Walk A Mile In My . . . Sandals

I lost a good and trusted friend the other day. Though my loss was perhaps not as deserving and therefore not a part of the network hoopla surrounding the deaths of more famous entertainers like Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson - to me, mine meant a great deal more.

Sure, I used to laugh along with Ed McMahon and Johnny Carson - who didn't? And I will never forget waking up to see Farrah Fawcett every morning my second year at college - my roommate had her poster above his bed. Finally, even though Michael Jackson and I shared the same birthday, we really didn't have much in common - I can't sing or dance, and I'll bet money he could have cared less about the Dodgers and Red Sox, let alone enjoyed a good round of golf.

No, I suffered a more immediate loss than I could feel for any entertainer or celebrity, no matter how famous. I lost not only a close friend, I lost someone who had been with me for years, and someone who, through thick and thin, I had looked forward to spending many more years together with - some might say, a true sole mate.

Though not very old, their death was untimely, unnecessary, and probably difficult to swallow - literally. You see, my loss can be explained very easily - our new dog ate my favorite sandals. Before anyone panics, the dog is fine - a dog's stomach rivals that of a goat I'm sure - but the sandals are history.

A bit of an overreaction to the now pressing need to purchase a new pair of sandals? I beg to differ. Can there be anything more comfortable than a well-worn shoe/sandal? One that conforms to every toe, arch, and imperfection in our feet? Next to being barefoot in clover on a bright spring day, is there anything more comfortable than taking off your shoes and socks at the end of the day and "airing out the dogs" as a friend of mine once said, and slipping on the well-trod sandals mentioned above? I rest my case.

For those of you thinking that I have finally teetered long enough over the edge towards absurdity or insanity - or both - these were no ordinary sandals. They were, in fact, sandals with a purpose in life beyond simple comfort and protection. You might say, these sandals had a mission to accomplish in their brief and fleeting existence. You see, these sandals had a bottle opener built into the bottom of each sole.

I assume that like a lot of us out there, I have always looked for comfort first in my shoes and sandals. Shoes with lights, odd colors, or glittery shoe strings have never been high on my shopping list. Therefore, a sandal with the quasi-capabilities of a Swiss Army Knife would not normally register with me on the plus side. That, and the fact that most soft drinks and beer today are either in cans or made with twist off caps, and I was not immediately attracted to these sandals utilitarian nature.

But they fit, and a beautiful relationship began. Comfortable, sturdy, and most of all, the perfect accompaniment to walking in Puerto Rico, I never gave their hidden "bonus" a second thought. From sidewalk to beach, from North America to Europe, and from the Caribbean to the Rappahannock, we were rarely apart. But mere comfort was not the only bond I shared with my trusted friend.

If you've ever experienced a rainbow or seen the clouds part after a storm and reveal a shaft of sunlight on the shadowy earth, you'll know of which I speak next. For in walking down Ashford Avenue in Puerto Rico one day - in my favorite sandals of course - I saw up ahead two women struggling with the obviously non-screw top caps of two coke bottles. Like a bolt of lightning, it struck me that I could solve this dilemma for them - not by brute strength, anyone except Don Knotts could offer that - but instead, I had an opener in my sandal! Without a second thought, I immediately approached the two damsels in distress and offered to assist them, simultaneously taking off my left shoe and popping the said caps off. Barely breaking stride to accomplish this near-lifesaving task, I quickly accepted their astonished gratitude and moved on - pridefully surveying the oncoming pedestrians ahead in search of others possibly in need.

A bit of hyperbole? Perhaps. I heard no angels singing, nor did I accomplish this feat while wearing tights and a cape. Did it actually happen? Yes. And short of running into Julia Child on the way to filming her cooking show or accosting a Pampered Chef salesperson, I'm not sure these women could have been helped by anyone else. Right man, right shoe, and right time.

