Kids These Days

I recently had the occasion to do business with a carpet salesman, a nice enough man named "Wes." As we navigated the way-too-many options for floor coverings in his showroom, we engaged in some idle chatter, each of us with our own agenda. Surely, Wes was trying to compliment me enough to be able to score a sale, and I was trying to be charming enough to get a deal. Such is the way business is conducted these days. But it's all very civil. At some point in the conversation, I revealed that I'd been a high school English teacher for thirty years. That was all it took for Wes to offer commentary on the younger generation. "Kids these days," he stated, "have no manners. When I was a kid, we said, 'Yes, Ma'am,' and 'No, Sir,' and we were respectful. Kids today don't do that. They're lazy and disrespectful." I think Wes was offering a backhanded compliment on the fact that I survived among teenagers for three decades, but he could not hide his hostility on what he perceived was a degenerate and unappreciative group of people.

Not wanting to have to kill the sale, I tried to educate Wes in a non-threatening way. I suggested that there are always going to be some bad apples in any generation, but my experience had shown me that despite their hormones and insecurities and impatience, most young people are smart and compassionate and good. Wes' reaction made it clear that he was not interested in continuing this line of conversation. We returned to talking about flooring.

A few days earlier, I'd gotten myself into a Facebook exchange with someone I'd known in high school, despite my resolve not to engage. This person, like Wes, wanted to trash young people for a perceived lack of manners or industry or common sense. I found this somewhat humorous, as my memory called up any number of "bad boys" that shared the same classrooms with the man with whom I was arguing. These were the James Dean Wannabes who ruled before the hippie movement threatened their popularity. How were they any different than today's "bad boys" (and girls)?

David Hogg. Cameron Kasky. Sawyer Garrity. Andrea Pena. Emma Gonzalez. Alfonso Calderon. If you do not recognize those names, let me offer another: Marjory Stoneman Douglas. I am beyond impressed and excited about the intelligence, persistence, and passion of these young co-founders of NeverAgainMSD, the activist group of teenagers who are trying to make a difference by demanding common-sense gun control. Unless you've been living under a rock, you know what these kids are up to . . . and the impression they are making. My daughter, who taught 9th grade English in a Coral Springs charter school two years ago, knows a few of the MSD kids, including Sawyer and Alfonso. She shared her concern about them with me recently: "What if they drop out of high school now?" My reaction would have surprised me in earlier years, before we had mass killings in schools. But I have no doubt that these kids are doing something bigger than high school and that they need to see it through. For the first time since November 8, 2016, I feel encouraged, excited, and optimistic. These kids are going to make a difference. A big difference.

College campuses in the late 60s and early 70s made a difference. Without their anti-war protest, we might not have witnessed the end of the Vietnam conflict. Women's Liberation might have taken much longer. And racism might still be a part of our culture. (Okay, that last one was wishful thinking.) Yes, I was part of the generation who stated that we hoped to die before we got old . . . and 30 was the age we thought was old. I'm pretty grateful that we rethought that one.

Without the threat of a military draft, college campuses have downsized their political activism. So it is only fitting that high school students have picked up the slack. The students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School have followed the wisdom of the woman for whom the school was named. This environmentalist, journalist, and social activist (who lived to be 108!) had this to say in 1980:

Speak up. Learn to talk clearly and forcefully in public. Speak simply and not too long at a time, without over-emotion, always from sound preparation and knowledge. Be a nuisance where it counts, but don't be a bore at any time . . . Do your part to inform and stimulate the public to join your action . . . Be depressed, discouraged, and disappointed at failure and the disheartening effects of ignorance, greed, corruption, and bad politics -- but never give up.

Never give up, kids. We're counting on you.

Much To Do About Everything

I have this (probably wrong) idea in my head that the majority of older people in this country have rather mundane lives, that they turn on the TV as soon as they wake up and then proceed through a ritual of routines (breakfast, lunch, dinner, daily chores, afternoon nap, etc.) until the TV is turned off and they go to bed, only to wake up the next morning to do it all over again. I am alternately grateful and sad that this is not my life.

