PEOPLE CHANGE

Normal; if you are normal it just means you are like a lot of other people, not necessarily a good thing. It depends on who and where you are. I listened to a story on radio recently about a woman who volunteers at San Quinton Prison. She (Nigel) is an artist, university professor who works with inmates through education and self-help programs. With an inmate (Earl), they applied for and won an arts grant to create closed circuit podcasts for inmates. In that format they (Earl) interviewed convicts who shared their stories. It’s a different kind of audience and a different kind of normal. 

Her concern is mainly about prison reform. Most inmates will be released someday. The skills and attitudes they bring out with them depend on their experiences inside which often amounts to a revolving door of criminal activity and high recidivism. I was impressed that they brought in victims of violent crimes and exploitation to interact with inmates. They spoke of their experience as victims and living in its aftermath. The sharing would be a conversation, a two-way exchange in the privacy of their studio and the prison population via podcast. At the end of the day, people involved had a better appreciation for actions and consequences they had never considered. 

Two things I took from the program; Nigel spoke of how inmates were affected by face to face dialogue with victims. They took away new feelings that might-maybe help in another life, the one after prison. Earl came to prison at 17, convicted as an adult with over 30 years to serve. He had been a very bad man. His gang culture dictated, “Better to be carried by 6 than judged by 12.” Death was better than oppression, prison. His partner in crime was killed in a shootout with police but Earl was captured, sent to prison. He thought he would die in the streets as well but he didn’t. He thought he could “Bad-Ass” his way through incarceration but the tight security, no privileges, disenfranchised reality beat him down in spite of his gang ties. His macho, gang identity could have hardened but it lost its allure and he began to think about life after incarceration. Dying for a hopeless way of life had lost its appeal. He sensed there was another life possible, that he had been funneled into the crime/punishment culture as much by circumstance as by the choices he made but he could change. 

Nigel was changed by honest, open dialogue with people she never, ever thought she would identify with. Change is not only normal, it’s inevitable. Going with the flow is not a strong statement, it’s about conformity, no different for criminals than for straight arrows. She talked about the equality of sharing emotional vulnerability and that’s not common, not normal. I was changed is some small way just listening to the program. Right now, with the ‘God Bless America - Make It Great Again’ mentality, it is comfortable, patriotic, maybe even righteous to think of felons as throw-away rejects, like spent plastic water bottles. They got themselves into prison, it’s their problem. That kind of normal wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. 

I have no axe to grind. I quit doing that. Human Nature isn’t going to change but individuals can and do. At a rational, intelligent level we keep inventing new technology that can take us to Mars and cure cancer. But at an emotional level, we keep reinventing the wheel. Hopeless poverty = violent crime. People change, some for the good, some for the worse but we all change. I remember way back when Ronald Reagan was shaping public opinion and I felt righteous. I bought into, “People turn out exactly the way they want to. They make the decisions that shape their fate.” It sounds great if you choose good parents and a safe place to grow up. I’ve shifted, repositioned myself on the distribution curve, probably not normal anymore but the transition itself, the change part is. 

DEJA VU

This life we live; what an intoxicating, mysterious ride it has turned out to be. I can only speak for myself but I want to believe there is something universal about the human experience. Our greatest, collective attribute may well be language. Imagination comes first then turns words into story. We all have a story. My story seems to me not unlike the butterfly’s, fluttering about the flower garden, sampling nectar from first one blossom and then another, then flitting away to the next and the next, again and again. Each flower yields only a tiny-small drop of nectar. It would seem that life is lived in ever so many, small bites, each one a temporary but necessary precursor to the next. A single life-bite may seem profound or mundane but they all matter. Altogether they fall into place like tile chips in a mosaic. My job is to bring that image to life with words.

Like butterflies with blossoms, I’ve dabbled with purpose and disillusion, belief and doubt, plenty and waste, selfish and selfless; I’ve sampled them all and the story keeps unfolding. I have been content now for some time. Not that I embrace everything or that I have absolute answers but in my own, personal little niche I have more than I need, nearly everything that I want. At this point, when I am disappointed I take comfort in the wisdom of lowered expectations. 