So, goodbye old friend(s). Yes, I will buy another pair of sandals and eventually, they will be as broken-in and comfortable as this last pair. But even if they have an entire tool kit in the heel - and at size 13 that is entirely possible - they will never be able to replicate the cosmic timing, utilitarian success, and moment of true bonding we shared on the street that day in Puerto Rico. Try something like that in your dress shoes or sneakers . . .

You Can Keep Your Groundhogs . . .

There are plenty of methods and systems that people use to predict the seasons. Probably the most famous is Punxsutawney Phil - resident Pennsylvanian and noted groundhog. Others may feel more comfortable placing their faith in the position of the sun (and thus the calendar), while others may prefer the pillars of Stonehenge with their mysterious purpose and past. For years, I used to enjoy reading the Farmer's Almanac and all of its predictions, pithy sayings, and homespun wisdom to help me understand our world.

Yet I have moved on from mere media events, ancient Druid sun positionings, and rehashed Appalachian folklore to an even more accurate - and certainly more entertaining - method for divining the changing seasons. For lack of a better term, I call him "Mine Road Mike".

Each day for the past three years, on the way to and from school, my two youngest children and I like to talk and listen to music (well, they listen, I try not to). Over the first few weeks of our commute, we began to notice that an older gentleman, sometimes joined by what appeared to be his wife, was always seated on his front porch just off the road. No matter the time of day or the weather, this gentlemen was seated on his porch enjoying the view and occasionally waving as we all rushed past on our way to other places.

While at first, we simply remarked that our "friend" seemed to be there all the time, we slowly realized that he was really there - all the time - rain or shine. Over the next several months, we noticed that while his attire rarely changed for weeks at a time - same shirt, same pants, etc. - he did alter his wardrobe for the seasons. In fact, we often joked about how if we never used another source for the information, we would always know the season and time of year based upon which clothes "Mine Road Mike" was wearing.

In fact, "Mike's" system was so simple that even the Druids from Stonehenge would be impressed: Spring - long pants/shorts, white undershirt, light flannel shirt, ball cap; Summer - short pants, no shirt, ball cap; Fall - long pants, heavy flannel shirt/jacket, ball cap; winter - no outside appearances (hibernation?). As impressive as it seems, it isn't necessarily the regularity of the apparel that inspires us as commuters driving by, it is the sameness of the clothes. My money is that they are in fact the same clothes, jacket and ball cap - simply alternated between seasons, but never within the same season.

While it may seem that I am making fun of "Mike", in fact, I am impressed with him for several reasons. At the top of the list is his regularity. To his credit, he is taking in the outside air every day. Refusing to be stuck in front of a television, he instead opts to view the entire panoply of life that encompasses Mine Road and its commuters. More importantly, I respect his ability to choose to wear his favorite attire all the time, without fear or worry about what others - obviously including his wife, might think. Finally, one of these days I hope to find an excuse to just stop and say hello. He seems like a great guy to just sit and have a conversation with.

So, you can have your mysterious Stonehenge, the far too-simple act of looking at a calendar, and you can certainly have your overhyped and oversized rodents. For me, nothing says the seasons like "Mine Road Mike". Long may he wave . . .

Ty Cobb, Bad Hats, and a Good Cigar . . .

Recently, while routinely visiting my dermatologist, as he viewed the aging palette that passes for my body, the doctor remarked that I had "active skin". Nothing serious, he assured me - just a hearty supply of moles and high susceptibility to the sun. A possible insult for some, I had to smile because I knew immediately what he meant - I had my grandfather's complexion.

I smiled because I have fond memories of my grandfather and to have his same "skin", warts and all so to speak, is not really a bad thing. All throughout our lives, people repeatedly tell us that we have certain physical traits in common with various and sundry relatives in the family. These can range from the obvious - a father's hairline, a mother's nose, etc., to more obscure features that can be a little harder to define - one running joke in our family is that my grandmother once remarked that I have my Aunt Daisy's hands. Who knew?

