Tom's Musings

I have long wondered why I turned out as I have. By that I mean one of those woke liberals (if not a socialist), a snowflake that MAGA types loathe with particular ferocity. Perhaps my worldview was due to the indoctrination I received at Clark University, a liberal arts school in my hometown known in Catholic circles as a den of Atheists and Communists. I only ended up there because Holy Cross, a good Catholic college, would not accept spring semester admissions after I left the Seminary (more on that later).

But no, while Clark changed my life by opening up my intellectual curiosity, it did not infuse me with my liberal impulses. Those started much earlier and their origins yet elude me. I am not alone in this. I’ve talked with many others who grew up in conservative homes or environments, and whose siblings remained true to these conventional beliefs, yet who struck out on the road less taken. They are puzzled as well.

My white, Catholic, lower working class world had all the prejudices and bigotry one might expect. Not only did they evidence the usual disdain for conventional minorities, but WASPS were intensly disliked along with Jews and a host of fellow Catholics from what we’re deemed as the wrong ethnic tribes. Irish Catholics would walk past the Polish and Lithuanian churches to get to their own Catholic church. The tribalism of bigotry was universal.

And yet, even when I was young, I had different impulses. I wondered why we didn’t give more of our abundance to those suffering around the world. I even joined something called the world federalist society at a very young age (probably a Commie front organization) because I instinctively thought the notion of separate countries an ill-conceived and divisive concept. None of my neighborhood friends (nor the adults in my orbit) thought like I did.

When the Civil Rights movement started after Brown versus the Board of Education Supreme Court ruling, I was outraged by the fact that we yet had legal apartheid in the land. I was enraptured by young blacks (see above pic) braving fiery mobs to attend integrated schools or risking their safety to sit at segregated lunch counters or their lives by riding freedom busses into terrible dangers. They were my early heros. I recall arguing with visitors from Virginia about why the Supreme Court desegregation decision was a good and proper thing. I was only 12 or 13 at the time. Where did that come from? No one I knew felt the same way.

In the above pic, I am with my two roomates in the Maryknoll Seminary in Glenn Ellen Illinois. I entered right after graduating from my demanding Catholic high school which had rigorous academic standards and exacting behavioral expectations. The Xaverian brothers would whack you if you misbehaved. Then, your parents would whack you again if they found out about it.

This particular Catholic order was a missionary society. It was a very regimented experience that started around 5:30 AM with morning prayers and Mass. Each day was filled with studies, work assignments, more religious activities, physical exercises, and enforced periods of silence. But I didn’t mind all that, not even the absence of females since I had only known Catholic girls to that point, which was pretty much like mandatory celibacy.

No, the problem was more subtle. I came to realize that I had chosen this route, not because of any real belief in a deity, but from a fundamental impulse to do good. I wanted to improve the lives of needy 3rd world folk and not necessarily save their souls.

It was then I matriculated at Clark University, a decent yet small liberal arts school that started out as the second graduate school in the U.S. (after Johns Hopkins). Not unexpectedly, I veered further to the left in college. I can not recall any form of brainwashing in the classroom at all. However, after I realized I could handle college work (which I doubted going in), I spent hours dialoging with fellow students on the great issues of the day. If anything helped me become a critical thinker and sharpened my analytical tools, it was these intense and never-ending discussions. Unlike the kids I saw less than a decade later, we endured a crucible of doubt and transformation in which we discarded our childhood myths and recreated our moral compasses. It was a trying transition, yet thrilling. By the end of my college years, I headed the left wing group on campus … a more sophisticated version of what drove me into the seminary years earlier.

I had started working as a freshman in high school and never stopped. While I had a couple of normal jobs (for a while I was night watchman for the Worcester sewer department during which time not a single sewer went missing 😅). But I tried hard to find work compatible with my instinct to do good. During my college years, I worked the eleven to seven shift in a Catholic hospital and then later worked lwith disadvantaged kids in an early War on Poverty neighborhood program. I kept looking for socially meaningful work, not just work to get me through school. Between work (especially the 11-7 shift), chasing women with little success, trying to stop the Vietnam War, and my full-time studies, I can not fathom now how I survived, much less graduate.

But I did graduate (with honors by some miracle). When I asked my advisor where I might consider graduate school, he said without hesitation … Harvard, Yale, or Stanford. I thought him daft, my self- image was that of a working class kid who somehow made it through college with charm and a heavy dose of Celtic blarney. I was stricken by the imposter syndrome.

But inside, I knew what I really wanted to do. In 1962, my impulse to save the world pushed me toward the Priesthood and an overseas missionary society. By the middle part of the 60s, the Peace Corps was a definite possibility. I applied for a program doing public health in India. After all, I had spent several years working the graveyard shift in an urban hospital. I was accepted but would wind up doing agriculture in the desert of Rajasthan, a poor area bordering on Pakistan.

We were a bunch of college kids who had never seen a farm. Really, what was Peace Corps thinking? But we had hubris and thought we could do some good. Our training was long and demanding, and India proved a very harsh site for a number of reasons. Of the 100 or so wanna-be volunteers on day one, only about two dozen made it to the end.

However, when we gathered some four decades after our return in 1969 (see above pic, I am back row, 2nd from right), we agreed that the experience transformed us in many ways. My PC colleagues did amazing things with their lives. They might have in any case, but I suspect this testing experience exerted a value-added component to their subsequent lives. For me personally, spending two years in a hot desert area fighting boredom, loneliness, disease, a fascinating but hard culture, and doubts about your technical skills, I was grounded in the lessons of cultural relativity. I came back a changed person. My later work as an academic reflected those lessons.

As you may recall, I eventually went on to get a Doctorate in Social Welfare from the University of Wisconsin while studying under some of the leading poverty scholars in the land. I never left UW, eventually becoming the Associate Director of the nationally recognized Institute for Research on Poverty, the only such think tank to receive federal support continuously since 1966. I also taught social policy classes to a generation of undergraduate and graduate students at Wisconsin and consulted wth federal and state officials on a variety of human services issues. I can not think of a more fitting career for a wanna-be do-gooder.

But let me be honest here. While I did satisfy my need to be relevant, I also realized I was not in the trenches as many activists are. My impacts on the public good, if any, were from afar. I salute those who worked directly with the vulnerable and remain guilty about my own failures in that regard. Still, I cannot be too harsh on myself. After all, I did what I do best.

And consider this, I might have become a Republican. Oh my God! Perish the very thought.