Here I go internalizing, waxing prose when I meant to do something else. It would seem the longer you live the more you learn and what had been mysterious would be understood. But mystery can land in your lap at any age, no matter how smart or wise one may be. When it comes to things supernatural, including the paranormal and religion, I have no Big F faith at all. I don’t believe in stories that wander outside of natural law but I concede that there are stories where the explanation is simply unavailable. Those ideas go to the ‘In Progress’ file. 

Twenty five years ago, has it been that long: my dad told me there were times when he stepped from the kitchen into the hallway he saw my mother sitting in her designated spot on the sofa. When he turned to look, she would be gone. She had passed, gone maybe 7 or 8 years and his visions of her left him both charmed and saddened. I never doubted that he saw her. I think I how how that works but it wasn’t about me. Dad passed nearly 20 years ago. In the last decade I haven’t seen him but certainly, I have sensed him. 

Today, getting out of my truck in the Costco parking lot I turned as I closed the door and stepped around the front of the car parked next door. I barely turned my head and I felt it. Kinesthetics relates to a person’s awareness of the position and motion of body parts. It is controlled by sensory organs in muscles and joints. How is your pinky finger placed in relation to the ring finger beside it? If you can answer correctly without looking, that’s you kinesthetic function doing its job. After unnumbered repetitions of subtle, patterned movements, it feels normal to touch your face in your own particular way. Call it unconscious habit if you like. In bright light, especially if I’ve forgotten my sun glasses, without thinking I naturally turn my head to the left, chin down, close my right eye and squint down at my feet with my left. It’s a patterned behavior that I don’t think about. But every time, I do it exactly that way and sense that it’s uniquely me; yes, this is what I do. 

In the Costco lot it was cloudy, no bright light. Walking, my chin moved slightly in the direction I was looking, checking for auto traffic. My kinesthetic control was set on autopilot. Then I felt a weird sensation as if my body had be hacked. It wasn’t the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last but I sensed my dad’s posture and facial expression, in me. There was a disconnect; was I looking through my dad’s eyes or was he looking through mine? It lasted a thin fraction of a second and was gone. The way he pursed his lips agains his teeth, harrowed his eyes and looked to the side; I was doing it. The way he held his arms tight to his sides, elbows bent, hands close together in front; I was doing it. Those two patterns were not me or mine. I had seen him do that countless times over a lifetime. Why was I mimicking his behavior, how did I recognize it so clearly? If I were a mystic I might believe he was trying to get my attention. But then I’m not a mystic. 

What I do understand and believe is that genetics has a much greater role in personality and behavior than we were taught back in the nurture vs. nature years. I am science literate. What I don’t understand I am confident that I can find the handle with some diligence and collaboration. I know where my genetics come from and the solution to my conundrum is coded in there somewhere. It’s been going on now for about a decade, maybe 3 or 4 times a year. It can be in the morning between bed to the bathroom or between cars in a parking lot. But it always seems to trigger with the facial tic and the elbows/hands thing. “Frank, this is not your pattern, it belongs to someone else.” Idle smalltalk lends credence to the idea, growing old we turn into our parents. I suspect we have always been our parents. 

HOCUS-POCUS

Most people, I would guess, do not have a favorite philosopher. I don’t think most people can adequately define, ‘Philosophy’. If they remember that Plato came before Aristotle it puts them in rare company. People who actually pursue the subject may be viewed with the childlike reservation of a kid contemplating a two headed frog. I apologize, I do that, philosophy, waiting on my second head. I don’t claim to be smart but I listen well. 