However, I believe that in addition to the obvious genetic gift from Aunt Daisy, that I received other, more important and non-genetic traits from my family members. For example, I have always believed that I got my sense of humor from my mother - she wanted me to include good looks as well, but I'm not touching that one. From my father, I have picked up a number of things including the fact that I affectionately call my children "kid" just as he still does to this day with me.

But it seems as though some of the best non-genetic traits I have, I received from my maternal grandfather. I know this for several reasons, not the least of which was that I was asked to deliver his eulogy at his funeral in 1992. In preparing for that eulogy, I thought back to all of the things I had learned from him over the years and it boiled down to three things: a deep and abiding love for baseball, a fondness for gardening, and last, but not least, an appreciation for a good cigar.

I can still remember hearing the stories of my grandfather playing semi-pro baseball as he grew up in Chicago. One of his greatest thrills was to play in a championship game in old Comiskey Park. I don't recall if he won or lost, just that he enjoyed the experience so much. He also told tales of seeing some great old timers play: Babe Ruth, Heine Manush, Lou Gehrig, etc. As a lifelong White Sox fan, he eventually saw them all. But his least favorite player of all-time? Ty Cobb. A dirty player out to hurt others as much as to win, my grandfather had no patience for such tactics. To a kid just starting to play baseball myself, this connection, no matter how thin, to the famous players of the past, was mesmerizing. I still have several baseball books he gave me. And how can you not love a man that was able to sandwich in a baseball game in Detroit in 1926 while allegedly on his honeymoon?

As to gardening, one of my most familiar images of my grandfather is of him working in his backyard garden - especially once he and my grandmother moved to Oregon following their retirement. Without a shirt in the broiling Oregon summer (with that now famous "active skin"), and wearing some goofy hat that would have been rejected by even the neediest of migrant workers, he was exceedingly proud of his tomatoes and vegetables. Only two things disturbed his peacefulness regarding his garden - rabbits and deer. The former could be fenced out, but the deer seemed to always find a way to nibble on something that was not intended for their use. Years later, after doing some gardening at my father's ranch in northern California, I've had my own gardening experiences and still look forward to putting in another one - minus the goofy hat . . .

But it is with cigars, and more specifically, their unique smell, that my grandfather continues to live on in my memory. I may have overstated it when I said earlier that my grandfather taught me an appreciation for a good cigar. I did learn an appreciation for said cigars from him, but only in a roundabout way. His favorite cigars were either Dutch Masters or White Owls - hardly the preference of kings. In fact, each year, his Christmas gift from the grand kids was inevitably a box of these same cigars. While I am not above smoking the occasional Dutch Masters Presidente, I have been spoiled by better brands and much prefer the company of a good Dominican wrapped in a Connecticut leaf . . .

My own snobbery aside, it's not the cigar itself that I crave. There is something about smoking or even smelling any cigar, that takes me back to sitting and listening to my grandfather talk about the time he stole second base in Comiskey Park . . . that helps me envision him again bent over in that garden weeding amongst his beloved plants . . . and finally, something about that cigar makes me wish I was once again sitting with him in his garage - where he was banished by my grandmother who apparently did not appreciate the same smell - in the rattiest of lawn chairs and a haze of smoke - just talking.

As it is, I've learned to enjoy my time alone outside in my own garage with my "active skin", cigar in hand and with the best of memories. There are probably worse things to inherit than what I've been given by my grandfather. As for me, I'll take the memories. Hard to beat that . . .

And The Skies Are Not Cloudy All Day . . .

Fortunately or unfortunately, one of yesterday's biggest stories was not the election in Iran or even the follow-up stories on the shooting at the Holocaust Museum in Washington. Especially if the only news you ever watched was CNN Headline News, the story of note throughout the day was former President George H. W. Bush's parachute jump from a plane to celebrate his 85th birthday. Of course, the story's importance only grew because CNN HL anchor, Robin Meade also jumped with the president - separate jumps, same plane - and why not highlight both?

