Congratulations, one and all. We have made it. Today is the official halfway point of 2020, the first PED-enhanced Leap Year, in which Sadie Hawkins Day morphed into Groundhog Day...but not the Harold Ramis-directed film starring Bill Murray.
Cheer up, fellow citizens! The second half of 2020 has to be better than the first half.
Beautiful weekend at the Shore in the always-welcome company of Maggie, Cal, Rylan, and their mom and dad. Hot and humid to be sure but, spoiler alert, summer in New Jersey is supposed to be hot and humid.
It is, and always has been, home. And it is beautiful.
This week likely would have marked the start of marathon training for runners competing in this year's New York City Marathon, which is the 50th anniversary of this great race. The 2020 edition of the Marathon was scheduled for Sunday, November 1, 2020.
It shall not take place as scheduled.
On Wednesday, June 24, 2020, the New York Road Runners Club announced that its 50th Anniversary edition of the New York City Marathon shall have to wait until 2021.
The decision, while sad, is understandable. 50,000 runners take part in the Marathon annually. Countless thousands of fans watch it, lining the race course practically from start to finish. It is a massive event. It is a global event. Simply put, in our present circumstances, it is an event that could not go forward as scheduled.
Making the decision to cancel the Marathon in late June is something that any ham and egger, such as Yours truly, appreciates. I have followed a sixteen-week-training plan (sometimes more religiously than others) for most of the nine marathons I have run. Had I been in the field for this year's NYC Marathon, my first week of marathon training would have kicked off either today or next week. Better to have the race canceled before you start putting miles on your legs in preparation for a race that you shall not run.
At my age, at least, I know I am not getting any of them back.
This morning, my morning run shall be both a solo jaunt and one in which I run with countless other members of the Herd. Today, I participate in the 2020 Run With the Herd Virtual 5K, which is how the good folks who run Buffs4Life are ensuring that the 8th Annual Kyle MacIntosh Memorial 5K takes place in the Age of COVID-19.
Kyle MacIntosh was a track-and-field athlete at CU-Boulder. A Colorado kid (he was from Littleton), he ran track for the Buffs from 2010 through 2013. He graduated in December, 2013 with a degree in Communications. Unfortunately, in December, 2013, he was diagnosed with Ewing's Sarcoma. He died on January 29, 2015. He was twenty-three years old.
A couple of days following his death, in a different but not entirely dissimilar weigh station on the information superhighway, I wrote something about Kyle, his family, and their strength in the face of unquestionably unfair and ultimately insurmountable circumstances. Shortly after I wrote it, I received a very nice note via e-mail from Kyle's sister, Kendra Daniels.
COVID-19 has thus far proven to be good for very little, if anything at all. However, this year is the first year I shall participate in the Kyle MacIntosh Memorial 5K. It is held annually, in Colorado, in June, which is someplace where I am not. Under normal circumstances, that would prevent me from participating this year. Nothing about 2020 has been normal. So, this morning I shall participate from approximately 1800 miles away, in the early morning heat and humidity of June in Jersey. And it shall be my pleasure and my privilege to do so.
Note to the power brokers of MLB, irrespective of whether you are an owner, a player, or the Commissioner. When Trevor Bauer is the voice of reason for your industry, you really need to take a good, hard look at yourselves. All kidding aside (and Mr. Bauer delights in saying the outrageous), while it is not often that I find myself nodding my head in agreement when reading something he says, I am doing so now.
The realist/pessimist in me tells me that this absurdist drama in which MLB and the MLBPA have engaged for the past several weeks is going to be rendered moot. We the people of these United States, channeling our inner toddler, have proven time and again we are unable - or worse yet, unwilling - to put in the hard work necessary to win the battle against COVID-19. The reticence is not an expression of freedom or patriotism or any other "go jerk yourself off quietly in the corner while the adults talk amongst ourselves" mantra. It is selfishness. Plain and simple.
Furthermore, as the two sides fiddled while smoke poured out of various edifices in MLB's Rome, the Philadelphia Phillies and the Toronto Blue Jays each shuttered their spring training facilities in Florida in response to employees testing positive for COVID-19, which prompted MLB to close all spring training facilities. The closings are temporary, or so MLB hopes.
