our hearts with its architecture, friendliness, shopping, and food. Again, local friendliness helped transport us from tourists to travelers and we took advantage of it to eat the local cuisine. It is somehow off-putting to see a KFC, a McDonald’s, or a Starbucks when so many local eateries offer travelers a way to visit their city via senses other than visual.
Zurich, Switzerland
My wife, Stacey, and I visited Colorado a few years ago. The elevation almost wrecked me when we took a day trip to Vail. Outside tourist t-shirt shops were displays offering tiny oxygen tanks. They sold shirts with slogans such as “Oxygen is Overrated” and “Sea Level is for Wimps.” Against that backdrop, we took a bus from Zurich to Interlaken and Grindelwald on this trip before taking the Eiger Express gondola to Jungfraujoch. I read the Eiger Sanction in my late teens! Trevanian was one of my favorite authors (The Eiger Sanction, The Loo Sanction, Shibumi, The Summer of Katya), and here I was looking at the North Face, sheer, snow-covered, intimidating, and beautiful. Marketed as the Top of Europe, Jungfraujoch sits between two higher peaks and requires a cog train from the gondola to reach it. My chest tightened with the lack of oxygen at 11,300 feet and as dehydrated as I was, my head hurt so much it flipped my stomach. Matched with my broken foot, and I looked quite the mess. Still, it did not stop me (or any of us); we have the photographs and memories to prove it.
View from the Eiger Express gondola
Eiger, North Face
View from Jungfraujoch
Munich, like Zurich, was meant simply as a weigh station to catch buses to other locations. And like Zurich, Munich melted our hearts with its charm, beauty, architecture, and food. Yes, I ate my way across Europe and always the local cuisine. On the day we were to catch the tour bus, it was my wife who didn’t feel well, and early in the morning, I found myself racing against a deadline to get her meds. I limped from hotel to hotel looking for gift shops, finding none, and then limping to a pharmacy and waiting outside until it opened. Limping quickly across Munich, I felt a little like Jason Bourne in The Bourne Supremacy. However, I knew who I was, knew my limitations, and knew I couldn’t drop a dachshund never mind elite assassins. Armed with her remedy, I limped back to the hotel to find my traveling partners waiting at the corner to proceed to our tour bus.
New Town Hall, Munich
Our destination that morning was Neuschwanstein Castle. You may know it as the basis for Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Castle in California and Cinderella Castle in Florida. Before Neuschwanstein Castle, our tour took us to Linderhof Castle. Both were built for King Ludwig II. He’s an interesting character whose life and untimely, early death at 40 are wrapped in mystery. If you get a chance, read up a bit on him. You will be as charmed and confused by him as me, I promise. Linderhof is a “small” castle where Ludwig II lived for eight years. It is in the high, European Rococo style, ornately decorated with organic swirls and gold leaf everywhere. It is overdone by today’s sensibilities and garish in its opulence.
Linderhof Castle
Neuschwanstein Castle is very different. It is a monument to Ludwig’s admiration of the operas of Richard Wagner, his increasing isolation, and his identification with medieval royalty. While beautiful and much larger than Linderhof, the tour allowed access to little of the castle. Armed with my Disney fandom, wrapped in memories of having breakfast with my small children and the Disney princesses inside Cinderella Castle, I left Neuschwanstein a little dejected. I couldn’t help but think the castle might have been the first version of Michal Jackson’s Neverland, itself built by someone removed from society with access to seemingly endless vision and money.
Neuschwanstein Castle
The last city we visited was Strasbourg, France. A national rail strike in Germany prevented us from taking the train, forcing us to drive from Ramstein’s train station. Strasbourg mesmerized us again with its charm, architecture, accessibility, and food. As mentioned above, there were several times when every turn seemed to reveal another postcard view of cities. Nowhere was that more evident than in Strasbourg. Literally, I would stop, photograph a wonderful view, and while still breathing in the sight before me, turn and see another, equally amazing sight. This was even though we only saw the sun on our two-week trip during our drive to Paris the first day and part of the next day. Every other day was raw and cold coupled with either overcast, drizzle, or outright pouring rain.
Charming La Petite France, Strasbourg
It was the trip of a lifetime. Paulo Coelho said, “One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now.” I always think of the picture I once saw of the elderly couple asleep on the gondola in Venice. They say, “Carpe Diem!” Seize the day. I would adjust that to seize the day while you can still enjoy it (“carpe diem dum potes adhuc frui est,” if Google Translate is to be trusted.) My wife and I have worked hard and now enjoy a bit of disposable income. Better it be used on travel, expanding our understanding of the tiny planet we inhabit, than on other less expansive vices.