In many ways, I have admired Bush 41. Not necessarily for his politics, but certainly for his qualifications and impressive resume even before becoming president. Son of a senator, a former congressman himself, successful businessman, Ambassador to China, CIA Director, and more - the man put in his time in a number of areas that prepared him well for the presidency. Unfortunately for him, a bad economy, an incomplete war in Kuwait and Iraq, and the rise of Bill Clinton worked against him extending his term.

However, the trait I most admire about the former president is his candor. Even when there is nothing to say, he says something - not always clearly (think Dana Carvey and his great impersonation) - but it seems as though he is always willing to verbalize a thought for the camera. Some of them are actually quite good. On yesterday's jump, Mr. Bush stated that one of the reasons he did it was to show his fellow senior citizens that you "didn't have to sit in a corner and drool" at his age. A noble sentiment, yet probably not one he would have made while in office. But then again, who knows?

As part of the hype for yesterday's jump, Ms. Meade did the requisite pre- and post-interviews with the former president, and while most of the topics were fairly mundane, one in particular has relevance for a significantly large number of men. The question posed to Mr. Bush was how could he be jumping again at age 85, when his wife Barbara had clearly said that his prior jump at age 80 was to be his absolute last one?

In a classic response of verbal dexterity that any married man wishes he himself possessed, Mr. Bush explained his apparent defiance of his wife's stated wishes by saying that Barbara sometimes "uses different ways of phrasing her enthusiasm" and you simply had to interpret them the right way. As a longtime married man, Mr. Bush clearly chose the middle path of conciliation in the face of doing what he wanted to do, and in the face of what his wife surely objected to. It was a brilliant use of the all too familiar middle path, utilized by millions of us, leaving himself (and the rest of us married men living vicariously through this particular moment), some moral, if not actual, "wiggle room" for avoiding later consequences and going ahead and doing what he (we), wanted to do in the first place.

Interestingly, Mrs. Bush was there yesterday when her husband once again touched the earth. Her first hug however, was not reserved for her husband. Instead she reached out to the man who had piggybacked with the former president on his jump - possibly whispering a threat to the officer's commission? Only after that greeting his escort did she turn and check on her husband. One can only imagine the "different ways of phrasing her enthusiasm" she shared then, and probably later, with her husband far away from the cameras and CNN.

Whether you are sitting in a corner and drooling or simply a married man who has frequently heard "different phrases of encouragement", without a doubt, the former president is an inspiration to all of us locked in matrimonial embrace. No word yet on the former president's plans for jumping at age 90. Despite my admiration for 41's efforts and verbal skills, my money's on Mrs. Bush finally winning out. After all, we can't win 'em all . . .

Moon Over D.C.

For two nights last week, Brian Williams and NBC News interviewed President Obama, his staff, and his wife, Michele, about life as President and life in the White House. I found the interviews fascinating on a number of levels - not the least of which I remember as a small child watching similar interviews with John and Jackie Kennedy. At least this time around, I could understand what people were talking about.

In my life, I have had the fortunate opportunity to meet two presidents - Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. My encounter with Mr. Carter was actually a near disaster for both of us. At a campaign rally in Sacramento in 1976 on the eve of the California primary, my college roommate and I were in attendance. At the end of the rally, as the crowd surged forward to shake the candidates hand, we were swept forward as well. As I reached out and shook Mr. Carter's hand, he grasped mine firmly and I responded in kind - thinking this was pretty cool. Unfortunately, neither one of us was able to disengage right away. As the crowd continued to surge around us, the seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. Finally, the Secret Service agents started to yell at me: "Let him go! Let him go!" Convinced that I was not the reason for our prolonged digital embrace, I shouted back: "Tell him to let go of me!" - forever endearing myself to the ranks of the Secret Service, I'm sure. Finally, the grasp was broken, the crowd continued to move forward, and we were able to leave.

Ronald Reagan and I met (sounds like the beginning of some Hollywood starlet's tell-all), as a result of one of my summer trips to the East Coast with students from my previous school. With all kinds of connections from California, a personal visit with the Reagans was arranged. When my mother heard that this meeting was likely to happen, she asked me to be sure to share with the president that she was a big fan of his from his Hollywood days - especially in that hallowed western epic, "Cattle Queen of Montana". Right, mom.