My first-born grandchild, Maggie, arrived on the scene three-plus years ago. Her parents marked her first birthday and her second birthday by having a small, casual party at their home.
This year, COVID-19 interfered with the best-laid plans of Ryan and Suzanne. For obvious reasons, the celebration of Maggie's 3rd birthday was placed on the back burner until circumstances permitted it to take place. For a while it appeared as if circumstances would never - in fact - permit. However, they have. Tonight, therefore, we shall gather at Ryan and Suzanne's home to celebrate the Franchise's third birthday.
Due to the molasses-like nature of said circumstances, tonight's shindig is actually a "Double Play Thursday" birthday celebration. In slightly less than two weeks, Maggie's little brother (and my #1 grandson) Cal turns two, which he shall do just one day before Princess Abigail of the Front Range shall do likewise. This year, since so much time has passed since Maggie's birthday and since Cal's is so close on the horizon, Maggie and Cal shall celebrate jointly. Baby Rylan shall only have to sing Happy Birthday one time this year. Seeing that she will be four months old tomorrow, keeping her workload down to a manageable level is probably a good idea.
In a month or so, Jess and Rob shall welcome their second baby, a little girl. Princess Abigail will have a little sister. Margaret and I will have a quintet of grandchildren. We never fail to appreciate - not even for a moment - how lucky we are. Every day with any one of them is a cause for celebration.
Today is a cause for celebration for two of them. How could it possibly get any better than this?
The Missus and I have booked a seventy-five-minute flight tonight. One that shall take us all the way from our home on Middlesex Boro's Howard Avenue...to Middlesex Boro's Lincoln Boulevard. While the drive to Ashton Brewing Company's home at 600 Lincoln Boulevard from our home will take less than five minutes, upon arrival we shall spend our allotted seventy-five minutes in the outdoor seating area that Donna and Steve have created right next door to their taproom.
Photo Credit: Ashton Brewing
(Instagram - @ashtonbrewing)
I am a fan of their beer. While I have not yet sampled everything on the menu yet, my favorite of those I have tried is the Jersey Dreamin' Pilsner.
Jersey Dreamin' Pilsner
My refrigerator down the beach is well-stocked with Jersey Dreamin', a beer whose taste lives up to its simply beautiful can, which is itself a work of art. Presently, my supply of Jersey Dreamin' is keeping company in my fridge with Jolie Blonde...
Jolie Blonde Belgian Style Tripel Ale
...which is, itself, great-tasting beer in as beautiful a can as you are likely ever to see.
Margaret and I have a six o'clock reservation. Making a reservation is easy. On their home page (ashtonbrewing.com), click on the "JOIN US" link, which shall take you here. The outdoor seating is open every Wednesday through Sunday.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. I do not want to be late for my flight.
If you are a reader whose primary area of interest is non-fiction, as I am, then I recommend you read The Outpost, Jake Tapper's telling of the story of the beyond-brave American soldiers stationed at Combat Outpost Keating in Nurestan Province, Afghanistan. For reasons that remained as much a mystery to me when I completed the book as it had when began it, higher-ups in the United States Military chose to place Combat Outpost Keating in a valley, surrounded by high mountains, practically inaccessible by any road, and approximately fourteen miles from the Pakistan border.
Tapper's book is long (more than six hundred pages) and it at times equal parts heartbreaking and infuriating. From the time that COP Keating's creation was discussed, the men who were tasked with establishing it - and then defending it - pointed out (correctly, of course) how asinine a decision it was to place it in the selected location. From the time of its establishment, in 2006, until our decision to abandon it in 2009, the fifty or so American troops stationed there lived with the consequences of their superiors' asininity.
In early October, 2009, after the United States announced it was abandoning COP Keating and had already begun airlifting some of the COP's equipment off-site by helicopter, approximately 500 Taliban fighters descended from the mountains on all sides of COP Keating. Outnumbered ten to one, the American soldiers at COP Keating repelled the assault in a bloody battle in which more than one hundred Taliban fighters were killed and in which nine American soldiers were killed. Two American soldiers, Staff Sergeant Clinton L. Romesha and Staff Sergeant Ty Carter, each received the Medal of Honor for their actions during that battle.