I thank my niece for her hospitality, my sister-in-law for her willingness to share her time with her daughter, and my wife for giving me the life I now enjoy.
I found many other wonderful book/travel quotes in researching this piece. I share my other favorites below:
“The traveler sees what he sees. The tourist sees what he has come to see.”
– G.K. Chesterton
“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
“If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion, and avoid the people, you might better stay home.”
– James A. Michener
“Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant than ever.”
– Joe Abercrombie
“I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it.”
– Charles Bukowski
“In the meantime, there is not an hour to lose. I am about to visit the public library.”
– Jules Verne
“Travel improves the mind wonderfully and does away with all one’s prejudices.”
– Oscar Wilde
“To travel hopefully is better than to have arrived.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
“Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote, and I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life.”
– Michael Palin
“Borders? I have never seen one. But I have heard they exist in the minds of some people.”
– Thor Heyerdahl
“It’s temples and palaces did seem like fabrics of enchantment pil’d to heaven.”
– Percy Bysshe Shelley
“Nothing can. Be compared to the new life that the discovery of another country provides for a thoughtful person. Although I am still the same I believe to have been changed to the bones.”
– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“Every Englishman abroad, until it is proven to the contrary, likes to consider himself a traveler and not a tourist.”
Beatrice took the initial leap into online dating six months after her divorce was finalized. “Irreconcilable differences” is the catch-all chasm into which most marriages fall. The details of her failed marriage were still fresh in her mind. The words they had used against each other still burned like a branding iron. The house she had built with timbers and dreams now sits empty while her world falls apart. The courage it took to make that first monumental leap into online dating filled her with equal measures of dread and courage. Fear at the vulnerability required to look for love again and courage because she had taken that tenuous first step.
The first few days were an amusing buffet of swiping, laughing, and swiping. Silently, it also played tricks on her fragile self-esteem. On one hand, it made her wonder if any man was out there with the characteristics she thought she valued. On the other hand, it bolstered her confidence as she realized how much better she deserved (and had always deserved).
And then Drew crossed her screen. On “paper,” he was everything any woman could ask for. He was successful, lived in Hawaii, owned his company, and had grown children. He said he was religious and read the Bible. Daily interactions followed their first tentative texts. He said all the right things and made her feel like the center of the world. He said he traveled often and had a friend who lived near Beatrice. Oddly, though, he could never visit his friend and meet with Beatrice. Something always came up. Always.
Then, with the help of her intrepid sister (who had snooping skills the NSA would find envious), she learned that much of what he had claimed could not be verified. His company website was filled with stock photos. The leadership team photos were lifted from other sites or modeling agencies. Two individuals were the same person, dressed differently! As she reread his texts, she realized they sounded canned, almost a cut-and-paste plug-in, as if he worked at a telemarketing company. “If they say this, you say this.” It was personalized just enough to be believable but cookie-cutter in every other respect. Beatrice then watched Tinder Swindler, the HBO documentary about grifters preying on vulnerable women to enchant them and then con them out of their money through an ever-tightening series of faked “catastrophic” events. The documentary might have been called Is This You, Drew?”
Beatrice was skeptical and confronted Drew. He denied everything as a coincidence and had a pat answer for everything. She broke it off, blocked him, and started swiping again.
Between the waves of single-minded men who, if you’ll pardon the pun, “exposed” their intentions quickly, Rick contacted Beatrice. Rick was shy, he said. The most recent book he had read was the Bible. His favorite movie was The Notebook. He was originally from Ukraine. Their conversations were cordial; he was kind, and he was fake.
Let’s break down some of the keywords and character traits in both Drew and Rick. They both considered themselves religious and read the Bible. Are spiritual women part of their target demographic? The Notebook might have been another trigger. How many men claim that as their favorite movie? Drew’s company was in Hawaii. Could he want prospective targets to project themselves in a relationship with him and envision being together in Hawaii? Rick claimed to be of Ukrainian descent. Is it possible he wanted to engender sympathy for his homeland from prospective targets?
It is hard enough to put yourself out there, online or in person. One must open oneself to potential heartbreak and ridicule. They must be willingly vulnerable and open themselves to possible pain. They should be celebrated for their courage (if they are online for the right reasons). To have someone target you as a victim of their financial ruse is unconscionable.
