Tonight I hope to do something I rarely do. Something that, truthfully, I cannot recall the last time I did it. It is my intention to stay up until midnight. Not because I shall be at some raucous celebration heralding the new year's arrival...
...but because I want to see this one's departure with my own eyes.
After all 2020 has inflicted upon us, I shall believe it is finally over only when I see it. Not one second sooner.
However you spend it, wherever you spend, and with whomever you spend it, make your marking of the relegation of this train wreck of a year to History's scrap heap a safe one. If you do raise your glass in a toast, then might I suggest, "Here's to hoping that we have done more than simply survived 2020. Here's to hoping we have learned from its hard lessons."
2020 has finally almost reached its end. For anyone who has lived through it, from this day forward until you attain complete senility, 2020 shall be exempted from inclusion in any story about "the good old days". No one shall ever wax nostalgic about this compendium of calendar entries. It has taken too much from too many. In August, it took Pete Hamill.
Those of us, including myself in that number, who have been fortunate enough to make it to this point in this year relatively unscathed by the year's events, should never lose sight of just how lucky we have been. While it has been said that luck is the residue of design, 2020 has been a year that has reinforced the propriety of Pop Pop's rule about never believing the man who speaks in absolutes. Not all those gobsmacked by life this year have ended up in the utterly unenviable position in which they find themselves because they planned poorly. Many too many have been knocked on their pins by a circumstance for which they could not have ever fully prepared, even under the best-case scenario. Unless you have been in a coma or have been consuming nothing but Kool-Aid for the past three hundred and sixty-four days, you know that we the people of these United States have occupied a place somewhere decidedly south of the best-case scenario.
If you have been lucky enough to only be indirectly affected by this year's COVID-19 pandemic and the economic disaster that has ridden along side it as if they are two of the Apocalypse's Four Horsemen, then carry with you into 2021 and the rest of your days thereafter the humility you have hopefully learned. So far, my family has remained healthy and safe and I have gotten up every morning and been able to earn my living in my chosen profession. Certainly, my own work ethic has been a factor in my good fortune but to think it has been the only factor would be, truthfully, delusional.
We the people of these United States must never forget that as we make our merry way pursuing happiness we are all occupants of the same, solitary canoe. Success or failure is determined by how purposefully we paddle the canoe. Since not everyone paddles at the same pace and since everyone cannot paddle for the same length of time, we move the canoe purposefully only when we recognize those truths and compensate for them accordingly. When I tire, you pick up the slack for me. I shall do so for you when you tire.
I am almost hesitant to note aloud that we have finally reached the final Tuesday of what feels like the longest Leap Year in the annals of recorded history for fear of New Year's Eve morphing into Groundhog Day, the ball never dropping in Times Square at midnight, and 2020 continuing for an indeterminate amount of time.
Almost.
I find my courage in the fact that today is the birthday of one of my favorite lawyers, my niece Simone. She is the second lawyer in the family. To maintain geographical balance, we have positioned ourselves on opposite coasts. One of my favorite events of this year was watching via Zoom as Simone was sworn in as a member of the California Bar, which she was this June.
As luck would have it, she took her oath as a member of the Bar on June 2, 2020, which was the eleventh anniversary of the death of Margaret's mom, the late, great Suzy B. Margaret and I watched Simone's swearing-in together. By ceremony's end, Margaret had a tear in her eye and a smile on her face. Each there, I believe, because of her appreciation of this date finally being reclaimed, at least in part, by a good thing. It is nice to have something positive to which my wife can associate June 2nd. Thanks to Simone, she can.
As for me, I am hopeful that the image of Simone toasting her swearing-in by raising a glass of Jameson's never leaves my mind's eye. I have been at this "practice of law" thing for almost three decades. It is nice to know and to love someone whose journey in this profession is in its nascency. Her enthusiasm is contagious. It stands for the proposition that while you might not be able to teach an old dog a new trick, if you energize him enough you might just be able to rekindle his enthusiasm for an old one or two that he really loved.