For example, I spent the last couple of days painting furniture, accompanying a car-shopping friend, booking upcoming flights, critiquing a short story, playing the part of a phone therapist, keeping up with emails, texts, and the news, and spending way too much time stressing over the current state of affairs in this country. I'm exhausted. The thought of watching soap operas all afternoon sounds appealing . . . and vaguely familiar.

Growing up, I went to a neighborhood elementary school in a small town, which meant that we all walked home for lunch and then back for the afternoon session. There were only a handful of kids whose parents both worked; they brought their lunch to school everyday and ate at their desks. The rest of us were terribly jealous of them and looked forward to those half-days before a holiday vacation when we, too, could carry our own lunch boxes to school and dine at our desks, the room smelling of bologna and peanut butter and whatever garlicky concoctions some kids had to eat.

But I digress. On a regular day, when my sister and I walked home for lunch, we entered the house to find a tomato and lettuce sandwich or Campbell's chicken noodle soup already in place on the table for us. My mother was certain to have lunch ready before noon so that she would not miss The Guiding Light, Search for Tomorrow, and Love of Life. I can no longer remember which was which, but two of these soap operas ran for only 15 minutes, while one stretched out for a full half-hour. During commercials, my mother would disappear into her bedroom to don her white uniform and fix her hair for the afternoon portion of her job as secretary to a hometown doctor. At 12:45, she was redoing our ponytails, the rough brushing causing us to wince in discomfort, and then shooing us out the door with the daily command, "DON'T RUN!"

Once in high school, I could no longer follow the daily drama of Vanessa Sterling, Joanne Gardner, and the Bauers and the Spauldings. And my college dorm had no TV. But in 1973, when I was finished with my education and had begun a teaching career that allowed me certain sick days and vacation days and summers off, I was able to latch on to a new soap, The Young and the Restless. I continued to follow the shenanigans of the Newmans and the Abbotts for a good twenty years, thanks to the miracle of VCR machines. My husband never tired of shouting "Rat Patrol!" whenever Eric Braedon's character, Victor Newman, was on the screen as I watched that day's episode while preparing supper.

I don't really remember when I let go of my Y&R obsession. But it may have coincided with my decision to keep the drama in my life at a minimum. There's enough unavoidable drama to deal with; why take on the drama of fictional characters? At any rate, after maybe a week or two of withdrawal, I never really thought about the absence of soap operas in my life.

Until today. Would I enjoy a life of routines, predictability, mundane happenings, and repetition? When my life presents me with complications and expectations and overwhelming responsibility, I crave the ordinariness of a simple life. But when my life seems too simple to engage me, I channel my wanderlust and search for ways to shake it up.

The next couple of months are full of company, travel, and all-consuming projects that I promised myself I would accomplish this winter. Not to mention that my oldest child is getting married at the end of June!  I could say that my life is frazzled. Or I could say that my life is full.

I think I'll choose the latter.

Old Enough to Repaint

For the last two days, dear friends (and former students) Joey and Patricia were here to repaint my bedroom. When my daughter was living here, she asked for purple. It was nice, but I'm really not a purple person. (Maybe the trauma of "one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater" forever killed purple for me?) I opted for a calming green, Benjamin Moore titled "soft fern," although it looks like sage to me. I am beyond happy with the result. My bedroom is now peaceful and tranquil and soft (as in "soft fern"). It's all good.

So needless to say, a song lyric crept into my brain as I contemplated this color transformation. Neil Young's "Tell Me Why" from After the Gold Rush took center stage. In the soundtrack of my college sophomore year, After the Gold Rush is right up there. How many nights did I fall asleep to that album? The line from "Tell Me Why" that connects to the painting is here:

Tell me why, tell me why
Is it hard to make arrangements with yourself
When you're old enough to repaint
But young enough to sell

Or at least I thought those were the lyrics. I mean, they made sense to me. We're talking about a car here, right? "Old enough to repaint, but young enough to sell." And metaphorically, the line implies that you have the option to spruce yourself up or . . . give up.