Two favorite philosophers: David Hume was a contemporary of John Locke, Englishmen from about the time of the American Revolution. Instrumental to the age of enlightenment, Hume championed empiricism and skepticism. Moving out of Locke’s shadow he envisioned a natural science of man. In that effort he arrived at a controversial conclusion: ‘passion rather than reason governs human behavior’. Epictetus on the other hand was a Greek, from the 1st century. Not a major player like Socrates or Plato, he did cast light on human nature that is still relevant. He foreshadowed Hume, “There is neither good nor evil but believing makes it so.” He was 1700 years ahead of Hume, making the same observation. Values, beliefs and behaviors are not inherently right or wrong. Hitler wasn’t evil because of what he did; he was evil because of how we feel about what he did. He thought himself a great humanitarian. Otherwise, how could anybody believe slavery was not only beneficial but also humane treatment of human beings, or that it pleased God? How else can some very smart Americans believe building walls is the right thing to do yet other Americans, just as smart, think we should be building bridges? It’s not about intelligence. Intelligence empowers us to calculate the volume of an egg and to write poetry but emotion dictates what we believe and we move to that drum.

I was thinking about that conundrum in church the other day. The sermon started with M.L.K. Jr. but quickly turned to everything that’s wrong in America. I knew her story perfectly, completely and I concur but in the same breath, I have wonderful friends who believe just the opposite. They are intelligent, highly educated folk who think the problem is generated by illegal immigrants and lazy, immoral people of color, and by people who believe as I do. So when I’m in that home, wonderful is terrible and vise-verse, depending on whose mind you read. They are wrapped in the flag with a gun in each hand. Within that microcosm, they treat each other, myself included, with courtesy, kindness and respect. I love them and I understand but my passion is diametrically opposed to theirs. Considering their DNA and experience, it’s the best they can do. There is neither good nor evil but believing makes it so. 

Then the mood lightened, we took to poetry as a tool of reflection and persuasion. In Robert Frost’s work, “Mending Wall” two farmers repair a stone wall that separates their property. One is dedicated to the virtue of walls while the other questions the need for a wall at all. Extreme winters with freeze heave and thaw, ice and wind, gravity, they work all winter against the wall leaving stones scattered on the ground. Frost begins the poem, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” Men stack stones and nature tears them down. Frost observes that his apple trees will never invade the neighbors pine woods but reason loses out to feelings when the believer reiterates, good fences make good neighbors. The wall in Frost’s poem was a metaphor for another wall and we all understood without elaboration. 

While we were in that mode we were reminded that Mary Oliver had died. She was both a psalmist and a prophet for we of a nature based faith. I loved her work, still do. I have no defense against her words. Her poetry, noted by her peers, “refused to acknowledge boundaries between nature and self.” I’ve been stumbling over her quotes what seems like all my life and every time it’s like an open window that bids me outside, to where I truly wanted to be. Oliver counterpoints the farmer who loved his wall. In her poem, “The Summer Day” she incorporates into one short read, a patient, gentle philosophy for this life. It ends with what is probably her most famous quote: “Tell me what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.” She, our minister, wanted to remind us that life isn’t all struggle, it’s a journey of discovery and we must live it as it comes to us. She doesn’t tell us what to believe, that's something Unitarians don't tolerate very well. Mary Oliver modeled for us how to milk this life for every blessing and in the end, how to let it go. M.L.K. Jr. and Mary Oliver, they have passed but what they left behind is worth the keeping. 

Church let out and we went our own ways. I’m still vacillating between Epictetus and Mary Oliver. He says it doesn’t matter, she says it does. I went to lunch with a friend, had falafel, humus and curry chicken. We talked about ordinary stuff. Breaking bread with friends is essential to good life. Knowing that emotion drives us to the extent that we don’t believe anything without its permission; that’s something else. It’s not carved in stone. Actually, things can happen and there are things we can do to change the way we feel. But between random chance and painfully slow process, we don’t see it working until after the fact. If you want to become more or less compassionate, more or less generous, more or less skeptical, cognitive therapy works but it’s not easy and it doesn’t net results fast enough for impatient people. Besides, most people believe that cognitive therapy is hocus-pocus. I think it works, maybe because I feel better about CT than about hocus-pocus.