Dante Alighieri began writing his 14,233-line narrative poem in 1308. The first book, Inferno, has nine circles of hell. The eighth is reserved for the greedy. The eighth circle is called Malebolge or “evil ditches” in Italian. There are ten of these ditches or “Bolgia.” The first of these concentric trenches, arranged in a sloping grade or Bolgia I, is filled with seducers and panderers. They walk in two lines facing each other around the trench while being whipped by demons for eternity. Honestly, the damage to Beatrice’s self-esteem each time requires a much harsher penalty for me.
Beatrice deserves better. She deserves a real person. Somewhere, a man is looking for a partner, a real man looking for a real woman. His name is Virgil.
The youth of today, and for this discussion, this includes anyone who’s never held their favorite music in their hand (album, 8-track, cassette, CD), don’t understand how recorded music was appreciated in the time before the internet and streaming. I grew up in the age of mixtapes which involved recording songs from the radio (remember radio?) with the deft dexterity of a neurosurgeon. And…hit…..Play AND Record at the same moment! Who didn’t feel like Casey Casum when they nailed it?
My musical education is partly due to the Columbia House ten cassettes for a penny club we badgered our parents into joining. Research and hard decisions in my youth involved selecting my three-item allotment from Columbia House and being honest on my MLB All-Star selection ballot (and not voting for every Cincinnati Red nominated). I mention music because one of the few albums we had growing up was Hotel California by the Eagles. To be fair, my parents also had Rubber Soul and Led Zeppelin IV on vinyl and Sgt Pepper on 8-track. My sister was/is an Eagles fanatic (along with a certifiably insane Keith Richards fanboy). I can’t tell you how many times we listened to Hotel California. One of the songs I loved was The Last Resort. Being born and raised in Rhode Island, I was thrilled that music royalty was singing about my home, Rhode Island. And because I knew the immigrant stories of my family and those of most families I knew, the song’s opening verse touched me:
She came from Providence
One in Rhode Island
Where the old world shadows hang
Heavy in the air
The song, written by Glen Frey and Don Henley, describes man’s ugly takeover of nature’s pristine beauty. Specifically, California, and the migration of people searching for a new beginning in a “new” land.
She packed her hopes and dreams
Like a refugee
Just as her father came across the sea
She heard about a place
People were smiling
They spoke about the red man’s way
And how they loved the land
They came from everywhere
To the Great Divide
Seeking a place to stand
Or a place to hide
Word spreads about such places, and the throngs of people descend on it like locusts eating everything in their path.
Down in the crowded bars
Out for a good time
Can’t wait to tell you all
What it’s like up there
They called it paradise
I don’t know why
Somebody laid the mountains low
While the town got high
And this migration, like wildfire, doesn’t stop until it hits the ocean.
Then the chilly winds blew down
Across the desert
Through the canyons of the coast
To the Malibu
Where the pretty people play
Hungry for power
To light their neon way
Give them things to do
Some rich men came and raped the land
Nobody caught ’em
Put up a bunch of ugly boxes
And Jesus people bought ’em
And they called it paradise
The place to be
They watched the hazy sun
Sinking in the sea
And here’s where the story becomes painful. In the age before the internet and before you had lyrics to every song seconds away on your cell phone, we sang what we heard or misheard. The internet is filled with videos of people singing incorrect lyrics. Yes, it’s funny now! But before you could access the lyrics, you heard what you heard and belted it out as best you could. The next two verses always confused me. I should say I felt stupid not understanding what they were referencing. I assumed “La Hina” was a town in California. It wasn’t until years later that I learned Lahaina is a town on the island of Maui in Hawaii.
You can leave it all behind
Sail to Lahaina
Just like the missionaries did
So many years ago
They even brought a neon sign
“Jesus is coming”
Brought the white man’s burden down
Brought the white man’s reign
Before COVID-19 shut down society, and before masks and vaccines began to pull those who cared about their families and neighbors out of the pandemic abyss, my wife and I went on our honeymoon to Hawaii. We stayed in Oahu and Maui. We rented a Jeep Wrangler on Maui and, on our last day, drove across the island to Lahaina. I wanted a picture of a sign with Lahaina on it to send to my sister, an ode to our childhood listening to the Eagles. We walked Front Street, marveled at the city block-sized banyan tree, bought cookies at the Honolulu Cookie Company store, shopped at the Outlets of Maui, and ate dinner as the sun sank into the sea at the Waikiki Brewing Company. As we sat there waiting for dinner to be served, across the street, we saw the most incredible sunset I’ve ever seen.
