Famous Last Words . . .

Throughout history, the passing of the famous and not so famous is frequently preceded by some saying, quote, or otherwise appropriate last words from the afflicted to friends and family gathered by the bedside. Whether these were the actual final words of the departed or were more reflective of the hopes and dreams of those who wished they were, the purported sayings have become an important part of history and family lore. True or imagined, the ritual gathering of loved ones - a Currier and Ives moment if there ever was one - to the bedside of the dying was considered the norm for hundreds, if not thousands of years and persists in practice, at least as an ideal scenario, even to this day.

As a person interested in history and with a special interest in the American Civil War, I have long been fascinated by the so-called dying words of that era's combatants. Two of the most well known quotes that come to mind are the last words of Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson and Robert E. Lee. For pure beauty, it would be hard to beat Jackson's reputed last words: "Let us cross over the river and sit in the shade of the trees". Lee's last words reflected more his military bent and were alledgedly directed to one of his former generals: "Strike the tent!".

Whether seeking the tranquility of shade trees or organizing the next day's battle, it is an enduring image in our culture, that we should die peacefully in the presence of our loved ones. Unfortunately, this is not always possible. One of the most traumatic effects of the Civil War and its resultant 600,000 deaths upon American society was the loss of this ability to mourn the deaths of a loved one in the traditional manner. Certainly, there had always been men dying upon a distant battlefield, but the sheer number of deaths from this war far outweighed previous conflicts and unfortunately presaged even more devastating wars to come. Dying in some far off city, state or even country without the benefit of kith and kin became the norm for thousands young men and their families. Without the opportunity to comfort the dying, these same families felt robbed of their proper grieving.

In today's society, the same sense of loss regarding the missed opportunity to be with those who are dying can be just as troubling. With the nuclear family often scattered across a continent or even across the world, simply being there when a loved one passes away is not often possible. Whether or not there are famous last words to be uttered or any final words at all, there is often a greater sense of loss, helplessness, or even anger when we are denied that final time together.

In the case of my father, his recent death came suddenly and alone. Collapsing in his home and probably dying suddenly as a result of a stomach aneurysm, there were most likely no last words, nor even time to utter them. Knowing my father as I do, whichever last words he may have uttered would most likely have reflected his anger at falling and would certainly not be printable in this blog.

Separated by an entire continent, I did not arrive in town until several days after my father's death. Between the six hour plane flight and the five hour drive to his house, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect upon things. At the risk of sounding a little maudlin, I must admit that one of my biggest regrets was not being there at the end with him.  However, in looking back to our weekly phone conversation in what turned out to be the day before he died, I realize that I was able to share what might have been his final words - at least to me. After exhausting our usual conversation pieces concerning the weather, our hopes for the Dodgers in the coming year (not much), and how his grandchildren were doing, we wrapped things up in the usual exchange:

"Love you, kid!"

"Love you too, Dad!"

While certainly not worthy of historical note or fame, I'll take those final words over shade trees and tent striking anytime . . .

It's All Latin To Me . . .

In 1992, Queen Elizabeth gave a speech in honor of the 40th anniversary of her ascension to the throne. In reviewing her entire reign, she focused in particular on the current year. For 1992 was not very kind to the Queen. From marital troubles among her children, to the publication of Princess Diana's tell-all autobiography, to a major fire in Windsor Castle, Elizabeth borrowed a Latin phrase and termed her year "annus horribilis"

Thankfully, though I have no marital troubles, no in-laws writing juicy tomes, and certainly no castles to burn down, I can sympathize with the Queen's feelings that there are such things as a horrible year. "Between employment positions" as I currently am, with all the resultant financial anxieties, and with the recent unexpected passing of my father, I feel a certain kinship with her feelings, if not exactly with her. In fact, a friend of mine hearing of my recent plight first shared the Queen's phrase with me and I found myself liking the sound (while not the experience), of it all.

Despite these troublesome times for myself and my family, there is always a certain sense we all have that things can only get better. After all, if Charles can finally wed Camilla, and all the hoopla and gossip can subside around the royal family (albeit with Diana's untimely passing), and if Windsor Castle can rise again from the ashes, there is probably a little bit of hope out there for all of us.

Just as I appreciated my friend's suggestion that this was my annus horribilis, so too, am I grateful for his leading me to discover the opposite phrase "annus mirabilis" - year of wonders. Personally, we are all looking forward to a little less of the horrible, and a lot more of the wonders . . .

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 . . .