Well, now in the Internet Age, I had to google the lyrics to find that every lyrics site had the same line: "When you're old enough to repay . . . " I'll give you a minute or two here to think about that.

Time's up. What the fuck does that even mean? "Old enough to repay?" Repay what? I'm sorry, I may be dense, but that line just makes no sense to me.

I continued my googling to find that most of the online discussions of the line seemed to agree that the word was "repay," although there were many, many people who said, "I always thought the line was 'repaint'." But they didn't make a compelling and defensive argument for it.

So I'll make one here. "Repay" makes absolutely no sense. I have no idea what Neil intended (and I don't have the album sleeve here to check the lyrics) but even if he did originally write "repay," I'm willing to bet that he would agree that "repaint" is a better word choice. Does anyone want to argue that with me? Bring it on!

Anyway, I am old enough to repaint. I'll leave it there.

Blueberry Spill

Life is full of embarrassing moments. The good news is that when you get to be my age, you pretty much don't give a hoot about such embarrassments, and even better, by the next day, you've probably even forgotten all about it.

So this afternoon, I'm checking out at Publix (where Talenti Gelato was on sale 3 for $10.00), and all is going well. I've got my baby portobellos, two bananas, Florida strawberries, and organic romaine up on the belt. Got my 6-pack of Saltwater Brewery's Screamin' Reels IPA, the one with the 6-pack holder made of fish food, just in case it ends up in the ocean. (Have you seen this? So environmentally creative! Saltwater Brewery is right up the road from me!) Coffee filters, window cleaner, toilet paper. All that's still in my cart is in that top compartment, the one that toddlers get to ride in. I place the organic eggs, the Oui yogurt, and the grape tomatoes on the belt, accidentally knocking the clamshell container of blueberries down into the bottom of the cart.

And then it happened. The clamshell container burst open, and within seconds, there were blueberries rolling around everywhere! My efforts to retrieve the container from the nadir of the cart only served to send the remaining blueberries hither and yon. Within seconds, a Publix employee was there to clean up my mess. I tried to move my cart out of the way of his broom, only to succeed in smashing random blueberries into the floor. There was absolutely no way to make up for my embarrassing error. (Although I do maintain that it wasn't really my fault. Faulty grocery cart design? Faulty clamshell closure? Blueberries wanting only to be free?)

It occurred to me to take a picture of the spill, already considering a blog post, but I felt too stupid to do so. It seemed too much like taking a picture of your empty plate after you'd dined on French cuisine at some pricey cafe. And it would make me sad to see a picture of the blueberries that ended up in the garbage instead of my cereal bowl.

As the rest of my groceries were being scanned and bagged, the woman who'd checked out before me had some comforting words. "Hey, at least it wasn't something liquid or glass," she offered. True. I thanked her for her offering and then headed out of the store, declining the Publix employee's offer to take my cart to my vehicle. (They are so very accommodating down here.)

Safe at home, I am over my embarrassment. But this isn't over. Tomorrow morning, when there are no blueberries in my cereal, I will revisit this unfortunate event. There will be no thrill . . . on Blueberry Spill.

And by the following day, I won't remember a thing.

Screen Shots

As a child in the Fifties, I was a big fan of television. Although our TV had a small black-and-white screen, it offered a wealth of kids' shows, cartoons, and family-friendly entertainment. Saturday mornings were the best, as we could look forward to kid entertainment until noon. I was often up at 6:00, watching old Krazy Kat silent cartoons until the good stuff came on, like Tom Terrific.

From 1953 until 1957, my favorite show was Winky Dink and You, the "first interactive TV show," according to none other than Bill Gates. If you were lucky enough to have a Winky Dink Kit, which consisted of a piece of vinyl plastic and a set of "special" crayons, you could help Winky Dink, a cartoon character with plaid pants, star-shaped hair, and very large eyes, solve mysteries. With the vinyl plastic attached to the TV screen via static electricity, you could connect the dots that Winky Dink provided, using your special crayons, and allow a picture to emerge, the answer to the mystery problem.