Happy Birthday, Counselor, and thank you. In a year where things in which to believe often were in short supply, you provided me with a very important and most welcome one. Next time I see you, the first round of Jameson's is on me.
My beloved Colorado Buffaloes take the field tomorrow night for the final time this season. When the Pac-12's other bowl-eligible teams begged off, the responsibility of representing the conference in the 2020 Alamo Bowl in San Antonio, Texas fell to Coach Dorrell's Buffs. The reward for stepping up? Being served up as double-digit underdogs to the 20th-ranked Texas Longhorns.
Fun fact: Although UT's campus in Austin is only eighty miles from San Antonio, a distance that can apparently be covered by car in less than ninety minutes, the Buffs are the home team for tomorrow night's game. I am at a loss to think of a venue, historically speaking, in which home-field advantage is more meaningless than the Alamo.
Here is to hoping that Coach Dorrell's troops fare at least a bit better than did Jim Bowie and his troops. Win or lose, he and his guys have put together a 2020 season that brought far more joy to this cranky old Buffalo than I had any basis for which to hope. In a year when good things were in short supply, the way the Buffs went about their business this season was a very good thing. It is yet another reason for me to look forward to 2021...
As if I, or anyone for that matter, really needed another.
I am not much of a recommendations guy. Far too often, it seems to me, we confuse fact for opinion, even in benign ways such as when discussing something we either like or dislike. Rather than saying, "I loathe green beans", a statement of fact, I might say, "Green beans are the worst vegetable ever!" Although I would submit that the latter is also a statement of fact I am compelled to admit it is actually an expression of opinion.
The following is an expression of opinion. Moreover it is an expression solely of my opinion. Nothing more. Nothing less. No one more. No one less.
One night last week (the Missus was out visiting her cousin), I watched on HBO Max the documentary film Frank Marshall made on The Bee Gees. What caught my attention was the film's title, "How Can You Mend A Broken Heart". A lifetime ago, a classic Wurlitzer jukebox that my older brother Kelly and his great friend, Rich Perrego, rescued and restored in Hurricane Agnes's aftermath, occupied a spot of honor on the front porch of our house in Harvey's Lake, Pennsylvania. The jukebox was a beauty. To my memory, it looked like this. Whether I am right matters not. What I do remember about it was that among the 45s that it played was the Bee Gees' "How Can You Mend A Broken Heart", which song I always loved. It also played their "Lonely Days", which I also dug very much.
I enjoyed the film very much. I had no idea how little I knew about them until I watched it. I found myself sitting singing along to most of the songs, including those that ended up on the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. Long story short, I found it to be a worthwhile expenditure of two hours. If you have HBO and/or HBO Max (I know not whether you can have one without the other), then you might want to consider checking it out yourself...
...whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother.
In 2017, I ran the New York City Marathon for the third (and thus far final) time. I ran in the company of my sisters, Kara and Jill, and a great friend, Sue Kizis. As Jill, Sue, and I completed our rain-soaked tour of Queens and prepared our assault on the Queensboro Bridge, which would carry us into Manhattan and the Marathon's final ten miles, our own two-person cheering section, themselves soaked by a November rain only Guns N' Roses could appreciate, greeted us and took a "proof of life" photograph of the three of us. It was a very excellent part of a very long Sunday in New York City.
Today, one half of our Queens-based, husband-and-wife fan club celebrates her 50th birthday. Having no idea whatsoever how Karan and Rob plan to mark the occasion, if they are planning to head into Manhattan, then I offer only this suggestion: Do not run or walk across the Queensboro Bridge to get there. It feels as if it goes on forever.