NAVEL GAZING

It’s Tuesday after snow on Saturday; three days after the fact trees are still bending and breaking under the weight. Certainly some of the snow has gone away. My truck cover has taken the shape of its roof rack and it’s only about a foot deep. Yesterday its profile was flat and smooth. That says something considering this is mid-Missouri. The weather, it’s not changing and they like to brag that it changes every few hours. We’re going to have a cold spell. But you know: it will warm up and we’ll have mud. 

It’s been a while since I’ve been chafed by global warming, climate change deniers. I thought of that yesterday. Three or four years ago I would have heard cat calls about how local anomalies disqualify global patterns, “How can we have so much snow if the globe is warming?” They’ve softened their tone in light of overwhelming evidence to the contrary but still cling to the root belief: “It might be warming but human activity didn’t influence it.” The evidence is in on that too and it’s as compelling as the other. Global warming is accelerating at an unprecedented rate and, the only conceivable reason for the acceleration is human consumption of fossil fuel. Why beat on that dead horse again, it’s been done convincingly by researchers who value their credibility in the workplace more than an ideological commitment. I’m glad about that; that I haven’t had to condescend to middle school logic with grown up 3 year-olds but then I suppose it wasn’t about logic anyway. If one is committed to disbelief then what’s the point? 

There is a walking track on the gym balcony where I go to exercise. I walk faster than most, navigating my way around folks who are preoccupied with smart phones or walking in small groups. Today an older man, maybe my age, slipped up on me and we walked together for a while. We exchanged pleasantries and cruised along. He asked me something about the government and politics and I dodged it: “I don’t give it much thought.” Considering the demographics of our community, even evangelical, black christians want little or nothing to do with the current administration. I had no reason to think my newly acquired walk-mate would contradict that assumption. I just didn’t want to go there. He on the other hand might very well have seen my reluctance as some kind of passive support for the narcissist bigot with orange hair. It was not but he had no way of knowing that. I let him set the pace, matched it, staying out of everybody’s way. A man and woman of our generation, slow walking, much talking; we had to get past them about every other lap. Their conversation, in the bits and pieces we were privy to was generally critical and unsympathetic toward congress and the White House in particular. 

I split my workout between walking the track, cardio vascular work on the stair-stepper and inclined treadmill, then a round on the weight machines. My fast walking companion did his whole workout on the track so I bid him well and headed to my next station. Half an hour later I was near the track; my walk-mate had slowed down, paced himself with the slow-walk, fast-talk couple. They hadn’t gained any speed but they were having a spirited conversation. I thought, ‘I’m glad he found someone to meet his socializing need.’ I never would have been able to fill that hole. 

On the way home I noticed spots in intersections where snow melts last; snow had turned to ice. Making a turn was like following train tracks, keeping in the grooves, not wanting to hear ice against the under side of the car. For a while after it snows, everything looks better. Amazing what a clean coat of fresh snow does for the countryside. But it usually goes dirty before you can appreciate it. That’s the normal but this one is lagging behind. Three days and it’s still clean. I thought about that yesterday so I took my camera and went looking for photographs. The way snow was layered over every branch and limb made for wonderful edges and powerful contrasts. The problem was, there was no convenient, safe place to pull off the road. I had to find a wide spot, leave the emergency blinkers flashing and walk a ways. Passing snow plow drivers stopped to see if I needed help. I showed them my camera and that was good, they would leave and another one would stop. Then of course, the best spot to stand was up or down an embankment that was hip deep in snow. But once you have snow inside your socks and your pants are soaked up to the knees, it’s not so much an inconvenience as it is the price of doing business. 

Life is pretty good after all. I have the gym; who knows who you will meet or what they will want to talk about and the exercise is as good as you make it. I have my camera; it gives me a reason to pay attention, look closely, everywhere, all the time. Not all pictures are worth a thousand words but the more you take, the better you get. Some are worth wading through the snow. Then, my workshop is revamped, available, just waiting for me to make new saw dust. I have stuff to do and what would this life be without stuff to do? It won’t change the world but it does sustain me. 

