Tom's Musings

As promised, a few words on selected fictional works.

First, some background. I’ve mentioned often that I had this fantasy of being a writer as a child. That was an odd ambition for a relatively poor, working-class kid whose parents had little education. I believe my mother dropped out of school after the 8th grade while my dad may have made it through high school, but I’m not totally sure about that. However, he did read Perry Mason detective books and received copies of Reader’s Digest condensed books, which I devoured. Somehow, I had been touched by the Celtic muse.

In high school, where I did not stand out at all academically, I received rare praise for a short story I wrote. You remember any praise when it is directed at you so infrequently. In college, I was a Psych major, the best department at Clark University. But I loved my English Lit courses the best. One day, I ran into my English prof in the cafeteria line. Since he was trapped, I mentioned my interest in becoming a writer one day. He didn’t laugh at me. He merely asked a question … could I tell a good story.

In the Peace Corps, with plenty of time on my hands as I baked under the desert sun in Rajasthan, I wrote a novel. I somehow convinced a few women to type the thing up (I was charming even though I very seldom got any action) and carried it with me for a long time. But I did not have nearly enough confidence to do anything with it. I did show it to the best prof in my Master’s program who highly praised the writing. Still, I stuffed it somewhere and did nothing. I had enough of a practical bent in me to somehow find my way into academia and a fascinating public policy career. After all, the prospect of starving as I tried to make it as an author had no appeal to me. I did enjoy 3 meals a day and having a roof over my head. Besides, being a respected policy wonk was a hoot and a half.

As explained in my previous post, I picked up my long dormant interest in writing after I retired, and after my spouse began her long descent into early onset Alzheimers. As during my my Peace Corps service, I had plenty of free time as I cared for her. It was time to answer the question that plagued me from my college days … could I tell a good story.

I am now satisfied that I can. Above are my fictional works. These are the final versions. Like Walt Witman (Leaves of Grass) or the essayist Michel de Montaigne, some of these efforts went through several iterations. Oblique Obsessions, for example, was first published as Tenuous Tendrils, then reworked and republished as Casual Choices. Then I reworked it one final time. Like Montaign’s constant revisions, each new iteration was longer. Words, it seems, poured from me effortlessly.

Let me try a brief overview of these works:

Oblique Obsession was the first. It is about a young man who gets caught up in the revolutionary fervor of the anti-Vietnam war movement. The bulk of the book takes place when he is retiring from the University of British Columbia after spending his life in exile. During his retirement week, his past catches up with him. Admittedly, I draw on a few of my own youthful experiences, but the major storyline is fictional. The narrative deals with how each of us creates our personal moral compass and then deals with the consequences.

Papable Passions started out as an image. Having been entranced by the bravery of Malala Yousafzai (the precocious Pakistani teen who was shot in the head by an Islamic fundamentalist for advocating education for girls), I wanted to explore the world of a bright young Afganisthani girl caught up in the cultural repression of the Taliban regime. I intended to contrast her story with an American family where the children rebel against the family patriarch’s extreme right-wing views. These two families would intersect.

Well, it turned out that one book was not enough. For one thing, I fell in love with my characters who, it turns out, take on a life of their own. Eventually, four were written. They cover two plus decades of the 21st century’s descent into madness in Afghanistan as well as America’s flirtation with authoritarian dictatorship and the embracing of Orwell’s dystopia laid out in his classic, 1984. The final work, Refractive Reflections, was inspired by the return of the Taliban after U.S. troops left at the conclusion of the longest military conflict in American history.

All of these works deal with universal themes … the power of culture, breaking away from crippling constraints, seeking a moral center, and living with the consequences of one’s choices. Amazon reader reviews ranged from 4.4 (out of 5) for Palpable Passions to 4.9 (out of 5) for Ordinary Obsessions. Reviewers consistently praised the structure of the narrative, the pace, and the fact that it made them think (which pleased me no end). Many observed that once they had started, they could not put the book down. They were swept up by the characters and by the intricate plot.