It is not snowing today but damn cold. The high today will barely climb above zero. So, more memories. This version will focus on my early love life, such as it was. I can’t claim to have much luck with the ladies, mostly due to a horrible self image … which unfortunately was justified.

Here I am about to go to the prom with my high school girlfriend Maribeth. Since she went to a different school, we could have gone to two proms but I insisted on only one. I thought them pure torture as you can see by my expression. And check out my hairdo. I am so embarrassed. No wonder I thought myself unlovable though, to be honest, I considered myself an interesting character even then … quick and humorous. I just felt ugly.

Anyway, Maribeth was cute, smart as a whip, and had a good sense of humor. Why she agreed to go out with me remains a mystery I have never been able to answer. However, when I wasn’t scowling, like I was at the very thought of a prom, we had many laughs but no sex. She was a good Catholic girl after all, and any carnal delights were never going to happen. The Catholic girls back then all prayed to the Virgin Mother of the pure bodily temple and would rather be dipped in boiling oil than put out. We guys suffered much.

I must admit, though, she had all the makings of a good life partner but I was very anti-marriage then, having lived through my parent’s disastrous relationship. That soured me on any attempt at my own permanent coupling, so I made sure I didn’t drift unthinkingly into matrimony.

No, I went into a Catholic Seminary after high school, an excellent dodge for a guy hell bent on avoiding longer commitments (except to the Almighty I suppose). At least I didn’t have to break up with her. I could argue that I had a prior commitment to God. It was a foreign missionary order. I would end up overseas. I was making damn sure I wouldn’t get nabbed.

Maribeth did go on to get a Doctorate in Literature, which I would have guessed, so she likely was smart enough to dump me in any case. Unfortunately, I lost touch with her after that. But I imagine she was an excellent wife and had a good marriage.

After I left the Seminary, I entered Clark University which had nothing to do with the Catholic church … thank God. Better yet, they had girls who weren’t Catholic. There, my first girlfriend was Carol. She was Jewish, which almost caused my mother to have cardiac arrest. I’m sure several relatives prayed for my endangered soul. But I liked her a lot. She was really smart, in fact ranking first in our college class as I recall. She went on to get her doctorate from Harvard and later became a Dean at Rutgers.

I assume you have the same question I had. What is a talented (she also had a great singing voice) and lovely young woman doing with a loser like me. Again, I have no idea other than I may have seemed smart and could be amusing. It was all smoke and mirrors … I was blessed with the Celtic gift of gab. Better yet, from my perspective, Carol was engaged at the time to a guy who had somehow gotten drafted and was stationed in Alaska. That is, she was safe to me, and I may have seemed safe to her. There was no chance of a longer-term commitment even though I suspect she liked me a lot. We were very compatible. While she was appalled at my study habits (what study habits), I believe she also saw me as gifted intellectually, which proves you can fool even smart folk on occasion.

Then there was Lee Delaney. She was my 2nd college sweetheart, the one I fell for on first sight. I saw her walk across a room and was immediately smitten. It took me weeks to work up enough courage to ask her out. She mumbled something about not being able to go out with me (I found out later she was being pursued by a man she didn’t really like but didn’t know how to handle it). Of course, being unlovable, I assumed she was rejecting me. I hibernated for many weeks licking my wounds.

But I was in love. Eventually, I asked her to be a subject in a psych experiment. At the end of that subterfuge, I used my charms (such as they were) to get her to join me for a coffee. And that was the start. In retrospect, I realize we both were smitten with each other but were basket cases when it came to relationships. There were many ups and downs. But I never stopped being infatuated with her. She also was smart, quick with a quip, and very kind and sensitive. After all, she took pity on me.

Of course, I panicked toward the end and went to my favorite go-to tactic. I RAN AWAY. This time, it was the Peace Corp and India. That seemed far enough to avoid being snared into marriage. I did raise the issue in letters I sent back. But my expressions of love were oblique and unconvincing. While she was working at Harvard she met a Post-Doc whom she married. It did not last and she went on to get a Doctorate in molecular something or other and spent her professional life as a research academic. Like I said, I really liked smart women.

Four decades later, I ran across her on Facebook. I screwed up my courage, assuming she would immediately take out a restraining order. But no, she was delighted to hear from me, and we immediately struck up a cyber relationship. It was as if it had been 4 days since our last meeting, not over 4 decades. It turns out she kept all my letters and other such stuff. Her mother even made a case for me the night before her marriage (I always did better with mothers for some reason).

We were both now in good marriages (her second). There was no danger of anything happening, but this connection did give us a chance at achieving closure. We did love one another back then. And we realized we still did when we reconnected though, soon enough, she discovered she was dying of cancer. Our connection, even though shortened and at a distance, was a blessing.

Here I am, the coward running off to India. Okay, I really was a do-gooder looking to save the world. It wasn’t only because I feared a commitment, but it did prove a convenient escape at the time, as had the seminary.

Here is the odd thing. After India (where I did not save the world), I met a gal in graduate school. We had one date, and I moved in with her. She played it perfectly, seemingly not interested in marriage. So, we got married after living together for a year or two. Turns out marriage wasn’t the hell I imagined. It was rather nice. We remained hitched for almost 50 years until she passed from early onset Alzheimers. She also was smart, graduating from Law School with honors and becoming the Deputy Director of the Wisconsin Court System.

Once again, I ask. How could these smart gals fall for a loser like me. A true mystery. It just shows there is no accounting for taste.

More snow and blowing winds in Southern Wisconsin. Time for more memories of the old days.

My memories of winter in Worcester, Massachusetts included plenty of snow and cold. Of course, recollections can be deceiving. But my images are firm. I recall large icicles hanging from the 3rd floor eaves of each three decker. We walked to our back doors with trepidation as we waited for one of these weapons of instant death to dislodge and impale our otherwise empty heads and dispatch us to our heavenly reward, if we were so lucky. My afterlife was most likely to be warm and toasty… very warm indeed given my sinful thoughts about the neighborhood gals.

We spent many hours building snowmen (see pic above) and snow caves, or (when younger) sliding down the partially plowed streets in hilly Worcester on our sleds. There were many snow fights where we hurled hard missiles of ice-packed snowballs at one another. How we survived remains a minor miracle. On occasion, we even performed civic minded niceties for motorists stuck in the ever present snow piles by pushing their vehicles out to the middle of the street. The snow seemed deeper back then, and not many cars had front wheel drive. Vehicles would get stuck all over the place though we knights in shining armor were most willing to pitch in. Who knows. We might get a quarter for our efforts. Money was also to be made by shoveling out sidewalks and steps. We all were short of cash. Any way to gather some coin was welcome.