Long story short, during the meeting with the President and the boys on the trip, there was a time when the president was alone and I decided to make conversation. What better topic than "Cattle Queen of Montana"? Turns out, the movie was one of Mr. Reagan's favorites, he bought the horse he rode in the movie and still had the grandson (grandhorse?) of the original, etc. Twenty minutes later, we were still talking, the helicopter was waiting, and I could see that once again, the Secret Service and I were not on good terms.

My point in all of this is not to brag about my famous acquaintances (famous, yes; acquaintances, no), but to point out that both men, especially Mr. Reagan, seemed like perfectly nice gentlemen - normal almost. In fact, Mr. Reagan reminded me of my grandfather - great guy to talk to - I'm not sure I'd be comfortable with either having their finger on the nuclear button, perhaps, but nice nonetheless. I think that as Americans, we like our leaders to be majestic, but with a little humanity as well. Ronald Reagan understood this, Richard Nixon never could.

Back to the Brian Williams interview - my favorite part of the interviews was when Williams had Obama talk about his dog. A new dog, the president explained that it was his job to take the dog outside for the last time each night at about 9:30 pm. He went on to say that it was usually a nice time to gaze at the well-lit White House and Washington Monument, as well as the occasional beautiful moon. He said he waited patiently for Bo to do his business, utilized a plastic bag for the proper clean-up, and went back inside. A little humanity at its most basic level . . .

Because the same job falls to me on occasion, I look forward to the next time I am outside, looking up at the same moon as the president, plastic bag in hand, and realizing what a nice feeling it is to have someone else with the same chore. While we each probably have other things to do - he might have to phone a head of state, and I'm probably outside during a commercial break for "Law and Order" - for one brief moment at least, we realize together that there really are sometimes, no more important things in the world, than having a well-walked dog . . .

For the Love(?) of Dogs

I have to admit up front that I own five dogs. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. With three daughters, there are certain things you can never explain. Even though three of the dogs are chihuahuas and probably equal one full dog, the standard poodle and the boxer/lab mix more than add up to five.

Three weeks ago, we had four dogs and all seemed well with the world. Probably too well as it turned out. I may have forgotten to mention that in addition to the four dogs of three weeks ago, we also have two cats, a cockatoo, and two fish. Of all the animals, I am particularly fond of the fish - low maintenance, they need to be let outside very infrequently, seldom visit a Vet, and I have yet to use a shovel in picking up after them. Despite the crowd at the Graves' household, all was well - everyone seemed to get along together, played together, and as long as no one ever came to the front door, life was quiet and good.

I should have seen it coming. There had been nibbling around the edges for several weeks, furtive internet searches, some whispering, etc. However, I thought my very definitive and frequently voiced "no" would be sufficient. Now, I love animals as much as the next person, but I figured that I had my fair share and more. That and the fact that no matter how cheaply you acquire an animal (shelter, SPCA, friend, etc.), the long term financial cost is always exponentially more than you could ever imagine.

Turns out, my certainty and supposedly fixed dog-limit was only an illusion when they pulled out the big gun - my middle daughter, Katie. One evening, I was outside in the garage minding my own business when Katie came down the steps. She asked me if I would consider another dog because they had found a really cute one at the county shelter. Weak, tired, lazy or simply a sap, I agreed that they could look more seriously at the dog.

Less than forty eight hours later, I found myself at 3:00 in the morning, in my truck outside the Spotyslvania Animal Shelter surrounded by police. As it turns out, my assent to the girls to "consider" another dog, was immediately interpreted as a license to actually get one. Long story short, shelter dogs are released to new owners after a certain period on a first-come, first-served basis. While at the shelter the afternoon before the release of what we hoped was our new dog, "Fancy", Julie overheard another woman say she was going to camp out at the shelter beginning at midnight in hopes of getting the same dog.