I grew up in a tourist town, Newport, RI. And as much as I hated the traffic and the crowds of pretty people, I also knew their money was the economy’s lifeblood. When I heard about the wildfires whipping across Hawaii, and first heard Lahaina mentioned, I could only hope the town would be spared. The pandemic was savage to many industries, with tourism among the hardest hit. In addition to the catastrophic human toll the virus exacted, we all know of restaurants and stores that also did not survive. To have a wildfire threaten the fragile economy of Lahaina seemed as cruel as it was unfair. And then I saw the photos.
Nothing of what I remember exists any longer. It’s all gone. As of this writing, eighty people have lost their lives, with more expected as homes reduced to ash are searched. Front Street is a warzone of burned-out cars beside the mangled remains of homes and businesses. The banyan tree was scorched and may not survive. The Honolulu Cookie Company, the Outlets of Maui, and the Waikiki Brewing Company not only burned to the ground, but with the utter devastation and destroyed infrastructure, people do not yet know if their friends and coworkers survived. My heart breaks for everyone there. Hell came to Lahaina this week and took everything.
Climate change is real. Humans as a contributing factor is undeniable. Warnings of tipping points have been ignored. Water temperatures in the Gulf of Mexico exceed 100 degrees in some areas. We have had the hottest weather ever recorded, worldwide. And yet, we continue to ignore the issue and marvel at the consequences with willful ignorance and feigned confusion.
The last four verses of the song, without mentioning it, describe climate change and our greedy abdication of responsibility. However, instead of a coastline, when you read these last verses below, consider they are singing about planet Earth.
Who will provide the grand design?
What is yours and what is mine?
‘Cause there is no more new frontier
We have got to make it here
We satisfy our endless needs
And justify our bloody deeds
In the name of destiny
And in the name of God
And you can see them there
On Sunday morning
Stand up and sing about
What it’s like up there
They call it paradise
I don’t know why
You call someplace paradise
Kiss it goodbye
There are no new frontiers. We have got to make it here.
I am a middle-aged white man. And I can recognize some, but not all, of the societal privileges afforded to me for no other reason than I am a white man. I feel it is important to establish that upfront. I have accomplished things in life partly due to my efforts and partly because of my accident of birth. Accident of birth. What else can I call it? In addition to being born a white male, I was also born in the United States. Again, not of my choosing. But here I am, and I accept the failings in my life as my burden, my fault. I take full ownership of my failures but share my victories as being due to my efforts, others’ efforts, white privilege, and the combination of those factors occurring here in the United States.
The paragraph above is enough to exclude me from the Libertarian party, who believe they alone are responsible for the air they breathe, and they’d like you to thank them for making enough for you like it’s Reardon Steel.
With that backdrop established, let me tell you a little about my upbringing. My first best friend was black. We shared the same first name. When he or I moved away, I’m not sure what happened (I was young and cursed with a terrible memory), my next best friend was Jewish. And the thing is, it didn’t matter. I didn’t care. Or I hadn’t learned from society to hate yet. The only thing I now hate is willful ignorance. I learned so much from my friend about Judaism, its holidays, and the amazing food! I was raised Catholic (as was most of the state in which I was raised). I assumed everyone was Catholic. It wasn’t until much later that I learned Catholicism was itself but a branch of Christianity and Christianity a branch of organized religion.
Throughout my life, until I was probably 30 years old, I assumed that the problems of the past were destined to be solved by my generation. Racism being foremost in my mind and the easiest to solve. It was just wrong! That’s easy to fix, I thought. It was, I thought, the low-hanging fruit of justice, and I assumed I no longer lived in a country responsible for strange fruit (listen to the song). I also thought later in life that gun violence in America would be easily fixed after 26 first and second-graders (and educators) were slaughtered at Sandy Hook in Newtown, CT. In both situations, I learned there was a generational fallacy in my thinking. I assumed my and subsequent cohorts, armed with better information, compassion, and the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, would see the obvious path to social justice. How I was wrong! Chronological snobbery? Maybe. I now believe it is a combination of regional biases and willful intransigence that prevents solving society’s problems.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. would be 94 years old now if he had not been murdered at age 39 in 1968. What he did, what all who fought for civil rights in America in the 1950s and 1960s, and accomplished, cannot be appreciated using today’s time prism. The Overton Window has undoubtedly shifted on civil rights and many other topics. What they accomplished then, at great personal risk and, for some, with their lives, is monumental. However, the Overton Window is not a slider moving in one direction but a pendulum constantly swinging between the warmth of progress and the cold intransigence of those benefiting from the status quo. “Make America Great Again” is the most recent example of this philosophical ossification. “Progress” is seen as a threat to their privilege. Equity and equality are, ironically, seen as unfair. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion programs are seen as nefarious as Affirmative Action. After George Floyd was murdered by the police, DE&I programs blossomed nationwide, and workplaces and communities benefited from new thinking. Unfortunately, today we see the pendulum swinging the other way and DE&I programs being cut in red states all across an even more divided America.