I most recall the tactics employed to reserve parking spots on public residential streets. Once you dug your car out after a storm, you claimed that place as yours by placing a chair or some other item of household furniture in that shoveled out spot. Woe be to that nefarious evil-doer who then flung your chair aside and took your claimed space. Fisticuffs were soon to follow. Worcester was not a place for sissies.

Speaking of random violence. Here is me with my dog Fritz. He was, as I was told, a toy German Shepard. I cannot say he was a cuddly pet, but he was fiercely loyal. I loved inviting unsuspecting friends into the house. Then, when Fritz was snoozing nearby, I would somehow trick my unsuspecting target into a pose where it looked as if he were about to strike me. Fritz, ever on guard even when napping, would leap into action, snarling as my poor victim fled the house in total panic for his life … leaving me doubled over in laughter. As you may be able to surmise, I had very few friends as a kid.

A lot of memories involved my pathetic attempts at athletic prowess. I cannot say for sure, but this action shot above may well have been taken right after crossing home plate after socking my first home run for my little league team … Standard Foundry, my team’s sponsor. If I recall correctly, I had botched the first ball hit to me at shortstop and was yet burning with shame as I strode to the plate in the bottom of that inning. I gave the first pitch to me a mighty wack and watched with satisfaction as the ball arched over the fence in center field. On the whole, though, we sucked. I know I sucked.

One moment of glory was captured in the press, which amazingly printed box scores and some stories of our little league games. Hard to imagine today. But yes, I was called in to pitch in relief of my best friend Jerry Petraitis. It was a moment of high drama. The bases were loaded, and there were two outs in the last inning. I recall working the count to 2 and 2. Then I reared back, saying silently … this is it! I let fly with my best fast ball right down the middle of the plate. The batter, their power clean-up hitter, swung and missed. Oh, the bliss of victory.

There were a few more moments of glory, unrecorded by the media. In Junior High School, I became the starting pitcher halfway through the season. We had been 1-2 up to that point. After I took over, we went 2-1 coming within a whisker of sweeping all three games. In one contest, I had a no-hitter going into the 9th inning. In that one game we lost, we were only down 2 to 1 in the last inning but had the bases loaded and our best hitters coming to the plate. Alas, none of these losers got the ball out of the infield, and we lost by that single run.

In another junior high game, I pitched against my cousin’s team. Here he (Paul Kadis) is next to me in his little league uniform though we lived in different parts of the city and never faced one another until our Junior High-School competition. So, we were, in fact. older by the time we faced each other on the diamond. It turns out that Paul’s father, a former locally famous semi-pro pitcher, umpired our game while standing behind me on the mound. He gave me a running commentary on my pitching technique, which didn’t exactly calm my nerves much. My cousin Paul was a really good ball player. In fact, he made it pretty far up in the Los Angeles Angels minor league system but not to the majors. We won the game (helped by my bases clearing hit), but I recall walking my cousin every time I faced him. I don’t believe I got a single pitch to him anywhere near the plate.

I knew my athletic career was coming to an end one day while playing for the Vernon Hill team in what was called Intermediate League (roughly the same age as Junior High).

I am 2nd from right in the back row in the above pic. Ralph Anderson, one of my best friends by this time, was 4th from the right (he went on to become a Coast Guard officer). That squad apparently were league champs during my tenure with them, though I have little memory of this level of success. What I do remember is the following. I made it to first base one day and, to my shock, the coach gave me the sign to steal second. I was truly stunned, having only one speed … glacially slow. He gave the sign a couple more times before yelling … steal second, you moron.

So, on the next pitch I sprinted to 2nd base with all the speed of a wounded tortoise. I slid into the bag with a cloud of dust. Amazingly, no one tagged me out. How did that happen? Brainiac that I am, I concluded that the batter must have hit a foul ball. So, I started trotting back to first base. The opposing team, delighted at my utter stupidity, tagged me out to end the inning. All I could remember is the coach (on the left in the above pic) screaming obscenities at me while a kind team mate brought me my glove. That was the moment I realized I better study if I were to survive as an adult. No paid athletic career for me.

Yes, I had a rough and traumatic childhood!

I’m not sure why, but watching the snow fall outside has me thinking about the past. Perhaps it is merely the reality that I won’t be venturing out today. Winter has finally struck. First, several inches of white snow to be followed up by a bitter cold snap. Yes, this is the time for snuggling up to some comforting memories. Well, memories at least.

I thought we might escape winter entirely, a thought that left me with decidedly ambivalent feelings. The unaturally warm temps were welcome, of course. Still, what they meant in the longer term was unsettling. No matter, Jack Frost has arrived to get his due.

Oddly enough, I don’t have many pics of winter scenes in my collection of childhood photos. Most seem to have been taken when tines were sunny and relatively warm, though I am bundled up as my parents display me in the first pic. They seem proud to have me. That is odd since I never felt wanted as a child. I always felt more like an inconvenient possession to be paraded in front of others on occasion.

I’ve just finished a book on the Harvard Grant Study where a cohort of young men from that hallowed institution were prospectively tracked for over 7 decades. According to one of the principal investigators of this study, familial warmth experienced in early years was a strong predictor of later success. That is, feeling loved and protected while maturing is a critical factor to later success. But how does one appreciate that? We only have our own recollections, which are idiosyncratic and personal and decidedly subjective. Who can compare their internal feelings with what others experience? We can only know our own world. Perhaps all is illusion, distorted by our own neuroses. Given that caveat, what are mine?

In this 2nd pic, my mother is holding me while my aunt Laura is holding her only child (my cousin, Walter). My mother’s brother married an Italian girl and lived on the other side of town. I suspect that was considered a mixed marriage (Polish & Italian) but my mother loved this brother. He was the good son. Her only other male sibling was a con man who spent a great deal of time in the slammer. But he was colorful.

My own parent’s marriage also was suspect. Polish and Irish 😞. That was bad enough in my maternal grandmother’s eyes but she undoubtedly had concerns about my dad as a marital prospect. He ran around with the fast crowd, living on the edge. That must have made him appear attractive to my mother but not suitable husband or father material.

Alas, he settled down after I was born and after he suffered a huge financial setback in an illegal football betting racket he was running. To the extent he went straight because of me, I doubt he ever fully forgave me. Another chunk of guilt I carried forward.