So . . . Julie informed me that she wasn't leaving the shelter - this was at 3:00 pm, and that she and the girls were going to spend the night in the car to assure them of getting the dog. Needless to say, I would not allow them to spend the night outside the shelter. Instead, I took the late shift myself - a little reading, some peace and quiet, and all was well until the police showed up.

Turns out that the early morning newspaper delivery guy, despite or perhaps because of my cheery good morning wave, thought I looked suspicious and called 911. When the police arrived and I told my story, they told me it was too incredible to be made up and laughed as they walked away. Twenty minutes later, the alleged "midnight lady" finally showed up, discovered I was there for Fancy and graciously conceded defeat. Before I knew what was happening, the police pulled up again. Turns out that the two of them had a bet as to whether or not the woman who showed up was the other dog lover or my wife. Who says we aren't protected by Fredericksburg's finest . . .

Our efforts of course and my potential arrest, were not in vain. Fancy is now a happy and healthy part of the family. As an active puppy, the quiet times have disappeared for awhile, but even the cats are beginning to tolerate her. Remember my exponential cost theory? True to form, Julie and I estimated that Fancy has cost us about ten times her original purchase price so far in Vet expenses between a bacterial infection in her stomach and a pulled tendon in her leg.

Ah, the things we do for our daughters . . .

The Pressure Cooker Called Life

All of us are faced with certain amounts of pressure in our lives, and each of us deals with it differently. Exercise, eating, yoga, deep breathing - you name it, and everyone has their own methods to get them through the madness. Usually, I am not very interested in how other people handle pressure, but at a Baltimore Orioles baseball game Friday night, I witnessed first hand a young man's extraordinary efforts to handle an extraordinary amount of pressure.

The young man in question is Matt Wieters. A first-round draft pick as a catcher in 2007, he had progressed rapidly through the minor leagues and was making his major league debut that night. Heralded in the newspapers as a potential savior for the Orioles even before his first at-bat in the major leagues, I could only imagine the pressure he must be feeling.

Luckily for me, the Matt Wieters story line provided an intriguing angle for me at an otherwise uninteresting Orioles versus Detroit Tigers ballgame. Don't get me wrong, I'll go to any baseball game anywhere, anytime - but outside of the Los Angeles Dodgers and Boston Red Sox, a playoff or World Series game, it's hard for me to be personally invested or connected. The story surrounding Matt Wieters' debut changed all that.

From the moment Wieters' name was announced, the crowd went wild with applause. How do you deal with that kind of crowd reaction when you haven't even done anything yet to be cheered for? Detroit thought they could intimidate Wieters and the very first pitch of the game, the leadoff batter bunted. For a catcher to handle a bunt, he has to get up from his normal crouch, scramble over to the ball, smother it, and make an odd-angle throw to first base. The applause alone told me of the rookie's first success.

Coming to bat for the first time in the third inning, the entire stadium of over 42,000 fans rose in a standing ovation - again, at the mere announcement of his name! Pressure? What pressure? He proceeded to foul off a few good pitches and finally flied out to right field. All in all a very respectable performance, and though he did not get a hit that night, he did hit a triple on Saturday for his first major league hit.

Whatever pressure there may have been on Matt Wieters in his major league debut, he was more than able to deal with it. In the face of great fanfare and expectation, as well as great hazing I am sure from his clubhouse peers - they ignored him completely when he returned to the dugout after his first at bat - I have no doubt that he will go on to a long and successful career.

However, there was a different kind of pressure that the rookie catcher was unable to stand up to. One of the ushers seated near the dugout told me that Wieters' mother demanded that he get his haircut before his debut. Sure enough, as he stood in the on deck circle for the first time that evening, there was the clean and fresh look and lack of a tan near the base of his new hairline.

Seems there are pressures and then there are pressures . . .

From the Archives - The Rolling Stones in Puerto Rico

February 2006

Reflections on Middle Age or Seeing the Rolling Stones Live in Concert . . .