It shall be quiet this morning when I wake up. My faithful canine companion, Sam, who likely will end up back in bed with Margaret, will get up with me. She will stretch the night's sleep out of her bones and then head out the back door, down the porch steps, and into the yard. Picking up the faint scent of rabbits and deer who have long since vacated the premises, she shall gambol about the yard, endearing herself and us alike to our neighbors by barking once, twice, or three times, before finding the perfect spot for her morning "constitutional". Her bladder made gladder, she will bound back up the steps, pausing for a brief moment to remind herself that coffee is my breakfast of choice, not hers, and then heading back down the hall and to the warmth of our bed.
Suzanne and Ryan's home here in New Jersey and Jess and Rob's two-thirds of the way across the continent shall be filled this morning with the joyous noise of Christmas. Three of the five grandchildren are old enough now to embrace Christmas, which makes the charcoal briquet playing the part of my heart very happy. At some point later today, the New Jersey grandkids (and their mom and dad) will be in our home, filling it with Christmas's spirit. We shall not be in the same place as the Colorado branch office of the family business. Technology shall enable us to spend a bit of face time with Princess Abigail and her baby sister.
This morning, once Margaret and Joe awaken, the three of us will have breakfast and then spend a bit of time opening presents. We shall at some point toast our good fortune. 2020 has been a hellacious year. Yet, through today, the worst of it has not yet breached the four walls of our home. My children remain safe and well as do my grandchildren. Those of us who work outside of the home have been able to earn our daily bread without interruption.
Again, this year I saw fit to ask Santa for absolutely nothing for Christmas. And once again, this year everything I need is right where I need it, which is exactly where it always is. Where it has always been.
We are now a day or two deep into the post-season portion of the 2020 NCAA FCS (f/k/a Division I) College Football season. The bowl bonanza has begun - although truthfully referring to what has unfolded, and shall continue to unfold through January 11, 2021 as a "bonanza" runs the risk of incurring the wrath of the remaining members of the Cartwright clan. A significant number of schools decided to opt out of playing in a bowl game this year, including every member of the Pac-12 except for the Oregon Ducks and my Colorado Buffaloes, which is why the Buffs are shuffling off to San Antonio, Texas to face the Texas Longhorns in the Alamo Bowl on December 29. For those placing a bet at home or through your phone, Texas has opened as a 13-point favorite. I expect the line to grow as we get closer to game time.
Although the number of bowls being played this season is down significantly from the normal "non-pandemic" complement of games, the people who run them have managed to invite a half-dozen members of the SEC with losing records to play in them. Notwithstanding the two National Semi-Final Games being played on New Year's Day and the National Championship Game on January 11, there are twenty-six bowl games being played. Twenty-six. Six of them, slightly less than 25% of the total to be played, will include a SEC team with a losing record. The SEC has twelve member schools. Ten of the twelve are playing in bowl games. The only two missing the party? Vanderbilt, which failed to win a game all season, and LSU, last year's National Champion, which is serving a "self-imposed" bowl ban this season, which ban the Bayou Bengals "self-imposed" when their record was 3-5. They finished their season 5-5.
The University of South Carolina, which managed to win two of its ten regular-season games and fire its head coach on account of his team stinking so much, secured a bowl bid as did its conference companions Mississippi State University, the University of Tennessee, and the University of Arkansas, each of which won three of their ten regular-season games. COVID-19 did to the Gamecocks what an apparent lack of institutional self-awareness and humility could not, which is keep them from their bowl appearance. The University of Kentucky, which won four games on its ten-game season, is playing in a bowl game. The belle of the ball as it were from the SEC's Second Division (the 2020 bowl game-equivalent of being the skinniest kid in fat camp) is the University of Mississippi. Ole Miss won four games but it only played nine, which means it came much closer to being statistically average than did the other five.
One might think that the Armed Forces Bowl might have had an interest in matching Army against the Tulsa Golden Hurricanes, runners-up from the AAC, as opposed to inviting Mississippi State to play Tulsa. Or perhaps the Liberty Bowl would have wanted Army to challenge West Virginia in its game rather than tasking Tennessee with doing so.