Wally (shown being carried by Laura in the 2nd pic) was my cousin and very close in age to me. I recall visiting him a lot in the Italian section of Worcester … they lived in an old 3-decker owned by Laura’s parents (the Gorretti family). I loved the exuberance of family life in that community, the warmth and affection displayed among the adults. And I loved the bocce court they had in their yard, a traditional Italian game. Best of all, the railroad tracks ran next to their house so I could watch trains go by on occasion. I’m not sure the adults appreciated that as much as I did. Despite all, there was a sense of warmth there.

Young Wally got seriously sick about a week after one of my visits when we were both about 12 years old. All I recall is that he was taken to Boston for care by specialists but soon passed. That devastated me. We were close to being brothers in a way. It was my first experience with the vulnerability of life. One never knows, does one. At the cemetery, I do recall my Aunt Laura almost whispering that she would soon join her only child. I thought that an idle expression of grief in the moment. But she died of cancer within six months. I doubt she had any will to fight the disease.

The pic above captures some of my dad’s family. I am the doofus kid on the left with the wide grin. I can’t believe they didn’t return me to the hospital as damaged goods. Right in front of me is my dad’s sister, Agnes. At my back is her husband, Bill Connor. They were my surrogate parents growing up. As a child, they lived right up the street and I would spend hours at their house which, unlike mine, was filled with love and affection. Besides, Bill had actually graduated from college, something no one else in that generation had even tried.

Ag and Bill never had children so they always welcomed me, or so it seemed. I still recall coming home one day after spending hours at their house. There was a small suitcase outside waiting for me. My folks told me that I should move in with Ag and Bill since I obviously preferred them so much more than my real home. I cried but, the truth be told, they were right.

The man next to Bill is my uncle Tim, my dad’s brother. His son, Timmy, is seated in front of him. There was not a great deal of experimentation in the naming of children back then. My dad and Tim were about a year apart in age. In fact, my dad once told me that they were in the same grade until the nuns running the Catholic school they attended kept my dad back a grade since the brothers were always causing mischief and no one could tell them apart. Sounded more like a convenient excuse to me.

To the right, we have my ‘nana,’ my dad’s mother and her other daughter… Winnie. Nana (Mary Boland), was from Ireland. She must have had a rough life. Her husband (Jeremiah Corbett) had some form of mental affliction and was in and out of institutions for years. I never met him as far as I can recall.

Still, I recall spending lots of time with Nana and her spinster daughter (Winnie). I would spend hours up in her 3rd floor flat (we lived on the 1st floor). She would feed me and make the best eggnogs I ever tasted. Many a night, we would play the card game (Old Maid). The irony never struck me that Winnie was, in fact, an old maid. I can still recall, as a toddler, sitting in Nana’s lap and have her comfort me. I suspect those were the moments of love and warmth and love that I desperately needed.

Of course. there was the streets. There were plenty of kids to play with. In the above pic. I show a small sample of the urchins that roamed the neighborhood. Next to me is Dave Bolio, the athlete among us. In front of me are the brood known as the Clancy clan. I can’t recall how many of them their were but their mother (Gert) managed to raise them without much help from her drunken husband Joe … who nominally worked as a bellhop at the downtown hotel. For a while, Gert would feed me at lunchtime during the school year when both my parents worked.

I think that’s what I remember most about my earliest years, being elsewhere with other people. Sometimes, it was with my aunts and uncles. Sometimes, it was with my grandmother. Often, it was with neighborhood friends. Did this vagabond lifestyle and lack of familial attachment, early on at least, bother me. I can not tell for sure. I did grow up distancing myself from emotional attachments. On the other hand, I did enjoy a long marriage. However, I never could decide whether that was because I expected so little from adult attachments.

Would the investigators in the Harvard’s men study assign me to the damaged group? Would they conclude that I could have done more in life than I did with just a little more parental love and attachment? We just don’t know. In the end, a life is what it is.

One should be optimistic at the beginning of a new year. Turning the page and all that. Optimism is expected to bubble to the surface. Hmm, I find there is little optimism, however, in this household. Then, again, as I repeatedly say, I’m Irish, and we have a permanent cloud following us. So, I’m sitting here noticing the news items that cross my attention with increasing despair.

This past year was another scorcher. Experts say that higher ocean temps suggest little change going forward. In fact, we might well pass the 2.7 Farenheit degree threshold (an increase above the pre-industrial global levels we are about to cross) that marks a tipping point on the way to climactic disaster. Oh, that’s something to look forward to … drought and starvation and massive migration culminating in societal collapse. You know, the end of civilization as we know it. How much fun will that be.

There also was a letter to the editors in a Wisconsin newspaper referencing the fact that vaccinations against childhood diseases were in decline. The writer noted how prevalent rubella, measles, and whooping cough were in her childhood. There was even the occasional kid who wound up in an iron lung with polio. Science came along and relegated these childhood scourges to the dustbin of history. Now, political fear mongering is relegating science to the same fate. In climate change, we ignore science. In the battle against biological pathologies, we repudiate it. Good going! Well, killing off our children will help deal with the overpopulation problem. There is that.

Then I notice yet another piece about how far ahead Trump is in the Iowa caucuses. I can only shake my head. It is one thing to be conservative. It is quite another to support a pathological narcissist who has no interest in governing at all, whose only interest is in promoting his own warped brand of ego gratification. Moreover, he does promise to destroy the pillars of our constitutional government in order to wreak vengeance on his enemies, real and imagined, usually those who believe in preserving radical traditions like fair elections and the rule of law. So, if you hate the American experiment, there is that. And this says nothing about his myriad of crimes and disgusting personal habits. What has happened to decency in this country? What has happened to basic common sense? When did America wake up and decide it wants to become a banana republic or worse … a totolitarian regime run by a mad man?

And then I noticed a piece on India. I spent two years there in the late 1960s and watched as they struggled to realize Gandhi’s dream of an inclusive and secular society. It was a vision carried on by the ruling Congress Party in his name. Now, P.M. Modi and the BJP party are running things. They, like the Trump MAGA crowd, feed on tribal passions to pit one group against the other. They want this vast subcontinent to turn its back on inclusivity to become a Hindu national preserve. It is another form of nativism much like our white, religious evangelicals. The article went on to note that the man who murdered Mohandas Gandhi (who was a virtual saint to the Western world) is now being revered while the Mahatma is reviled as a secularist who sought peace among all communities. Imagine that … promoting nonviolence in the cause of love and understanding. How vile is that? But this tragedy does remind me that imbecility is not found only in America. You can go anywhere and find it.