Want to make a guess as to how many kids, lacking the official Winky Dink Kit, just drew on the TV screen with their 8-pack of Crayola Crayons? And yes, I was one of them. I think the Winky Dink Kit cost fifty cents, clearly not in our budget.

Today, I replaced the 23-year-old window screens in my condo and had some time to think about screens. Now, I am not trying to put up a smoke screen to draw your attention away from the politics of the day, but screens can possibly provide a respite from the malaise in which we find ourselves. Close your eyes for a minute and imagine an old wooden screen door closing. You know, like maybe one at the entrance to the soda fountain where you could sit at the counter and enjoy a cherry coke or a milkshake. Or maybe one that was on a cabin at Girl Scout camp. I still have a wooden screen door on my log home up north, and hearing that door close behind me when I come in from the garden is one of my favorite sounds.

And then there's the Silver Screen, a reference to old-style Hollywood movies. You know, before they became full of violence and kinky sex and lots and lots of evil. Bogie and Bacall stuff. I would still rather watch Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird than the latest thriller. But hey, I may be hyper-sensitive. I'm still struggling to get over 1972's Deliverance. I probably never will. (Please, do not tell me that you hear banjos.)

A screen is "something that shelters, protects, or hides." And those three words just reek of our outrage over the recent school shooting which claimed 17 lives. How do we shelter and protect our kids? Where can they hide? Background checks for gun purchases, a simple screening of those who want to collect weapons, is a no-brainer. And yet, if my research is correct, only nine states have such a requirement in place. This is just crazy.

Well, for a few brief moments, I was a kid again, happily drawing on my TV screen to help Winky Dink and his dog Woofer solve a mystery. How to solve the mystery of America's gun obsession requires more than a Winky Dink Kit. It requires persistence and courage and VOTING. I want the NRA out of our politics.

Screen out.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre Redux

In one of the bloodiest days in mob history, seven men were gunned down in Chicago on February 14, 1929. Among the weapons used were two Thompson submachine guns, preferred by soldiers, criminals, police, and civilians alike for its high volume of fully automatic fire.

In one of the bloodiest days in school history, 17 children were gunned down in Parkland, Florida, on February 14, 2018. The weapon used was an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle, known as "America's gun" and preferred by . . . mass murderers.

Fuck the "thoughts and prayers." Fuck the "now is not the time to talk about gun control." Fuck the NRA. And fuck every politician that accepts money from them.

Now that it's clear how I feel about this, let me tell you about two circumstances I found myself in on two Wednesdays a week apart. Last Wednesday, I was driving my houseguest to the West Palm Beach airport for her flight home. It was around 1:00 in the afternoon. A few miles in, we came upon an accident that had traffic stopped in the northbound lane. We learned later that the accident was a "rollover," a casualty of the traffic situation a few miles further north. A couple of hours earlier, a crazed 22-year-old, after killing his girlfriend and possibly two or three other people, drove his car south in the northbound lane, causing three accidents before police were able to stop him. The murderer was permanently stopped by a policeman's bullet.

Although we had no knowledge of the murder investigation up the road, we were very close to the scene of the rollover accident, and I contemplated how, had we left perhaps five minutes earlier, we might have been victims in this tragedy. These realizations are always unsettling.

And yesterday, at 11:06 a.m., I pulled up to the Marriott at Coral Springs to pick up an old friend to spend an afternoon on the beach with me. Cheryl and I go back over four decades when we became colleagues in the English Department at a brand new high school in New Jersey. We were delighted to have the chance to get together again. After a few perfect hours on the beach, we came back to my place to chat it up some more before Cheryl's husband came to pick her up. Pretty soon, both our phones began to ring. Cheryl's husband called with the news of the shooting, explaining that he was unable to navigate the snarled traffic to come and get Cheryl. The students who were evacuated from the site of the school shooting had been taken to the Marriott, where their parents could come and get them. My daughter, who had spent a year teaching in Coral Springs and knew a couple of students who'd transferred to the high school where the shooting took place, called me, hoping I might know more about the victims, as she was worried about the students she knew. Two of them had assured her they were okay, but she had not heard back from the others.