One would have been wrong. Fortunately for the Black Knights, fate intervened. Following their final regular-season game this past Saturday, Tennessee's coaches and players took COVID-19 tests. The Volunteers apparently had a sizable number of positive tests, enough that they informed the Liberty Bowl they would not be playing in the game on New Year's Eve. Suddenly the Liberty Bowl found itself in need of an opponent to face West Virginia. When they contacted Army, Jeff Monken's Black Knights accepted the assignment.
Will Army defeat West Virginia? I cannot pretend to have any idea. I know however that their resume warranted them being extended the courtesy of an invitation to begin with, and not as an eleventh-hour, after-the-fact, desperate times call for desperate measures replacement.
Consistent excellence should never be taken for granted.
Today is the first full day of winter (Solstice + 1 if you prefer). In another few days, and thereafter probably for eight to ten weeks, weather in this parts is no longer going to "feel like Christmas". It is just going to be cold. As we slog our way through January and then February, which in 2021 at least will not come equipped with its additional day for which no one asked ("Hey barkeep, let's get another day of February for everybody!" exclaimed no drunk ever), we need to keep our eyes on the big picture.
Here it is.
Every day between today and the Summer Solstice, which for you folks playing the home version of our game might like to know is Sunday, June 20, those of us living in the Northern Hemisphere will get a minute or two of daylight more than we received the day before. A minute or two of daylight might not seem like a lot. I assure you it is.
I spent the back half of 2017 processing the death of my mother. Everyone grieves in his own way. On what proved to be the final day of Mom's life, I wailed and bawled uncontrollably for several minutes - sitting as I was in my living room - after saying good-bye to her for the last time. A few hours later, Jill and I were on our way to Florida, in Delaware if memory serves, when Kara telephoned to tell us Mom had died. There were additional tears shed in Florida. Of that much I am certain.
Once we returned home though, the trajectory of my grief had changed. I am my father's son in certain respects, including the internalization of bad, terrible, and truly horrible things. Unlike my father, my method for expelling the demons that get pent up inside me is running. I spent a considerable amount of time that summer and fall running. It turned out that the training required to run the Marine Corps Marathon in mid-October and, thereafter, the New York City Marathon on November's first Sunday, both of which I had committed to months prior to Mom's death, proved to be therapeutic.
In the weeks following the New York City Marathon, I ran more often than typically did following a long race. I found comfort in the repetition of the sound of my footsteps as I ran. I also found humor in the words of my great friend, Dave Lackland, who buried first his father and then his mother, in less than two years' time with his mom's death preceding Mom's by less than six months. When I talked to Dave for the first time after Mom died, he noted that he and I were now both orphans. As if recognizing that "orphan" is an odd word to use to describe a fifty-year-old man he quickly added, "Not like Orphan Annie or anything. Not the cute kind." I laughed when he had said it and, thereafter, any time I thought about it it made me laugh (including writing it right here).
The Winter Solstice 2017 occurred on a morning that I had to be in the Ocean County Courthouse for a Settlement Conference at either 9:00 am or 10:00 am. I spent the night before in Lake Como, which shaved 2/3 of the time off of my drive to Toms River. That morning, before sunrise, I set off for a run.
I ran south through Spring Lake and then headed north to home running on the boards in Spring Lake. As I ran, lost in thought, I was taken by the number of people running towards the boards and the beach in a southeasterly direction. It was just about sunrise.
Being a bit slow on the uptake and more than a bit stubborn I broke neither my stride nor my north-fixed gaze until the twelfth person or so ran across my vision field. When I turned my head to look out towards the water, I saw what each of them had hastened to the beach to see...
Winter Solstice 2017
Spring Lake, New Jersey
Winter Solstice 2017
Spring Lake, New Jersey
Standing on the beach in Spring Lake, looking upon the splendor of that sunrise, I was by myself but I was not alone. At that moment and at that point in time, I felt Mom. She loved the ocean and made certain that she lived the final two decades of her life 1/10 of a mile from it in Jupiter, Florida. I stood there and realized she was right beside me.