Yes, cursory glances through the headlines these days are not for the weak of heart. It is a damn good thing that I don’t follow the advice of the NRA and stockpile an arsenal of military grade weapons in my house. I might get so depressed as to pick one up and blow my own brains out.

Sigh!

New beginnings are typically a time for optimism. Yet, the prevailing disposition of those in my social orbit is decidedly pessimistic. My neighbors and associates routinely discuss exit strategies for when America slides into chaos or worse. All that may be idle chatter, of course, but the angst-ridden discussions reflect a deep, fundamental national pathology. We are no longer a confident nation.

I’m not quite sure why the pessimism is so deep now. When I was born, the world was divided into deeply divisive ideologies (Facism, Communism, and democracy) embattled in a world conflict. When I came of age, America still practiced legal apartheid for minority citizens and faced urban violence as those treated poorly demanded their rights. It was not as if I could look back to some golden age when we all got along.

And yet, there was a feeling of optimism back then. As I have oft mentioned, a poor and working class kid like myself could work his way through college and move up the socio-economic ladder. It was rather easily done. The opportunities available to white kids like me would soon be available to all, or so we imagined. We would see to that when we took control of the levers of power.

What we could not envision was the backlash of the entrenched elite. From the days of the plantation owners of the South and the robber barons of the North, a small group of financial winners worked to employ government to maintain, even increase, their advantages. They were never unified, of course, and faced periodic backlashes, but this remains a constant in America’s political life … will government serve a wealthy minority or the majority.

Today’s pessimism is based on the presumption that even the appearance of democracy will soon be swept away. The 2024 election increasingly is seen as a choice between a constitutional government, as imperfect as it is, and an authoritarian replacement adhering to the right-wing principles of white nationalism and religious extremism which would also serve the interests of the economic elite. Most neutral observers scoff at the dire predictions of a political apocalypse, but warnings even by sober analysts are increasing. Let us not forget what happened in Germany before Hitler assumed control.

Still, it seems ridiculous to believe that the long experiment in American democracy might be abandoned, and not from an external threat but by internal choice. How could that happen?

Well? We ought not forget that there has long been a strong authoritarian element in the U.S. The federal government routinely called out troops to protect the interests of industrialists in the late 19th century. The Palmer raids after WWI rounded up thousands of immigrants on specious charges of being threats and jailed or deported these poor souls. In the 20s, the KKK grew so large that it controlled several state governments and marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in the thousands. In the run up to WWII, many in the U.S. supported Fascist thought, and Hitler, the Silver Shirts and American Bund being examples. And let us never forget how the Communist hysteria of the 1950s led to McCarthyism and the crushing of free speech and thought in America. While the 60s generated a few leftist groups (the SDS Weathermen and the Black Panthers), hundreds of right-wing militia and hate groups continue to flourish to this day.

No, a strong authoritarian streak has always been part of the American fabric. My take is that it is part of the price we pay for a heterogeneous society, one where diverse groups must compete and find a way to get along. That is never easy, of course, and leads to much finger-pointing and scape-goating. It is always easier to ‘blame the other guy’ than to seek common solutions. The American myth of individualism and the ‘strong man’ doesn’t help, suggesting that a dog-eat-dog world is the natural order of things. Cooperation, and notions of the common good, appear foreign to us.

The choice before us in 2024 is whether we will continue to work toward a diverse, inclusive society (which we have never fully realized) or whether we acquiesce to being ruled by an economic and racial elite. The latter makes governing easier since diversity is ignored. But this ease of governing comes at an enormous cost … crushing the aspirations of the many who are not part of the favored group.

The American choice is also a proxy for a larger, more global contest. Can we begin to work together on matters essential to the survival of the species or will be continue to spat over trivial, even meaningless, national issues. In the end, we are one people, floating on a precarious planet in an infinite universe. ♾️ Better that we understand how vulnerable is our situation and adopt a collaborative model of governance.

Perhaps the American election in 2024 is a litmus test for our larger fates. If so, let us hope for a fortuitous outcome. Our very future may depend on it.

We are approaching the end of 2023. I could say it is the best of times and the worst of times. That, however, would be engaging in hyperbole, and we have enough of that going in these days. No, this past year has been fine for the most part. People are working, wages are up, and inflation shows signs of abating. It is the future that remains murky.

I am not going to comment on the overall state of the world. That would be above my pay range. But some things do bother me, and you few who read my scribbling are less expensive than a therapist. So, you are stuck listening to my ramblings. Aren’t you the fortunate ones?

I’m struck by the fact that so few comment on the fact that life expectancy in the U.S. has fallen recently, the drop being more dramatic than any others seen in a century. Sure, Covid deserves blame, but we have not rebounded as robistly as others have. Robert Califf, Commissioner of the Federal Drug Administration, warned his colleagues as follows:

America’s life expectancy is going the wrong way. We are the top health officials in the country. If we don’t fix this, who will?

The numbers are sad, that is for sure. The life expectancy for males in the U.S. is 73.5 years. That may sound okay, but it puts us in 43rd place among countries where such things are accurately measured. A number of our peer nations have life expectancy rates north of the 80-year mark.

Still, I wonder just how much blame, or responsibility, can be assigned specifically to public health officials. Yes, we have the most expensive health care delivery system in the world, by far. It is also true that our health outcomes are mediocre at best. And yes, our system is overly siloed, focuses on care by specialists, and treats prevention as being of secondary importance. All true. In many ways, our approach to health reflects our national obsession overall … which approaches and arrangements will generate the most remunerative bottom lines. A healthy population does not lead to high profit margins. Am I being too cynical here?

I recall my brief conversation with the young surgeon who replaced my former ear doctor, an eminent surgeon who retired. (I have one ear that doesn’t work because of a tumor that has been removed.) I touched on these matters since I like chatting with professionals. He quickly dismissed my concerns with one observation. ‘Americans make poor lifestyle decisions.’ Of course, he was in a hurry (one must push the medical assembly line along after all). Thus, there was no time to explore what I thought was a convenient rationalization for our poor national health performance … blame the customer. But it got me thinking.