STILL CRAZY

There was a time, once upon a time, there must have been a time when one’s reaction to the weather was simply how close you sat to the fire. I remember when weather forecasts were deemed fantastic if they were right 70% of the time. Now they give multiple, targeted forecasts; north of the river, south of the river, Cass County, on the Kansas side and if they were not precisely on the mark everywhere, every time, they had failed. It used to a be public service and now it’s reality t.v. I’m not complaining, just sayin’, it is what it is.

It’s the 2nd week in January, the Midwest, if you’re going to get snow this is when it’s supposed to drop in, like rain in April. But we’ve been conditioned to view stormy weather with the same trepidation as zombies at the gate. Yesterday we knew without reservation we would get snow last night, 4 inches plus, and we did. Saturday, even when you are retired, snow on Saturday morning means you sleep in. Snow light is different than sunshine through the blinds: some of the brilliance is filtered out without any loss of lumens. 

I took my time with coffee; it was still snowing and the task in my driveway and on my front stoop would be there until I decide. Emerging from the garage I felt a deja vu kind of West Michigan nostalgia. Every tree branch in every yard was snow-loaded, hanging low; some had already lost the gravity-battle and lay dismembered on the ground. Snow flakes were big and wet, heavy, sticking to the first thing they encountered. My vehicles were nearly a foot taller than when I left them last night; I couldn’t see the roof rack on the pickup at all. Long story short: after an hour of shoveling and snow-blowing, I had cleared the patio, cars and driveway but in that time, nearly 2” more had accumulated. 

This really was a West Michigan flashback. I didn’t have anyplace to go but we old snow-mongers won’t be snowbound. (I don’t handle nasty-cold as well as once upon a time but I still handle it.) I need a vehicle at the ready and a path to wherever I might want to go. By then it was noon. I changed out of wet clothes, made a bacon/biscuit sandwich, finished the coffee pot’s last cup and watched it snow. On top of both the car and pickup, 3” more new snow and still coming down. Visibility was just a stones throw, nearly a whiteout. I couldn’t make out my neighbor’s back fence across the street. 

Allendale, Michigan; 1997 and ’98 this kind of snowfall was typical, night after night. No weather warnings, just Lake effect snow. It comes in like fog off the bay but when it has spent itself it doesn’t dissipate. It leaves 10”, 12”, 14” of new snow stacked up on fence posts, mail boxes, street signs, even makes a curtain on power lines, maybe 6”, 8” high. So today I don’t mind doing the work. The first verse of Paul Simon’s, “Still Crazy” reflects on meeting his old lover on the street; she was so happy to see him he just smiled. They talked about good times and drank some beers, still crazy after all these years. If I anthropomorphize winter weather, consider it creative license. Winter on the lake shore is whatever you make of it. When I talk to Southerners about Michigan winter they shudder and call me crazy. I accept that after all, crazy is preferable to the lazy-warm addiction-affliction they suffer from. Then they grumble and hide under the air conditioner when it turns hot and humid. 

Since I started this piece, I’ve been outside several times; took a telescoping limb trimmer and rattled snow covered limbs. Up and down the street there are limbs, big limbs broken. I looked at mine and realized if I didn’t do something to relieve the pressure my trees will break too. Once lightened, they spring back to near normal. My neighbor’s tree across the street has nearly imploded. Every limb with less than 4” diameter is on the ground. You don’t see them fall, just notice later, too little too late. All the while I’m loving this winter day. I went out with a hooded rain coat, bare handed; thought I’d be outside only a few minutes. Much later I came back in with painfully cold fingers. I’m too old to be doing that so I’m back at the computer. 

When I get all dry and comfortable again I go out, see if the snow blower will start, shovel the tight spaces and make believe I’m somewhere else. Dumping snow off the car tops will yield enough snow to require shoveling again but that’s alright. I have things to do and places to go tomorrow. By then the streets will have been plowed sufficiently and enough salt put down to kill every weed for years. My hands have stopped hurting and daylight will wane very soon. My nature is to look for the good in things; I think we are programmed to be as content as we chose to be. This cold, gray, snowy day has buoyed me up, turned my pretty good day into a great one. 

THERE BUT FOR. . .