Same as she had always been. Same as she shall always be.
This is the last Sunday before Christmas. Tomorrow is the first day of Winter. If you still have shopping to do, as do I, then get at it. In case you have not yet figured it out, time is growing short.
When May 31, 2021 arrives, WPK, Sr., my father, will have been dead for forty years. In February, 2021 I shall inch another year closer to being as old as he was when he died.
The past twelve months or so have reminded me that everything I believed I knew about my father - when he was fifty-seven and I was fourteen - was not inaccurate. The picture I had painted using those beliefs, however, was incomplete. It was also, as it turns out, profoundly unfair.
We are who our DNA says we are. Life blessed me with Mom who was my hero and who remains so. I suppose that it also blessed me with my father. For while I have tried hard my whole life to tamp down the parts of his personality that I found repellent as a child, I learned years ago that I lack the foot speed to outrun my past. I do not believe any of us possesses that ability.
No one you have ever been
And no place you have gone
Ever leaves you.
The new parts of you
Simply jump in the car and
Go along for the rest of the ride.
The success of your journey
And your destination
All depend on who's driving.
-Bruce Springsteen
I recognize now that which I failed to recognize when my father was alive, and which I failed to recognize for a number of years after his death, which is how much anger he carried with him in his day-to-day. Anger towards those who exploited his immense talents for their own profit. Those whose table was filled with the bounty he provided but who never invited him to sit at that table and break bread with them. Worse than that, I have come to learn, was the anger he directed at himself. Anger at what he misperceived as impotence, which was actually nothing more than well-reasoned fear.
Dad knew damn well how badly those who screwed him over were doing it. They saw no need to hide it. Yet he did nothing about it save for put his helmet on, buckle up his chin strap, and lean into the fight day after day. He was the primary bread-winner in a family that - when he died at age 57 - still had half of its six children who had yet to begin college. He did what he believed he had to do and in the final decade of his life on more than one occasion he turned down an opportunity to do that which he loved someplace other than where he was doing it. He was afraid that if that opportunity, once pursued, did not pan out, his pursuit of it would have crippled not only him but mom and us kids too.
Dad - circa 1964
Browning School for Boys - New York City
"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know" is an adage by which WPK, Sr. lived his life. His adherence to it ate him alive. It destroyed him. My epiphany on this point gladdens me, because it has prompted me to remove my foot from the throat of my late father, which it likely never should have been. It also breaks my heart.
As it turns out, the final great lesson Dad taught me was that (to borrow a line from an old song I love), "I'm not gonna let them do to me what I watched them do to Pop". I am change-resistant for I am my father's son. However, I have opted not to allow my aversion to change to paralyze me. I have opted not to allow it to consume me from the inside out. I have opted not to allow it to eat me alive.
Happy Birthday, Dad. You deserved better than you got from this world. You certainly have deserved better than you have gotten all these years from your judgmental, colossally-wrong youngest child. I get it now. I understand. Finally. Now I get why you always seemed tired. I am fucking exhausted myself.
You will forgive me if I hesitate to raise a glass in tribute to Commissioner Rob Manfred and the Lords of Major League Baseball for finally doing the right thing by the men who played in the Negro Leagues back when the bigotry that permeated this nation, both between and beyond the white lines of a baseball diamond, prevented African-American players from playing in the Major Leagues. This week's decision effectively reverses the 1968 decision of MLB's Special Baseball Records Committee, which voted to not deign the Negro Leagues status as a Major League. Fifty-two (almost fifty-three) years later, MLB finally got around to acknowledging the obvious. Mitch McConnell moves with a sprinter's speed in comparison to the Lords of Baseball.
One more than one occasion this year, things about which to feel good have appeared to be in scant supply. Lysol Wipes have seemed easier to find. Maybe, just maybe, we have not been looking hard enough.