I saw an interview with Martin Sheen recently. He has been arrested for protesting more times than he can count. And it has cost him roles. He said, “If what you believe doesn’t cost you anything, then you’re left to question its value.” He is 83 years old now. And I couldn’t help but appreciate his passion.
I confess to being a West Wing fanatic. I adored that show (especially the first four seasons written by Aaron Sorkin). I think the season finale of the second season (Two Cathedrals) is the best episode of television ever created. That said, and while I remain a devout fan, I also think it ruined politics for me and a generation of those like me. I assumed life was a meritocracy and not the plutocracy and cleptocracy it truly is. I appreciated the sincere debate depicted in the show and assumed that was how politics worked. Today, there is no debate, only sound bites, social media gotcha’s, net zero wins, and tribalism, where a foundation of facts cannot be agreed upon. We can’t even agree on what is a fact!
Martin Sheen lives how Aaron Sorkin writes.
Contrast that with today’s news that 25-year-old NASCAR driver Noah Gragson was suspended indefinitely for liking a disgusting meme laughing about George Floyd’s death. He’s 25 years old. So, no, I no longer believe my generation will solve society’s ills no more than I think my children’s generation (or Noah Gragson’s) will move us forward.
They say the first step in solving a problem is acknowledging there is a problem. We haven’t graduated from that simple first step. There is no low-hanging fruit when those on the other side will embrace any atrocity rather than let you “win.” And for that, society loses.
My generational fallacy has cost me. Not as much as those in the fight every day. It is a cost for which I feel the need to apologize. It has cost me from seeing the issues clearer. Evidence of that is easy to see. Reread this and count the number of times I say a version of “assume.” However, contrary to the familiar American saying, in this case, it has only made an ass out of me. I hope to do better. I dream of our country doing better. And now, not generationally.
All of us, over the course of our lives, develop various interests. As a child, I wanted to be a baseball player or an artist. In college, thanks to my roommate, I developed an interest in the guitar. As an adult, I took to woodworking. And I have always liked to write. My woodworking skills, like my guitar playing, place me right in the middle of “I know enough to muddle through most things, but not enough to be any good.” My college roommate was left-handed, like me. He had a couple of guitars, and he was very good! He was also one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He taught me a few barre chords, and I could follow along (if the song was simple and slow enough). In the 300 million years since I graduated, I confess, my playing hasn’t improved much. I know more chords and simple pentatonic riffs, and thanks to the internet can dumb down most songs to feel like I’m part of any number of great bands. I enjoy it, but let me assuage your fears by telling you I have no plans to perform outside of my little office, ever. You’re welcome. My family would probably prefer I take up the air guitar. It’s quieter.
Where guitar playing involves notes, chords, riffs, melody, and timing, woodworking involves something entirely different. Because I am not a pro, I am confronted on every project with the challenge of having to envision how to accomplish each successive step. And once I envision it, I invariably must adjust that plan to account for unforeseen problems, a lack of the “right” tool, and the added time required to visit Home Depot or Lowes for the 23rd time in a weekend.
I always feel like an imposter when I visit Home Depot, as if everyone is quietly judging me, eager to expose me as a hack and a fraud. Every time I’m in there, it seems three guys in the lumber department wearing work clothes that have obviously been on 300 or 400 jobs catch me out of the corner of their eyes just as a box of 100 #8 x 1 5/8” drywall screws I dropped scatter down aisle 17.