Again, more information can be found at:

http://www.booksbytomcorbett.com

I’ve recently been on a narcissistic rant in these blogs, talking a lot about my distant past. That is what old people do, which is exactly why young people avoid them so assiduously. I’m surprised I haven’t been arrested for manslaughter by driving readers into a coma via extreme boredom. 😅

Here’s the thing, though. I sense that the few out there reading my personal recollections rather enjoy them. Well, you lucky people, I want you to know that there are unabridged versions of my collected memories … works that go on for many volumes 📚 . Yes, my friends, your life is about to become complete.

When I retired, and my spouse started to decline cognitively (which largely ended our traveling days). I needed something to occupy my restless brain 🧠. So, I turned to non-academic writing ✍️. This was a dream I had as a child. While other kids wanted to be athletes, I dreamt of being the next Eugene O’Neil or James Joyce (at least after I realized I had no athletic talent). At the same time, neither did I want to starve, so I drifted into a day job as an academic. Over a dozen years or so, starting around 2010, I wrote (and rewrote) many books … some fiction (which I will discuss separately) and some memoirs of various sorts. It turned out there was something to my childish fantasy about being an author. I simply loved engaging in expressive writing that was not strangled by the academic straitjacket. If I was known for anything in the academy, it was my skills in expressing myself via the written word.

So, if you liked my recent reflective blogs at all, even a smidge, you will love ❤️ the longer versions. I describe several of the most recent versions of my memoirs below:

A Clueless Rebel. This is a hilarious recounting mostly of my early years in the post WWII period. I realized I made an impact on the world right from the start. My parents took one look at me and said, “we are not making this mistake again.” Thus, I was an only child. My most amazing feat was surviving to adulthood at all. I had no demonstrable skills or talents but have made it this far. My entire life is a testament to the fact that you can fool way more people than you ever imagined. Anyway, Amazon readers gave this gem 4.9 out of 5 stars.

The work above to the right is my final academic book, so I will skip over that unless you suffer from insomnia and need a sleep aid. The book on the left, A Wayward Academic, covers my years as a policy wonk and academic. Though I spent virtually all my life in the academy, I was never an academic by disposition. I loved doing public policy. I was fortunate enough to be at a premier policy research entity during the era when poverty and welfare reform were front burner issues. In this work, I tell the story of how we went from a war on poverty to a war on the poor from my personal involvement. Again, I relate this fascinating story with great humor and more than a bit of insight.

Our Grand Adventure. I pretty much got into personal writing ✍️ after my old Peace Corps group (India 44) gathered for a reunion in 2009 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of our return from the sub-continent. It was the only anniversary I ever attended and proved so significant that some members subsequently wrote two edited volumes on our PC experiences. Those efforts lighted my writing bug. Eventually, I took some of that material and turned it into a more personal memoir (this is my 2nd effort). It is funny, sad, and inspirational. Peace Corps was a transformative experience for virtually all of us.

Finally, Confessions of an Accidental Scholar. This is more of a crossover book than a memoir. It contains abridged versions of my better thoughts (and writings) that I had as an ersatz scholar and academic. I liked being in the academy but disliked the rigidity and limits of being an academic. Still, I used my own approach and style to influence both the academic and policy worlds. This is drier than the other works but remains engaging nevertheless. Non academics can well enjoy it, especially if you have any interest in public policy.

All of these are available on Amazon.com (most also in Kindle form).

See http://www.booksbytomcorbett.com for more information.

A Coda is a term suggesting the denouement of a musical piece. This blog is a denouement of sorts … a few comments on an important part of my life that came to a rather sad end. As I write this, I feel a little like Michel de Montaigne. He was a minor French nobleman and late 16th century essayist who wrote about his everyday experiences. As such, he is considered the first blogger, though absent the convenience of cyberspace. No, you would have to plow through one thousand pages of print to absorb his sensitive and even profound insights.

I suspect it takes a special form of hubris to believe that anyone else might possibly be interested in your personal thoughts. It has occurred to me that I am such a narcissist. Either that, or more likely, I am writing simply for me. I wonder if Montaigne felt the same way.

Anyway, the pic below is my wedding to Mary Rider. It took place on December 22, 1972. It was a small affair … Mary and I, our two witnesses who were work colleagues (and friends), and one other couple who took pics. We walked across the street from where we worked to the Dane County courthouse to be married by a liberal Judge (in 1972) and future neighbor who did not mind that Mary kept her name, wore no wedding ring, and that I wrote our personal vows that very morning.