The story of the final battle is told in stark, vivid detail. However, what I found made Tapper's book exceptional and something I recommend to anyone and to everyone to read is the story he told of COP Keating's three-year-plus odyssey and of the men who served there at various times and who found themselves in harm's way essentially every day.
The book has been turned into a film, which is being released this year. From the trailer, it appears that the film focuses on the October, 2009 battle. If you see the film, then please understand that no matter how compellingly its story is told, it is telling only a piece of the story of COP Keating and the men who were posted there, who fought there, and who died there.
Hopefully, it shall inspire you to learn more of it. If you choose to, then do so knowing that you shall likely cry and scream throughout the process.
Summer arrived here in the Northern Hemisphere on Saturday, June 20. Sunrise that morning in my part of the world was 5:25 am.
On the off-chance you did not yourself get up to enjoy the summer’s arrival, or even if you did, I share this photograph with you, which shows what sunrise looked like. You are welcome.
Actually, no thanks necessary. My favorite place in the world is the beach at sunrise. No place I would rather be.
Today, after what has felt like the most-extended Spring in recorded history, Summer officially arrives here in the State of Concrete Gardens. I shall spend this first day of summer as I spend my favorite days of summer, which is at the beach with my bride.
However and wherever you spend this day, and this season, extract as much joy and as much happiness out of it as you can. 2020 has been a decidedly unkind year thus far. Here, in late June, we know not what fresh hell September might bring. So, while the days are long, the sun is hot, and the time is right for racing in the street, get out there and enjoy it.
Margaret and I married twenty-seven years ago today. I remain at a loss now to explain or to understand this marriage from my wife's perspective. I am not being self-effacing when I say she could have done much better. I am thankful every day that she settled. I know not what I did to deserve her. Truthfully, I know in my soul that I do not. It is knowledge that fuels my day-to-day. Every day.
WPK, Sr. died at fifty-seven. This year, I turned fifty-three. The older I get, the more I think about and contemplate my own mortality. I know that while I strive to keep myself in some semblance of good physical condition - in substantial part so that the fate that befell WPK, Sr. does not befall me - I hope that when it is time for me to dance off this mortal coil I do so before Margaret does.
As was her mother before her, Margaret is the glue that holds our family together. I cannot do all that she does for everyone and all the time. Truthfully, I would not know how or where to start. Me? I am heavily insured. Once the tears dry, spirits will be imbued by the realization that I have provided for all of them - and quite well.
I have lived in the grace of my wife's love for three decades. I have lived in it for so long that I know now I have zero interest in ever living without it. She is much braver and much stronger than I am or shall ever be. I have little confidence in my ability to live without her. I lack the courage to try.
Those who adopted
the Civil Rights Act might not have anticipated their work would lead to this
particular result. Likely, they weren't thinking about many of the Act's
consequences that have become apparent over the years, including its
prohibition against discrimination on the basis of motherhood or its ban on the
sexual harassment of male employees.
Three-plus years later, I for one am of the opinion that Justice Gorsuch has proven himself to be a valued member of the Court. I do not always agree with his position on a point of law or in a particular case. Nor would I expect to do so. I, similarly, am of the opinion that Justice Ginsburg has been a valued member of the Court although I do not always agree with her position on a point of law or in a particular case. In twenty-six years of practicing law I have yet to encounter a judge with whom I have always been in complete agreement. Should I live long enough to practice law for another quarter-century-plus, I shall not expect to encounter one.
When you have the time, and if such things interest you, then you might want to read Justice Gorsuch's opinion as well as Justice Alito's dissent and Justice Kavanaugh's dissent. You might want to set aside a bit of time to do so. The three opinions together comprise approximately sixty pages of material.