Each of us has a physical and mental image of ourselves that is most likely significantly different from the way others see us, let alone reality. Even looking in the mirror each day, none of us has changed our mental picture of ourselves much over the years. In my own case in point, I of course realize that I am bald (it’s been too long since I had hair to deny it, and too hard to argue with the lack of friction in the comb that occasionally scrapes bare skin each day), but I know the mental image I have of myself is not the person that I appear to be to others.

The best example of my own skewed view is the fact that most people see me as a large man, while I still have the much more idealized image of senior year weigh-ins for high school football – 6’3”, 155 pounds – dripping wet. Now, I know I don’t weigh 155 pounds anymore – add 100 more and the reality quickly “settles” in, but neither do I see myself as large as others see me. This was made evident to me in a summer camp for kids job I held while in college. With a Sherwood Forest theme to the camp, my nickname was Bob O’Big – a useful moniker on “Sex and the City” perhaps - but again, merely reflective of my physical size to children.

Body image and waistline expansion aside, we also tend to envision ourselves as younger than the calendar might dictate. Never was this brought home more to me than when I attended my first Rolling Stones concert this past weekend. I can deal with the fact that I first became a Stones fan in 1963, along with another postscript to history known as the Beatles. I can even deal with the fact that I attended the concert Saturday night with my 18 year old daughter, Jessica. After all, you have to be a little proud that your daughter even asked you to go – of course; Dad also purchased the tickets . . .

But what I had the most difficulty with was the crowd. Those people were old! Gray hair, no hair, long hair that shouldn’t be, you could see it all. People were attending the concert with canes, I saw a couple of wheelchairs, and I also saw a few people who should have used some sort of assisted ambulatory device. Without criticizing the handicapped, these examples I cite were not young – they were my age and beyond. In other words, their main afflictions appeared to be age-related. I’m not certain these same people would or could attend say, a Green Day concert. Only for the Stones . . .

And the outfits . . . of course there were the obligatory collections of t-shirts from past Stones’ tours and locations. Some of them had to be replicas – a 1972 t-shirt still wearable? – but most were worn in the spirit of joy and fun that permeated the entire concert atmosphere. But even fun and joy have their limits: Stones t-shirts with glitter, joined in concert with heavy gold chains (where was I, New Jersey?), concert attire that last fit well in 1980, tie-dyes, etc. Who said the sixties were dead? They’re only hibernating in peoples’ closets between Stones’ tours.

Hovering ominously over the entire concert therefore, was the age factor. By my own rough estimate, of the 20,000 plus fans in attendance, at least two-thirds had to be older than me. Here’s where the personal image kicks in: I can’t be that old! These people looked like my grandparents for goodness sake! (Albeit, the image of my grandparents as over the hill children of the ‘60’s is a little disturbing – I would have great difficulty seeing my late grandmother in tie-dye, for example). But then it hits me, I am the same age as these people – I’m a little better dressed (my clothes fit and my shirt is designed very conveniently to cover my expanding waistline, my hair is not tied in a futile attempt at a very thin ponytail, and I made no attempt to wear huarache sandals – with or without the socks!), but nevertheless, these people are my generation . . . What are we doing at a concert for a band where the lead players are all in their 60’s themselves? What are we doing sitting for hours in stadium seats obviously not designed for people with early arthritis and late term menopause?

What are we doing? We’re having the time of our lives! I can honestly say that going to a Rolling Stones concert ranks right up there as one of the best experiences of my life. I now firmly believe that along with a pilgrimage to Elvis Presley’s Graceland in Memphis, a Stones concert should be on every American’s to-do list. Aged, infirm, bald, arthritic, or just badly dressed – it didn’t matter. For their two hour entire set, we were all transformed into the younger version of our pasts. From the opening number of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”, to the closing encore of “Satisfaction”, we were back in the semi-rebellious era of our youth - there was never a dull or quiet moment.