Once again, I thought about the timing. What if I had driven Cheryl back to the Marriott? Leaving the beach just an hour earlier than we did would have put us right in the vicinity of the shootings. I am not suggesting that I dodged a bullet here (although it sort of feels like I did, literally and figuratively), but in thinking about these two acts of violence that have taken place in the last week and my proximity to them, I can't help but consider the old axiom, "There but for fortune go you or I . . ."

On Valentine's Day one year ago, I wrote about Tim Buckley's heartbreaking song, "Valentine Melody." Buckley was nineteen (the same age as the shooter) in 1966 when he wrote the song. Rereading the lyrics today, I was stunned to realize their relevance to this happenstance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Today the coin is in the air
And we are here and there
And where and when have caught us in
The web of violence

I pray to all the world as one
That day will bring the sun
In the scarlet light of Valentine's
Our paper hearts are blind

Take This Job and Shove It

Another Friday, another news dump. While we were still learning about the resignation of Rob Porter, Trump's Staff Secretary (accused of beating his two ex-wives), Friday night brought news of two more departures from the White House. Rachel Brand, who served nine months as the 3rd top-ranking official at the Department of Justice, resigned that position in order to take a better-paying job with . . . wait for it . . . Walmart! When leaving a position with the United States Department of Justice to work for Walmart is a step up, you know we're in trouble. I have to say, I cannot fault Brand for getting the hell out of there. If her superior, Rod Rosenstein, was to be fired (a strong possibility), Brand would be stepping into a hornet's nest of moral and ethical decision-making.

Also, last night we learned that David Sorensen, a speechwriter in this administration, abruptly resigned due to charges of domestic abuse which included the accusation that he burned his wife's hand with a cigarette. Do you remember someone saying that, if elected President, he would hire "only the best people?" Although it is difficult to keep up with the numbers, as of today, 39 of those "best people" have been fired or resigned, in several cases, under pressure.

You know the names, among them Scaramucci, Flynn, McFarland, Priebus, Bannon, Gorka, Price, Porter, Spicer . . . and let's not forget Omarosa, known better by her first name than her last. Rumor has it that Chief of Staff John Kelly has said he is "willing to resign" as a result of the Porter resignation. Apparently, Porter never had a security clearance due to the abuse charges. This is a man who had access to every paper that landed on the desk in the Oval Office, including Top Secret classified documents. (Of course, since pictures of the man occupying the Oval Office show a desk completely cleared of any paperwork, maybe we needn't be worried.) If McGahn and Kelly and Trump knew that Porter had no clearance, which seems to be the case, and allowed him access anyway, what has happened to the rules and protocol of our democracy?

Most of us have probably had a "take this job and shove it" moment or two. I can recall a couple of waitressing jobs that I abandoned in my youth. (I suck at waiting tables.) Firings and resignations are often necessary, but the sheer number of workers who are no longer employed by the White House, not to mention positions that have yet to be filled over a year later, should frighten us all. A house with no foundation or stability is bound to suffer structural damage. Or fall completely.

And maybe all it will take is a little shove.

Tao Jones

I remember reading a novel that I'd given my oldest daughter many years ago, probably because she insisted I do so. Whale Talk by Chris Crutcher. The main character was a high school kid whose name was Tao (pronounced "Dow") Jones. He was named such by his hippie parents. Very clever, huh? Since the Tao ("The Way") is the Buddhist code of behavior that is in harmony with the natural order, it seems to be in contrast with our capitalistic culture. And therein lies the yin and the yang, I suppose. Opposite forces.

The Dow Jones dropped (again) today over 1,032 points or 4.15%. It has now sunk into "correction," whatever that means. It is down 10% from its record high. And all of this, as you know, has happened very quickly, with barely a peep out of the man who tried to take credit for the surge in the market. As Charlie Sykes, the "Contrarian Conservative," tweeted, "The Dow drops 1,000 points. Congress raises debt another 1.7 trillion. But we get a parade." Seventy-six trombones led the big parade . . . 