I leave you with this from Justice Gorsuch's majority opinion, because at day's end, it was these words that carried the day:
But the limits of
the drafters' imagination supply no reason to ignore the law's demands. When
the express terms of a statute give us one answer and extra-textual
considerations suggest another, it's no contest. Only the written word is the
law, and all persons are entitled to its benefit.
There is a true jewel of a song on Springsteen's Devils & Dust collection. "Jesus Was An Only Son" tells the story of Mary's relationship with her only child, including in the moments leading up to his crucifixion. Even for a lapsed Catholic like Yours truly, the imagery is stunning. It is one of my favorite Springsteen songs.
He toured solo in support of Devils & Dust. I was fortunate enough to see him at least one half-dozen times on that particular tour. "Jesus Was An Only Son" was a tour staple. Playing it live, Springsteen interspersed the song's lyrics with his thoughts, including those about how as parents we do our level best from the moment of our child's birth to protect our child from the world's hardships, knowing as we do so that ours is indeed a fool's errand.
Jesus Was An Only Son (The Story)
We will prove to be no better able to protect our kids from life's harsh realities than our parents were at protecting us...our our children shall prove to be at protecting our grandchildren. Yet, in spite of knowing that our battle is a losing one, we fight it anyway. As parents, it simply is what we do.
It is a disturbance in the natural order of the universe when a child predeceases a parent. It is my fervent hope that it is a pain Margaret and I shall not have to endure and one that shall never darken the doors of Suzanne and Ryan's home of Jess and Rob's.
While 2020 is not yet to its halfway point (heck, we have not even reached summer's first day), two families I know have experienced just such a devastating, unfathomable loss.
Garrett Spada was a young man who I met only once or twice - a very long time ago. His mom, Susan, and I have been colleagues at the Firm for as long as I have worked there. She is a terrifically nice woman and an excellent attorney. Many years ago, when Garrett was still in grammar school, Susan brought him to work on "Bring Your Child to Work Day". He was very professionally-dressed (probably more so than I was) in a blue jacket, white shirt, tie, and charcoal slacks. He had a nice smile and a firm handshake. His mom beamed while introducing me to him. On March 9, 2020, Garrett Spada died. He was just twenty-six.
What feels now like a lifetime ago, I saw Mike Dessino on a regular basis. Mike wrestled at Middlesex High School between Margaret's two nephews, Joe and Frank, so as we attended dual meets and tournaments of all shapes and sizes, we watched Mike grow into a dominant wrestler, which he continued to be at the collegiate level for Bloomsburg University. What always struck me about him was the quiet manner in which he went about his business. No bragging. No boasting. He wrestled. He won (an overwhelming percentage of the time). He walked to the mat's center at match's end. He shook his opponent's hand. He walked off the mat. No drama. No "Hey look at me!" histrionics. Having had the pleasure of spending a considerable amount of time in the bleachers with his parents, Mike and Denise, I never had to guess from whom Mike inherited his quiet, "let the work speak for itself" demeanor. His apple fell not far at all from the parental tree.
...Now there's a loss that can never be replaced, a destination that can never be reached, a light you'll never find in another's face, a sea whose distance cannot be breached...
Effective today, outdoor dining returns to the State of Concrete Gardens. Among the establishments able to invite customers on-site to sample its wares is Ashton Brewing Company. Steve and Donna Ashton opened their craft brewery on Lincoln Boulevard in Middlesex, New Jersey less than three months ago. This week, for the first time, customers shall be able to enjoy their terrific selection of craft beers on the premises.
Congratulations to the governing body of the Borough of Middlesex, who overcame their observational bias ("We could not help but notice you were not born and raised here") and their fear of and/or blind allegiance to a local tavern keeper to do the right thing and permit Ashton Brewery to open its doors this week so that patrons who have thus far enjoyed their beer, whether by delivery or by curbside pickup (my jam), can do so at the Brewery.
I cannot wait to sit down, formally raise a glass to an old friend, his wife, and their whole team on this new venture, and enjoy a freshly-poured Jersey Dreamin'.
One might think that one history-marking achievement being enough for the average lifetime that Kathy Sullivan might have rested on her space-walking laurels for the rest of her life. She has not. Not even close.