No language barrier here, Puerto Rico or San Diego, Mick Jagger and crew give new meaning to the words “eternal youth”. Sure it might be fueled by some form of illegal stimulants, and no one is really certain if that is really Keith Richards up there or simply an embalmed replica, but I’ll sign up for some of the same. The way Mick moves at 63 or 64 is a way I couldn’t move even when I was 23 or 24 . . . Pure energy, pure rock and roll from start to finish. No props, no whiz bang techno toys other than a big screen, they simply played their (our) music for a solid two hours.

As I wedged myself out of my seat at the end of the evening and rose instinctively clutching my bad back, I realized I had experienced something profound. Not just the music – even old people have ipods - I had shared an important moment in my life with my own daughter, something that linked us together across almost 40 years of memory (admittedly, mostly mine). To her credit, Jessica could appreciate more the music of my youth, perhaps a little more than I can hers (there are some exceptions here – Green Day, Coldplay – I’m not dead yet!). But most of all, we both had a great time together enjoying something everyone should also have the opportunity to experience.

Universal lessons to be learned from a Stones concert? At least two. The first is that you are only as young as you feel or more likely, think. In spite of evidence to the contrary paraded in front of me during my pre- and post-concert observations, I will continue to visualize myself younger than what my “peers” or my own distracting chronology suggests. And despite the aches and pains of advancing age (remember, my hairline “receded” years ago), the need to dress conscientiously in order not to accentuate expanded areas of my torso, and the requirement for at least two days of complete silence and recovery time for my ears to adjust to normal sound again, I wouldn’t have traded the opportunity for anything.

The second lesson is that you’re never too old to do something crazy with your kids. Because for one, far too brief two hour set of shared music, Jessica and I connected anew and shared an experience I can only wish others could have as well. We now have one of those unforgettable slices of life that will provide a lifetime of memories for both of us. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

So . . . while I haven’t signed up to be a roadie on tour quite yet, I would (will), gladly go again. Certainly not for the crowd – it’s still a little hard to get past all these “old” people, but more for the fun and memories it brings back. And if Mick and company are now more corporate than rebel, that’s ok too. Regretfully, so am I - But hey, what did you expect, I’ll be fifty-two soon enough . . .

One last note: for those of you experiencing the season called winter - it’s been 85 degrees here for the past week, it probably dipped once to 75, but after a momentary shiver or two, I recovered just fine – I went to the concert in shorts – no dark socks. That’s right, even at fifty-two; I believe I still have the legs to pull it off. And if I don’t, well, that’s OK too . . .

In the immortal words of the ageless Bard, “You can’t always get what you want . . . but if you try sometimes, you just might find . . . you’ll get what you need . . .”

A Celebration of Life

Today I was privileged to attend a funeral service for the Reverend Ben Jones - a long time member of our Board of Trustees. I was privileged to attend for two reasons: the first because I was asked to say a few words about Ben; and the second, because I was able to experience a true celebration of his life.

Though my few words from the podium accurately portrayed the Ben I worked with and knew, they paled in comparison to the many inspired and inspiring words of his fellow congregants and ministers. Words of love, honesty, humor, and great triumph rained down upon the audience and the echoing "amens" only added to the celebratory gathering.

Note to self: in the future, try not to follow the Baptist preachers in the speaking order. Better yet, stay off the program entirely and just sit back and listen.

With the service at the church where Ben received his first calling, it was obvious that everyone in attendance knew and loved him and his family. Though there were probably a tear or two shed somewhere during our time together in the church, there were far more humorous and touching stories, hallelujahs, and thank yous to the Lord. As a man of great faith, Ben was also a man cherished deeply on many levels by those who knew him.

Though the service was well over two hours in length, it still seemed far too short a time in which to celebrate the important life of such a wonderful and well-loved man . . .

Dipping My Toes in the Blogosphere . . .

Just thought I would start this blog to capture some thoughts, memories, and eventually feedback from family and friends about life, being a parent, teaching and administrating, and just plain being human. A little history, a little reflection, and an attempt to discipline myself to write regularly might all finally come together. We shall see . . .