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 . . .