I have always been intrigued by Eastern philosophy. The Four Noble Truths and The Eightfold Path have long made sense to me. The first Noble Truth lays it out there: Life is suffering. I accepted this truth long ago. My daughter and I have puzzled over the reality that there are some people who have yet to experience tragedy or loss and others who have had nothing but. Because my children experienced the loss of their father when they were very young, they sometimes struggle with their friends expressing devastation at the death of their 96-year-old grandfather. Where am I going with this? If you can accept that life is suffering, you can put your joy and sorrow into perspective and carry on.

And so it is with the Dow Jones. Sure, it was really nice when it kept climbing and breaking records. Now it's "correcting," and there's no reason to panic. It would be appropriate here to note that the Second Noble Truth states that the cause of suffering is desire. Money, money, money! The Third Noble Truth assures us that there is an end to suffering, and the Fourth Noble Truth points us to the Eightfold Path.

I'll let you explore that on your own. And if/when you do, could you send it on to the man who wants a parade? I think he could use a good dose of humility.

Hot Lips

It's not what you think.

Not only did I spend too much time on the beach without sunscreen chapstick yesterday, resulting in burned lips, but for lunch today, my houseguest and I shared a bowl of blackened edamame at one of my favorite restaurants. It was spicier than usual, and the resulting fire on our lips made for an uncomfortable drive to the airport for Korey's flight home. But hot lips could not compete with the discomfort of being stuck on I-95 while it was shut down for a murder investigation and a couple of accidents. (Welcome to South Florida.) We made it to the airport in time, only to find Korey's flight delayed by four hours.

But back to Hot Lips. Those of us of a certain age cannot hear those two words without thinking about Loretta Swit's character in the war sit-com M*A*S*H. And one cannot think of M*A*S*H without thinking of the Korean War. And then we have to think of Kim Jong Un. And then all kinds of unpleasant things come to mind. Like those Dear Leader military marches in which North Korea's nuclear weapons are trotted out in a grand display of My Dick's Bigger Than Your Dick.

And speaking of dicks, guess who wants to have an equally grand display of military might right here in our nation's capital? Early criticism of this idea indicated that Pennsylvania Avenue would have to be repaired and repaved after a parade of M1A1 Abrams military tanks, which weigh over 69 tons, and even if the tanks were not part of the parade, the cost of such a grand display would be millions and millions of dollars. So why not, huh? We need a parade more than we need health care or SNAP to feed our children, right? The disconnect of our own Dear Leader is stunning.

Imagining this parade makes me think of The Music Man, which was the musical my school put on when I was a junior. (I played the part of the Mayor's daughter, Zaneeta Shinn. I had eleven lines, all of which consisted of "Ye gods!") You probably know the story of Harold Hill, the charlatan who comes to River City, Iowa, to convince the town that they need a marching band. Hill succeeds in selling musical instruments and uniforms to the townsfolk, but his plan is to skip town before teaching the children how to play, which he had promised. Despite this, the story has a happy ending; of course it does.

I do not foresee a happy ending for our country, as the charlatan that sold us a tax cut with promises of a big, beautiful wall continues to wreck our economy, our environment, and our freedoms. Somehow the soundtrack for The Music Man takes on a whole new meaning with song titles like "Ya Got Trouble" and "Till There Was You."

So do you see what I just did there? I took you from hot lips to Korea to dicks to parades to charlatans and back to the man who thinks he has hot lips.

Ye gods, indeed.

Super Bowel

I know I spelled that wrong. Just like I get everything about football wrong. Not only do I not get it . . . I am not really interested in "getting it." Rosie Greer notwithstanding, football means as much to me as yarn means to an NFLer.