The great hero of my life's birthday is today. Had she not died ten days shy of her 89th birthday three years ago, today she would be preparing to blow out 92 candles.
Presuming the weather cooperates, I intend to spend a significant portion of my day on the 17th Avenue Beach with Margaret, Suzanne/Ryan and my three Jersey grandchildren. The beach was Mom's favorite place. I shall not hear her voice. But I shall spend the day with her nonetheless. I cannot think of a better place to be.
Having returned to the office full-time earlier this week, and having completed and/or endured back-to-back days there, I reckon it is flat-footed tie between me and everybody else regarding who benefits more from today being a "WFB" Friday for me.
You can move on, with a heart stronger in the places
it's been broken, create new love.
You can hammer pain and trauma into a righteous sword
and use it in defense of life, love, human grace
and God's blessings. But nobody gets a do-over.
Nobody gets to go back
and there's only one road out.
Ahead, into the dark.”
-Bruce Springsteen
After spending the past eighty-five days working from home, I returned to the office yesterday. I figured that once Governor Murphy lifted the stay-at-home order under which we had been living since mid-March, it was only a matter of time before those of us scattered across the state like matchsticks would be summoned back to the Firm. I decided that I would dictate that myself.
It took me very little time to realize that while I enjoy how I earn a living, I no longer feel constrained to do it within the Firm's four walls in Parsippany. I worked remotely for three months, driving to the office twice weekly in the early morning to drop off files, to pick up files, and to pick up my mail. But for those forays, I worked from home every day, never lacking for work to do, and never lacking for peace and quiet in which to do it.
Yesterday, it took until 8:30 am, listening to people talking over one another - and our excellent Facilities Manager, Jose, and his right-hand, Rosemary, complaining about some allegedly important issue, for three months' of peace and quiet to be eviscerated.
Un-fucking-believable.
I did not miss it. Not any part of it.
This week, "WFB" Friday cannot arrive soon enough...and not just for me.
This summer, perhaps even more than in summers past, I have needed the Jersey Shore. The world these days is often a confusing and a convoluted place. For me at least, while the ocean is a wonderfully mysterious place the depths of which I shall never plumb literally or metaphorically, it is a place that consistently elevates my spirit and my mood. It has never betrayed me or even disappointed me.
Margaret and I spent this past weekend at our little Paradise by the Sea accompanied only by our faithful canine companion, Sam, who had the great misfortune of accompanying me through the hot soup that was early Saturday morning as we covered almost 3.5 miles as our contribution to the Stomp the Monster Virtual 5K. Several hours after Sam and I returned home, she hunkered down on the living room couch to sleep while Margaret and I relaxed on the 17th Avenue Beach down by the waterline.
It was hot and humid enough on Saturday that even when seated this close to the water, spontaneous combustion was a legitimate concern. Spoiler alert: We made it through unscathed.
Sunday morning dawned bright and humidity-free, reinforcing my belief that weather has no memory. While Sam snoozed with Margaret, I headed out on a four-mile run, taking North Boulevard around Lake Como out to 3rd Avenue. I then ran south into Spring Lake on 3rd Avenue towards its downtown. Along the way, I passed by my wife's namesake, St. Margaret's Roman Catholic Church.
I ran through Spring Lake's downtown, where I saw one other runner and no one else, until I reached its terminus, which is at the intersection of 3rd Avenue and Passaic Avenue. There is a big, beautiful American flag that flies there. Sunday morning, as I neared it, the breeze picked up just enough to fill it.
East on Passaic Avenue to Ocean Avenue, at which point I hopped up onto the boardwalk and headed north towards home. The early morning was, as it often is along the water, simply beautiful.
Did not realize there was a surfer in the water until I reached
home and saw this photograph on my phone.
I left the boardwalk as I approached the September 11 Memorial so that I could pause there for a moment to pay my respects. It truly is a magnificent and serene place - especially so in the early morning sun.
I told myself, as I started to doze off on the beach later Sunday morning, sitting with the Missus down by the waterline, I had earned the nap.
True or not, it is my story and to it I shall stick.
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