We all have those we look up to. As a kid, Pete Rose was the baseball player I wanted to be, and Leonardo Da Vinci was the artist. As a guitarist, I wanted to be David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. I always found his solos the most the most emotional and evocative solos. He speaks through his guitar. These are the people who drove me to be better. Not professional, but better. They sparked an interest in me to learn. In woodworking, it was Norm Abram. Like me, Norm is from Rhode Island. Like millions of others, I grew up on This Old House, and through several hosts, Norm was always the steady hand on the tiller. He was a teacher. Tom Silva always taught, too. His expertise in construction always showed an easier way to do something that amused the host. I learned what cripple studs were and why they were important. But Norm was the “Master Carpenter.” Maybe it was the title; however, when he spoke, it seemed to carry more gravitas. His New Yankee Workshop opened my eyes to furniture building and what a shop should look like, what tools should be in it (and what they do). And because of him, I wanted to make things out of wood. Furniture? Maybe
What Norm did on the New Yankee Workshop every week was always perfect. “I can do that!” I said to myself. What I quickly learned was that they never showed you the half hour it took the production assistants to set up the tool to make that 3-second cut. Mortise and tenon joints always fit perfectly. It took me an hour of trial and error (sometimes on my finished workpiece) to get close. Norm was always the vision of patience and safety. I can still hear his safety warning at the beginning of every episode in my head, “Before we get started, I’d like to take a moment to talk about shop safety. Be sure to read, understand, and follow all the safety rules that come with your power tools. Knowing how to use your power tools properly will greatly reduce the risk of personal injury. And remember this, there is no more important safety rule than to wear these, safety glasses.”
His experience, skill, and attention to detail, combined with meaningful explanations (and great camera work), hooked me every time. There were episodes where he made something that I didn’t particularly care about, however, despite my initial disappointment, I always found myself enthralled and eager to understand the next step of the project. I got to the point where I could anticipate the next step and the tool to be used. I loved it. Even if I didn’t have the tools to replicate the project.
And it sparked a new creative channel in me. I tried with my screwdriver, hammer, and lack of training to build things. It forced me to be patient (mostly because I had no idea what I was doing). Over the years, I’ve gotten a bit better and gained a few more tools, but still must go slow because I still have very little idea of what I’m doing. And if I’m working on a project and don’t show up to Home Depot for two days, they send out a search party. An army of orange-vested associates searching in a grid pattern across the parking lot and then my house.
I have a home office in which to perform my real job during the week. My wife had my old desk in her office but had a vision of what she really wanted. Lower cabinets, a butcher block countertop and desk surface, and uppers to the ceiling with crown molding. We researched cabinets and dove in. The cabinets were ready to assemble, and we tried to think out every other piece of prepainted wood I’d need to complete the job. We painted the walls, and then I took over the room. I put the cabinets together and ordered the butcherblock slab for the countertop and desk. I was very nervous about cutting it to fit. It was expensive, and I knew if I didn’t measure twice, I’d be cutting more than once or ordering a new slab. I could hear Norm in my head. “Measure twice, cut once.”
Each step of the process was laid out in my head, and with each step, there were questions about how to accomplish it. I sometimes took a couple of days playing it out in my head, envisioning the steps necessary and any impediments I might encounter. It was frustrating, necessary, and ultimately worth the time. I told my wife, “I can get you 98% of the way there. To get to 100%, you need to hire a professional. So, you’ll have to accept 2% being undercut, overcut, 2 degrees out of plumb, almost level, and sort of right.” I knew I was on the right track when it was only me who could see the tiny mistakes. She never saw them, no one did. I liked the challenge of thinking out the next steps and then overcoming the obvious missteps I’d take.
She also showed me a decorative shelving system she wanted in the corner opposite her wall of cabinets and desk. Again, there were challenges I would ruminate over for days before jumping in and getting it done. With one step left (putting up the shelves), I was anxious to see the finished product. I had sanded the wood, rounded over the edges, and polyurethaned the wood. All I had to do was cut the long piece into the actual shelves. I cut them and walked into the office, ready to nail and screw them into place. My wife started laughing. In my haste, I cut the shelves ½ inch too short. Without skipping a beat, my wife channeled Norm Abram. She said, “Measure twice, cut once.” Ouch. Back to Home Depot, back to sanding, rounding over, and polyurethaning. Then I measured three times, cut the shelves, and installed them.
Tony Bennett died recently, and Twitter (X?) was filled with kind words from those who knew him, thanking him for his body of work, kindness, artwork, and friendship. This happens every time a celebrity dies. I couldn’t help but notice how nice it would have been if folks thanked others while they could appreciate the sentiment.
I would never have attempted anything like that had it not been for Norm Abram and the This Old House/New Yankee Workshop. I don’t know Mr. Abram personally, but if I ever met him, I would thank him for being such a great teacher. And I think my wife would thank him, too!
Thoughts at Large 