Some places you have a good time, meet interesting people but when you leave you know you won’t ever go back. Other times you’re eager to go home if nothing more than to start planning a return. I spent some time in South Korea a few years ago, For exercise I went swimming at a local, indoor pool. They sold tickets for one-hour lap swim sessions, one after another for 10 hours. I went at the 2:00/3:00 p.m. hour, it was less crowded. As the 2:00 time drew near, all the men lined up at the pool door. You could hear pool noise on the other side then they blew a loud whistle, someone from the other side opened the door and we scurried in. You didn’t dare run but it was sort of a race to get positioned at one of the 8 lanes. All the while, the swimmers from the 1:00 session were shuffling back into the dressing rooms. At 2:03 we were lined up, 8 or 9 deep at a lane, the whistle blew and we slid in, began our laps. Swim on the right side of the lane, next to the lane divider, touch the wall, turn and begin the trip back, keep to the right. Everywhere, you are behind and ahead of someone with others passing on your left, going the other direction. You must be at least as fast as the person behind you. When their hands begin to interfere with your feet you must let them pass at the next end-wall or switch to another lane where the pace isn’t so fast. By 2:10 everyone was in a speed friendly lane, laboring up and back like dysfunctional polar bears at the zoo. It’s strange how much you can learn about total strangers, gliding past them, going and coming, lap after lap. One swam with her eyes closed inside her goggles, one swam as far as he could on one breath then stop to breathe and lurch out again. An older woman made eye contact underwater and nodded a polite acknowledgment. I tried to find a happy niche between two people near my speed. Finally we got a 2 minute warning, then the whistle. At 3:03 we were back in our gender appropriate dressing rooms. From 10:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m. the swim progressed like migrating salmon, only inside, in shifts. 

Walking back to my friend’s place the sidewalks were packed, store-front to curb. No organization, just mass humanity being totally courteous and polite, oozing along. I stopped at a bakery for a sweet roll. Coming out the door I merged into the flow and felt someone pull at my sleeve. A schoolgirl, maybe 15, in her school uniform, she held a clipboard and asked if she could interview me; a class assignment. The only shelter we had was a light pole otherwise we would have been swept along with the crowd so we took cover behind it. Her questions were easy; name, where I’m from, reason to be in Seoul, favorite Korean food. She was delighted that I liked kimchi but let down as I didn’t care much for the squid. She asked if I was a Christian. I thought it a little strange but it was on her list and I struggled for an answer. Finally I told her that I used to be a Christian and I still had friends who pray for me. It was good enough, she wrote on the page and we were done. I really liked Korea but I don’t think I’ll go out of my way to go back. 

Where I go and know I’ll return is Louisiana, nothing at all like Seoul especially New Orleans and the French Quarter. But east or west, it’s the people who are irresistible. I’ve been going back to the Quarter at least every year for ever; sometimes several times. I stay away from Bourbon Street and out of the bars. Most of the out-of-towners go there to be insulted and separated from their money and most of the people they run into are from some other place. One rowdy wannabe from Dallas isn’t much different than another from Indianapolis. I hang out on Decatur St., Royal or Ursulines Ave. or Toulouse St., watch the natives, how they make ends meet. Bring your money to The Big Easy, have fun, stay out of trouble, take home a souvenir but leave your money.

I’m fascinated with street people. I think the attraction comes by way of my mother. When she saw someone in dire straits she would tell me, “There but for the Grace of God go I.” Then she would give me the long look and follow up with, “You too.” She thought it was divine intervention, I’m thinking more likely random chance and good fortune. I think all of the street people in the Quarter had high hopes to begin with. Nobody sets out to fail but that is the stereotype our culture has reserved for them. So I glimpse if I can, inside their souls, try to imagine their stories. 