Then, we drove up to the Twin Cities to break the news to her family. We’re they surprised! When her dad got up and left the room, I feared he was retrieving his hunting rifle. But no, he brought out a check while saying, ‘upon acceptance of this gift, the property in question can not be returned.’ The real awkward part was that her dad, not knowing we had lived together, thought this was our wedding night. Oy vez!

I met Mary in a master’s program where we both were students. We had just one date, and I sort of moved in with her. I stayed despite the fact that she served me the worst breakfast imaginable the following morning. You see, her mother (an instinctive feminist) made a deal with her only daughter. If she did well in school, Mary would not have to learn any domestic skills. She eagerly accepted that bargain. As a result, she had acquired no conventional domestic skills.

I found Mary to be smart, witty, independent, and seemingly uninterested in marriage … which was just the way to penetrate my anti-commitment defenses. We lived together for over a year before I suggested marriage, in the bathroom as I recall. Then, a bit to my surprise, she full-court pressed to get this wedding done before we were to visit her parents that Christmas, only a short time in the future. When my birth certificate was late in arriving from Worceter, she called the post office and the city clerk’s office to light a fire under them.

Much to my surprise, marriage turned out okay, even better than that. Based on my folk’s disastrous union, I assumed it would be little more than a lifetime of pain. Just the opposite, we had many laughs, both of us evolved into excellent careers, and we enjoyed many joint adventures, including a fair amount of travel.

Above, we are either in Greece or (then) Yugoslavia in the late 1970s. We were amazingly compatible and our values and personalities meshed well. Okay, we had some differences. On this trip, she still wanted to save money and chose one of the cheapest accommodations available. I, being a hedonist, wanted to go more upscale. On Corfu, she won and we stayed in a very cheap hotel with no bathroom (in the room) or running water. There was a pan of water. After Mary washed her hands, she casually asked what she should do with the dirty water. ‘Throw it out,’ I replied without thinking. She did … out the room window. A moment later, we heard screams from the outdoor restaurant below.

I can’t fully summarize our lives together here, nor our many narrow escapes. But I must share one vignette. Early on, before I moved to the University and she moved to assume the position of Deputy Director of the Wisconsin Court System, we worked in the same office building. One day, she needed to use the restroom, which was on a different floor. As she came off the elevator, she noticed a very handsome man leaning over a water fountain as he slaked his thirst. For some reason, she assumed it was me. Checking that no one was around, she crept up behind her victim and reached between his legs to give his family jewels a good squeeze.

It was not me. It took an hour for the rescue squad to scrape this poor bastard off the ceiling. But I did get several sympathy cards from him over the years for sticking with this raving lunatic. As I said, many laughs.

The above pic was taken later in our lives. I am pretty sure this was taken at Blackhawk Country Club early in her cognitive decline. We were members there and had tortured ourselves for many years on their demanding golf course. I might add that she did get a hole in one while I did not … proof that there is no God. This was not something she would let me forget until her early onset Alzheimers robbed her of that memory among so many others.

This last pic is Mary at Brookdale memory care. That devastating disease is known as the long goodbye for a reason. The stricken person suffers from a progressive decay of their mental functions until full-time care is necessary. Her decline was painful to watch. This honors graduate from the UW school of law eventually could no longer recognize the important people in her life, including me. The Covid pandemic was especially brutal. Only cyber visits via computer were permitted.

In 2022, she passed while in Hospice care. For a long time, she had not been Mary, just a mere shell of herself. Unlike other Alzheimer’s victims, she never lost her sweet personality. And until she ceased to recognize me, she never stopped wacking me in the stomach … her lifelong yet futile effort to subdue my awful sense of humor. That’s what I miss the most … her love taps as she called them. Of course, if they ever do an autopsy on me, the medical examiner will look at my damaged internal organs and wonder if I had been a POW at Hanoi Hilton 😀.

For a guy who dreaded the thought of marriage, life turned out amazingly well. Thanks Rider!

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.