Are there not other likely suspects to at least consider for our lower life expectancy rate. What about our insane gun policies? Our misreading (in my opinion) of the 2nd amendment has led us to become a carnage-ridden shooting gallery. We have 37,000 gun related deaths per year, just about as many American soldiers as were killed in the Korean conflict. The sop of guns saving lives doesn’t hold up to even a cursory scrutiny. The gun-related death rate in the U.S. is 4.52 (per 100,000). In Canada to our north, it is 0.62; In Germany it is 0.06; In Japan, it is virtually zero. Why the difference. In part, they have more sensible gun control laws while we are drowning in instruments of death.

Our suicide rate is also high. By one measure, we rank 2nd only to Greenland on that score. But the numbers are fuzzy. Intentional opioid (and other drug-related) deaths are difficult to sort out from those that are accidental. Some, however, lump such intentional exits from life into a category of deaths due to despair. As we sink into our national abyss of anger and hopelessness, we tend to strike out … at ourselves and others. Remember that many of our political disputes are based on sheer anger, at one another, and at those forces we barely comprehend.

Let’s back up further for a moment. What happens when a society becomes highly unequal, when more and more of the goodies are accumulated in the hands of fewer and fewer. That is where we are now. America has become the poster child for unequal economic outcomes. How many times have I pointed out that the share of income going to the top sliver of society has risen from less than 10 percent of the pie in the late 1970s to almost one quarter in recent years. This massive shift in wealth and power has become an axiomatic truth, something accepted as natural and fair even among many of the losers. How many struggling working class folk voted for Trump? They are angry and resentful, yet unclear about whom to blame. Republicans are most happy to provide convenient targets for their wrath.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be that way. Public policies can address our fondness for dying early and our apparent willingness to push policies designed to make the filthy rich even richer. Only Americans would think this is a good idea. One example … our tax system reduces the gini- coefficient (the standard measure of inequality) by some 27 percent.

You might think that is pretty good. But it is a rather weak performance when viewed globally. In terms of addressing the inequality issue (through taxes and transfers), we ranked 35th out of 44 countries. We barely beat out Russia. Greater concentration gives those at the top more power to control the rules that permit even greater inequality. Where does that end?

Public spending in general can help equalize economic outcomes, especially if those outlays are for human capital (e.g., education and research) and infrastructure improvements. Again, we rank poorly on this measure. Some 37 percent of all our spending is for public purposes. In France, that rate is 58 percent. In Belgium, it is 54 percent. Again, it depends on how the money is spent but public expenditures in preventative health, in early childhood development, in quality childcare and education, and in labor market programs can do wonders in correcting our highly unequal outcomes which, in turn, threatens our cohesive social fabric.

Let us face it. Inequality tears at our social fabric. It fosters suspicion and jealousies. It makes it easier for demagogues to play the divide and conquer game. The desperate losers fight with ever more conviction, if not desperation, over the remaining scraps.

And that is what I fear looking forward. We won’t be addressing the real issues … premature deaths, unequal opportunities, a poverty of public investments in the future, climate change, and so forth. We merely will continue to fight among ourselves for meager advantages in a stacked game while the big issues and challenges remain untouched.

I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it. So, let me end with a hope that we work on getting the questions right. That would be my new year’s resolution … that we think hard and honestly about what we want to be as a society.

Every once in a while we see something different in our world, perhaps unique. It likely is a perception or experience that we have embraced many times in the past which suddenly is … different. Sir Isaac Newton had seen many apples fall from trees until the day he went … aha! Presumably, Blaise Pascal looked up at the night sky one evening and now appreciated what he had been seeing in a unique way. As a man of 17th century science, he might have known that the array of lights twinkling above were merely stars. If so, they were no different than the sun around which our earth (and the other planets) orbited. On one of those evenings, however, his gaze led him to appreciate just how insignificant he was given the vastness of the universe out there. It impacted him profoundly by adding to his wonder at the natural world he thirsted to understand .

He had what we think of as an epiphany! He saw the world in a different way. That night, he experienced a transformation in his world view. Namely, his position within the cosmos had been altered, dramatically rearranged if you will. Of course, his perception of what lay out there was hampered by the primitive technologies of his day. The pinpricks of light, no matter how many he could see with his naked eye, were only a fraction of those sun’s that lie within our own Galaxy… the Milky Way. It was not until early in the 20th century that we had any real appreciation of the immense vastness of our universe.

I no longer recall the moment when I began to hold in awe what was out there in the night sky. It was many decades ago, and my sense of the universe in that moment had hardly progressed beyond Pascal’s. However, I do recall a more recent moment when I read something that shook the way in which I framed our cosmos or, more precisely, how I saw our significance (or, conversely, insignificance) in that cosmos.

Not that long ago, our best imaging technology located what appeared to be an area of empty space in the universe. There seemed to be nothing there. Technology, though, keeps improving. We launched even better and more sensitive cameras that were positioned further out in space. Next, we aimed our new toys for an extended period at that empty spot. By nature, we are a curious lot and wanted to see if it was, in fact, empty space.

It wasn’t. It turned out there were millions of galaxies where we had previously thought nothing existed. And there is the point. Our appreciation of the scale, the complexity, and the mystery of our world is increasing all the time … on the sub-atomic and the cosmological levels. And that is only within the universe we can experience and measure since, theoretically at least, many more parallel worlds might well be out there. Even within what we can imagine, we really don’t know how many galaxies exist (or how many worlds might support advanced forms of life). The best guess today is that there are two trillion galaxies, but the actual number may well exceed that estimate since our measured world keeps expanding exponentially. Each of those two-trillion galaxies contains billions of stars (our Milky Way contains 300 to 400 billion stars). Moreover, there are huge entities of matter and energy pulsating throughout the cosmos that, when captured in celestial images, puts the most ingenious abstract artist to shame. Bottom line, our known universe defies even our inadequate and cursory comprehension, never mind our full understanding. It is the most magnificent art form of all.

So what! The cosmos is huge. Big deal! You could shrug your shoulders at the news. But even Pascal realized that his universe, as modest as it was, was impressive enough to reshape how he saw all life about him, including his position in that world. Once I had my own personal epiphany about the vastness and mystery of our larger world, I could no longer see things in the same way. Almost everything we see as so important on a daily basis suddenly shifts to a different order of importance. For example, all the lines we impose on our maps to divide nations suddenly seem silly. All the imaginary ways we separate races and ethnicities and tribes now appear patently ridiculous. All our spats over trivial differences in how we organize the world pale when we consider the majesty and mystery of the cosmos in which we live. Truly, God’s canvas (or whomever set all this in motion) is the greatest work of art imaginable

Pascal had another epiphany even as he marvelled at what lay out there at the end of his senses. He recognized that our species was, as far as he could imagine, the only truly sentient beings around. Thus, his most famous aphorism … Cogito Ergo Sum. Until we prove (or discover) otherwise, we are the only creation of nature (or of some divinity) capable of appreciating the world in which we exist. This puts an enormous burden upon us. What if we are the only sentient beings with any ability to reshape the forces of the universe. What if what we sense as the divine is not some given or historical entity but something evolving … something like us. Perhaps we are an unfinished God, a divine work in progress. Think about that for a moment. We might be the most important game in town, and it is a huge town. If so, what sin would be greater than somehow screwing up the human experiment. I cannot think of any.