Latrobe Park is a small park at the corner of Decatur and Ursulines, near the gold statue of Joan of Arc. It’s all paved with a low wall, overhanging trees, benches and a couple of small fountains. It’s a shady place to relax on a hot day. Next door is an outdoor bistro with live music and small shops. It’s a regular spot for street folk, not the weekend weirdos, just the ones who want something better but can’t seem to make it work. Any age, alone or in groups, usually with a dog on a chain. They can’t camp out or loiter at Latrobe but it’s a good place to sit for a while. I sit near the bistro and watch them, take their photos. Next month I’ll be there again. In all of the Quarter, if I had to pick one place that means something special it would be Latrobe Park. I sit there with my Canon SLR camera, two credit cards and car keys in my pocket, captured by the allure of modern-day hobos. I’ve heard, “Hard times are halved and good times multiplied with friends.” I think that’s what they are doing. By the Grace of God, by random chance and good fortune: I was born in the right place at a good time and that was not my decision. But I’m probably better served by that set of circumstance than by all of my ill conceived, high minded schemes. How could I be so lucky that my parents found each other when they did! The French Quarter will always be a destination for me and Latrobe Park will be where I sit and watch the world turn. 

ONLY A GAME

Saturday morning, “Only A Game” is a radio program that airs from 6:00 to 7:00. You can hear four or five, maybe six stories from the sports domaine. They are not the same stories you get on the local news, ESPN or talk shows. The show is focused on human interest stories that happen within the greater, sports foot print. I  remember one in particular: the reporter went to Belmont Park Race Course in New York City at 2:00 a.m. to see who was there and what they were doing. We met a lady, exercise rider who brought her baby to work. She had a dozen horses to workout, groom and cool down before 10:00 a.m. Her work day began at midnight. Belmont Park provided a staffed nursery for employees who couldn’t get child care in the wee hours. The guy who baked bread and croissants for the next day’s menu was a classical music student, played the violin. The stories were about people and how they sustain, not about horse racing; great story to wake up to.

This morning they focused on the Outback, Bowl Game last week. Mississippi State’s Kylin Hill took a helmet to helmet blow that left him conscious but unable of get up off the ground or walk without assistance. They took him out but on the last play of the game, the Bulldogs needed a score to win and they sent Hill back into the game. The story was a set up for a conversation on how the NCAA exploits student athletes. I was hoping for something light and entertaining but ignoring concussion protocols in the NCAA is both deadly serious and not uncommon. 

So the story wasn’t about Kylin Hill or Mississippi State in particular. It was about the way institutions and governing bodies take advantage of vulnerable subordinates. There ought to be a law and there is a law; that’s why they have lawyers. The best paid lawyers defend powerful, usually guilty powers that be and they do that very well. I’ll not go off on everything I don’t like in our culture, what’s the point? If I miss those kinds of stories I don’t care. I listened to another story this morning of a 40 year-old English football (soccer) player and his teenage son who loved playing virtual, fantasy football. The dad played at the lowest level of European football, on one of the worst teams. But the online fantasy game had data and statistics on every team in Europe. His 13 year-old son discovered the experts had rated his dad 35 on a possible scale of 99 which is awful, worse than awful. How the two reconciled that breech of expectation and reality was great. They started keeping their own detailed records of his performance on passing, takeaways, speed, agility and compared them to high rated, younger players. His numbers indicated he should be rated much higher but the game company wasn’t interested. In the end, he gained respect both with his son as well as his younger team mates. It’s only a game. I like that show except when our favorite-favorite turns out to be sullied by human nature’s dark side. 

I’ve hardened myself to the dark side. I understand it and I can’t change it. I paraphrase King Solomon here, “If you’re lucky, life is difficult but doable and then you die. Somebody else will reap the benefit of your labor but go ahead and work hard, live well and be grateful.” Human nature is to take all you can, however you can (pursue pleasure); then rationalize your own deceit and feel good about it (avoid pain). That is what we (people) do. But buried within that tainted story are many other stories that nurture a softer, sweeter spirit. They all spring from the Golden Rule and a relentless, prevailing doubt about one’s own goodness. Getting up at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday, when I need not, is one way I nurture that softer, sweeter spirit. This life, it’s only a game. You can’t possibly win but if you play well, you can be ahead when time runs out.