Nonetheless, my company this week said she wanted to watch the Super Bowl . . . for the half-time show and the commercials. Okay, whatever. (The fact that she kept referring to the "Philadelphia Vikings" gave me a clue that she didn't know a whole lot more than I about the game itself. Then again, anyone knows more than I.)

I started high school in a small town. Decades earlier, a young man had died as a result of a football injury. I don't know the particulars, but from that point on, football was banned from that school system. So we cheered on our soccer team in the fall, oblivious to the power of football on a high school level. Jump ahead a couple of years, and I begin my junior year at a brand spankin' new regional high school. And there's a football team! As I'm on the cheerleading squad (because, as we should all know, there were no girls' sports pre-Title IX), I need to learn the game. I failed at that. But I was able to follow directions. If the cheer was "Push 'em back, push 'em back, waaaaay back," I was  good to go. No idea what it meant. And the same can be said for "First and ten, do it again!" No idea.

I grew up in a house where sports were somewhat banned. My father, an industrial arts teacher, resented the fact that more money went to physical education and sports than the arts, so his answer to that injustice was to ban sports from his home.  When my mother was widowed at the age of 51, she became a fan of the Dallas Cowboys, mostly because she had a military friend who lived in Dallas. I don't know if she ever understood the game, but she loved watching it.

Me? No, I don't think I will ever embrace football. As for the halftime show . . . Meh. Not really a fan of Timberlake. And, apparently, the commercials in the first half of the game (which I watched) were nothing compared to those of the second half. So, watching the Super Bowl did not let me down anymore than if I hadn't watched it at all. And I'm okay with that.

My Facebook newsfeed this morning was full of Super Bowl commentary. Yours probably was, too. Maybe it was a nice break from political commentary. But politics is a game I understand. And, it seems to me, a game more important than football? Or maybe that's wherein lies the key. The "taking a knee" controversy aside, football is not political. So the Super Bowl provided a nice distraction from all things political? Okay, fair enough. But Super Bowl is over. Time to get back to the issues that are threatening this country? And there are many.

Go, Vikings!

No Hard Feelings

Sometimes I think the world is so angry these days. Well, not sometimes . . . most of the time. It takes a lot of effort and attention to remember that there is so much good in the world. But sometimes, that goodness just jumps out in front of you. For instance, the other day, when I was frightened about "THE MEMO" and what it might do to our security, I engaged in an unrelated conversation with some old friends. Trish and Joey were students of mine back in the day, and Joey has painted my condo for me. We are working out a schedule for him to paint one more room. I'd inquired as to how Joey had spent his recent birthday, and Trish told me that they spent the day painting for two lovely women who'd been ripped off by a contractor. The women had paid $1500 for painting that never happened. So Joey did the job . . . but he would not take payment from them. In Joey's way of thinking, they'd already paid for the work (that the contractor had not done). And then, because Joey is Joey, he also took care of their damaged roof and then pressure-washed their driveway.

Needless to say, that story made my day. For a brief moment, it counteracted all the anger in the world. I am reminded of Mr. Rogers telling his TV audience something his mother had always told him. "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'" Joey and Trish are helpers.

This weekend, I watched the HBO music documentary, May It Last: A Portrait of the Avett Brothers. I've loved the Avetts for years and got to see them in New Hampshire in 2013. Lots of energy in that show! But the brothers have a pensive side, too. At the end of the documentary, they performed a song from their 2016 release, True Sadness. The song is "No Hard Feelings," and it's a contemplation of dying in old age, a compelling subject for relatively young men. Seth Avett sings the song with harmonizing vocals by Scott Avett. It's a beautiful song.

No hard feelings
Lord knows they haven't done much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold

At the end of the song, Seth repeats this line four times: I have no enemies.

I, of course, immediately questioned if I have any enemies. Of course, I know that there are people who do not like me. I would think that is true for all of us. But enemies? I could not think of any. And I thought what a great way for each of us to end our lives . . . with no enemies. Shouldn't be that hard, should it?

So here's to soft feelings! And here's to the helpers! And here's to your team winning tomorrow! And if they don't, no matter . . . it's just a game.

No hard feelings.