Not long ago, at our weekly condo association social gathering, I got into a brief debate with a neighbor, an emeritus faculty member from the University (these academic types are everywhere). Oddly enough, we often stumble upon these lofty topics at our social gatherings. This one focused on the uniqueness of cognitive life in the universe. My debate opponent argued that the sheer improbability of evolving as humans, with all the billions of serendipitous events that were necessary to create advanced life, made it highly unlikely that other sentient beings exist. He thought we likely were the only game in our immense town. My response was to point out the billions of galaxies and trillions of stars and all the likely planets on which life might thrive. Basically, we have an untold number of petri dishes in which evolution can work its magic. I think the odds are favorable that we are not alone. But we just don’t know for certain, not yet.

Of course, I hope there are others out there. If the universe is relying on us to figure things out and make things right, I fear we are in deep shit. Just consider how much time and effort we put into our daily sporting events and how little into things that matter … like climate change. That is enough to make one weep.

No, my personal epiphany, first discovered upon looking at the universe around me, cannot be overstated. I soon stopped looking at religious narratives, no matter how emotional or compelling, for meaning. I began to look out there since it told us so much about ourselves and our possible role in the miracle of life. Our world is so immense, so awesome, that I find it difficult to conclude that all of this is absent greater meaning. Of course, determining meaning is a challenge laid out before us. One day, perhaps we will discover what that meaning is … if we don’t screw things up first.

As a child, there was something special about Christmas. Sure, it was partly about the mystery of the Winter Solstice, when the globe’s rotational physics reaches its stretching point. I would wonder on occasion … what would happen if the earth’s axis did not self-correct? Inevitably, though, the subsequent days would grow longer, thereby suggesting warmer times ahead.

And, of course, there was the anticipation of a brand new calendar year and all the hope attached to this annual ritual. Okay, nothing really changes as one year transitions into the next, other than an excessive intake of spirits along with too many easily ignored and ill-considered promises to remake one’s life. Still, the promise of newness and renewal adds something special to this season.

Nothing, however, adds more magic to the season than the narrative surrounding Christ’s birth. As a kid, even a teenager, I was moved by the story. Wandering travelers, in particular the teen mother to be, are seeking shelter for the night as they return home to register for a mandated census. Consigned to a stable … magic happens. A bright light in the sky signals a momentous event. Wise men bearing gifts appear literally from nowhere. Even the lowly animals nearby are moved by events they might possibly apprehend but could never understand.

I can yet recall one Christmas eve in Worcester Mass. I was a teen and had pretty much decided to enter a Catholic seminary that prepared male believers for foreign missionary work in the service of my faith. That’s right, the left-wing socialist you know and love had bought totally into the foundational Christian (i.e., Catholic) narrative. On this particular occasion, however, we were hit with two consecutive snowstorms that paralyzed the city. That Xmas eve, I recall walking (in the middle of the street) the two blocks to our local church. There were five Catholic churches in the area, divided by ethnic allegiance. My local one was Lithuanian. I cannot recall now if I was going to an event or just seeking the quiet presence offered by the smells (from incense and candles) as well as the special sentiments attached to this holy sanctuary.

It was the journey to the church that has stayed with me. Any progress was labored that night. The snow was up to my knees, at least. Nothing was moving. The only audible sounds were faint Christmas music wafting from the tenements on either side of the road. It was the kind of classic wintertime scene ordered up by God explicitly for this season and for the purpose of making each of us reflect. The blanket of snow had been heavy, so everything was covered in undiluted whiteness with a few flakes yet descending from the darkness above. All was clean and pure … in fact, perfect. In that moment, I fully believed in my faith’s foundational myth, the story of Christ’s birth. I embraced all of its sentimental detail, facts that defied logic yet moved me. I must have been moved … that image has remained with me to this day.

Over time, the magic of the moment, along with my simple beliefs, faded. I lasted a little over one year in the seminary. In the spring of 1994, I matriculated at Clark University, a very secular school designated as a den of atheists and Communists within the local Catholic community. Had I not detoured into my failed effort at sainthood, I never would have considered Clark. I would have gone to Holy Cross … a very good Jesuit institution but one well within the tentacles of my very Catholic cocoon. However, my life trajectory had been fundamentally ruptured by my detour to Clark.

My earlier decision to leave the seminary increasingly became clear to me. I had never really believed in the Christ story. After all, that was based on second-hand, hearsay testimony by people who never witnessed anything first-hand. At best, this was questionable evidence that would never be admitted in a court of law. There are few, if any, primary accounts from reliable sources that Jesus was an actual, historical figure. Surely nothing definitive exists as to the timing and circumstances of his birth. The date of December 25 itself was picked out of a hat, most likely since it coincided with Pagan celebrations related to the winter Solstice and a tribal desire for new beginnings. Some scholars put the year at plus or minus 3 years from the agreed upon date. In any case, any real historical Jesus likely was a local rebel who traveled the land fighting the establishment and raising hell for the establishment. He would have been put to death as a troublesome revolutionary.

But therein lies the real magic of the season. While the story handed down to us pulls at our heartstrings, that is not what is important. The message attributed to the Christ figure is what moved me as a young Catholic. In reality, it is the core message found in most major religious traditions, at least once you discard the surrounding nonsense. The message of love and doing good, especially for others you would normally ignore, is what inspired me as a young man. That message can yet touch me even as an old fart. It is universal and immutable.

I can still tear up as I watch any version of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Why? Because it is Christ’s message (whether or not he is responsible) in its purest form. Love one another. 💓 That’s it. That is all of it. Of course, throwing in a blanket of snow just for tonight would help a bit 🙄.

Happy Holidays!

I’ve been focusing on political issues of late. Nothing wrong with that but this was intended to be an eclectic blog … covering serious and reflective themes with some humor occasionally thrown in. With the Christmas season upon us, perhaps it is time to shift away from political doom and gloom. Surely, there are other topics that drive me to a similar level of despair.

Unfortunately, I must admit that the Yuletide doesn’t bring to me the normal quota of good cheer others claim for themselves at this time of the year. Perhaps my annual gift of coal from Santa had something to do with my Grinch-like attitude. Nooo, not that! I liked coal as a kid. We could use it to deface sidewalks and other public areas. Thinking on this matter a bit, my lack of good cheer emanates from other, perhaps more fundamental, sources. One possibility certainly is this insistance on gift-giving. Bah! Humbug!

I never could quite accept the general approbation heaped on Ebenezer Scrooge. I thought his attitude toward Christmas sensible and even admirable. It struck me that there was more downside to this season than any joy or good cheer, forced or genuine. For example, the mandatory shopping requirements and card writing exercises always drove me to distraction. Now, I can write books and academic papers but am useless when writing Xmas cards. My good spouse made me do the cards for my family one year. To a person, they contacted her to get me fired. Besides not being able to read my cursive scribbling (I got several failure warnings in grammar school for penmanship), what they did manage to decipher was deemed total ‘drivel.’

But back to the giving of gifts! It was not as if my gift list was long, a few at most. Still, the exercise drove me into deep pools of paralysis and then despair. Every year, I would fail to find the clothing sizes I put aside the year before for future reference. Even if I could find them, the shopping process itself brought me to my knees. While I could get up and give a talk before an auditorium full of people, even important people, dealing with a sales clerk brought me to my knees. They inevitably would ask … well, what does your wife like to wear? How am I supposed to know? That implies that I’ve been paying attention during the several decades of our marriage. Their subtle, but still disapproving look, is rivaled only by those young shits who work in tech stores. Those snotty geeks are always asking me about operating systems and mega-byte requirements when all I can handle is the on-off button.

Let me give you an example of my shopping acumen 🛍. I would be known to go into a store when all my sweaters had become tattered and stained, the latter happening overnight it seems. So, I wander in the store helplessly until I find a sweater style and texture I like. I select one that fits and then find a clerk. ‘See this one,’ I tell her (or him), ‘I want the same sweater except in every color and pattern you have.’ I then would get the ‘are you nuts’ look. But I never cared. Depending on how many colors (and patterns) they have, I figure I’m now good for several years. 😅

I suppose I could do the same for Xmas gifts. Find a size and style that works, then buy one in all the different colors and patterns available. Brilliant, no! I could have given my late wife one in the first year and store the rest of them for future years. A great plan except for one small flaw … she was never dumb as a sack of rocks. Just the opposite in fact. That ingenious plan would work with me … I am as dumb as a sack of rocks. But she would have seen through my plan in year two. Alas, I had to be creative each and every year, an impossible burden for a numb-nuts like me.

The highlight of my shopping career probably occurred the year I was racing through the Mall as the clock was reaching zero hour. The next day we would begin the trek north to the Twin Cities to her family home to celebrate and exchange gifts. Why her lovely parents, and they were lovely indeed, had not retired to Florida remained a mystery to me. Oh, how many times did the car freeze over, or we found ourselves skating back to Madison on the ice rink that once had been Interstate 94. But the trips to the frozen tundra of Minnesota are another story.

On this day, my panic level was higher than normal, though now I cannot recall why. I just didn’t think more expensive jewelry or fancy clothes would do the trick any longer. As the years passed, we became more affluent and had all the things we needed. Now we were into getting gifts that meant something, a concept way beyond my pay range. I was totally flummoxed that year until I came across a display of sewing machines. YES! All women like to sew, right? It was hard wired into their DNA. I read that somewhere. I whipped out the old check book and bought the most expensive machine they sold. Price was of no consequence when I was in full panic mode.

Now, my lovely spouse was used to seeing me load small to medium-size boxes into the car for the trek up to America’s Siberia, otherwise known as Minnesota. She spied this big box (wrapped professionally at the store) with great curiosity. Until she could rip the wrapping off on Christmas Eve, she could only shake the box and speculate on what the contents might be. But she was stumped, certain only of the fact that her Prince Charming had outdone himself this time. As the hours ticked off to the moment when all would be revealed, a gloom settled over me. I wasn’t sure why or how, but I sensed I had screwed up big time.

The moment arrived. She attacked the mystery box with the abandon usually reserved for a starving man being offered food for the first time in months. When the contents were revealed, her mother screamed in delight. Her sister-in-law screamed in delight. All the females present were ecstatic, screaming in delight. All but one! Mary’s eyes first widened in disbelief before narrowing in a look of total incredulity. If looks could have killed, they would have been affixing the toe tag to me at the morgue that very night.

Her worst fears were now confirmed beyond a shadow of any doubt. She had married a total and complete doofus. You see, Mary’s mother, though without education herself, was a woman ahead of her time. She told her only daughter that, if she did well in school, she would be exempt from learning any domestic skills. Mary never looked back, eventually graduating law school with honors and becoming the Deputy Director of the Wisconsin Supreme Court. Along the way, she never learned any of those other skills, including sewing.

To keep this narrative reasonably brief, I won’t bore you with the lessons she forced me to attend with her. Nor will I relate the excruciating story of our our joint effort to make a dress. Let me simply say that we got rid of this infernal machine in short order. One day, we were having drinks with several state workers. One of our female companions that day worked for a State Legislator and made little money. However, she had a keen interest in sewing. Our eyes brightened. Would she like a great sewing machine. ‘Oh, she would love a machine like ours but could never afford it.’ We rushed to correct her misunderstanding. We didn’t want any money. Hell, we would pay her to take it off our hands. She could not believe her good fortune. Neither could we believe ours.

I made errors like this all the time. Some of us are born stupid and no amount of education can correct our initial handicap. As I recall, Mary only made one, not for Christmas but for our Anniversary which, as our poor planning ensured, happened just before Christmas. Now, she was in Law School at the time and had just finished semester exams. That is, she was distracted. We were at a fancy restaurant celebrating this happy occasion when she retrieved a small box. Hmm, I thought. ‘It wasn’t clothes. Perhaps she had sprung for that Rolex Watch I coveted.‘ I burst out laughing upon opening it up. It was a high-tech nose-hair trimmer. As she stammered for excuses, I assured her that this was likely the best gift I will ever get. In truth, I cannot recall ANY OTHER gift I’ve received, but have never forgotten that one.

All I can say about Christmas and gift-giving. Bah! Humbug! An exercise in humiliation and agony for sure.