As a sports fan who has not watched an NBA game from beginning to end since Magic's Lakers and Bird's Celtics fought tooth and nail in the NBA Finals in the 1980's, I was wholly unaware of Anthony Carter, Bill Duffy, and their longstanding client-agent relationship, which continues through present day. Since I knew not who either man was, I was equally unenlightened about the one, unique aspect of their relationship, which 99 times out of 100 would have ended it but because of the depth and breadth of character these two men each possesses apparently ratified it and, perhaps, strengthened it.
Once upon a lifetime ago, Anthony Carter was a bench player in the NBA. He played in the NBA for thirteen seasons, four of which he spent as a reserve for the Miami Heat. Bill Duffy was his agent. The contract under which Anthony Carter played the 2002-03 season held a $4.1 million player option. That season, Carter, twenty-seven, appeared in forty-nine games for the Heat, shooting less than 36% and averaging less than five points per game. Not surprisingly, Carter wanted to exercise his player option and wanted the Heat to pay him $4.1 million for the 2003-04 season. He directed Duffy to inform the Heat on or before the June 30, 2003 deadline.
Duffy forgot to do so. His mistake cost Anthony Carter a substantial amount of money and made him an accidental free agent. The best deal he could find? A one-year contract with the San Antonio Spurs for the NBA minimum, which was then apparently in the neighborhood of $750,000. Duffy did not run from his error. He told Carter what he had done. He agreed to make it right. He agreed to pay him back the $3 million his mistake had cost him. Carter accepted his terms. He did not accuse him of any criminal wrongdoing. He did not sue him. Hell, he did not even fire him.
Duffy paid Carter back the money his mistake had cost him. Every dime of it. The two men agreed to a repayment schedule over a term of years and here, in 2020, Bill Duffy made his final payment to Anthony Carter.
The best part of this story, to me anyway, is not Duffy's ownership of his error or Carter's willingness to accept Duffy's apology for what he had done and Duffy's plan for making him whole. To me, the best part of this story is that this single error does not represent the sum and substance of the relationship these two men have had since Duffy became Carter's agent in 1998, and continue to have to this day. At one point or another in their almost three-decade-long relationship, each has leaned on the other for support and one has needed the other, the call for help has been answered.
Anthony Carter's final season in the NBA was 2011-12. Since retirement, he has gotten into coaching, initially in the NBA's Developmental League and, since 2016, for the Miami Heat. He currently is the Heat's Player Development Coach. Who does he trust, to this day, to review a contract before he signs it? Bill Duffy.
It was almost one hundred and twenty-five years ago that the editors of The New York Sun - on a Tuesday in September no less - answered sweet, little, eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon's (she of the 115 West Ninety-Fifth Street O'Hanlon family) question, "Is There a Santa Claus?" in the affirmative.
No one currently living in Gulf Breeze, Florida had yet been born in time to read the editorial in the September 21, 1897 edition of The Sun. It matters not. This year, one hundred and fourteen families have irrefutable proof of his existence. Their proof is in the person of Michael Esmond and his extraordinary benevolence. Mr. Esmond paid the past-due utility bills of one hundred and fourteen families in Gulf Breeze, Florida. But for his action, the City of Gulf Breeze would have shut off their utilities.
It is a sentiment as timeless as the words Francis P. Church used in his September 21, 1897 answer to eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon's prayer:
It was on this date eight years ago that an obscenely well-armed coward stormed the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut and murdered twenty children and six adults.
The families directed affected by that day's violence, which forever altered their dynamics and their trajectories, have worked very hard since remembering those lost and honoring their lives. It is incumbent upon us, the living, to do likewise in whatever way, large or small, we can.
In case you missed it, this past week William Shakespeare became the second Brit to receive the Pfizer COVID-19 vaccine. Shakespeare, eighty-one, received his shot after Margaret Keenan received hers, making the soon-to-be 91 year-old grandmother the tip of the spear in Great Britain.
Here's to hoping that for Mrs. Keenan, Mr. Shakespeare, and everyone else grappling with this insidious disease All's Well That Ends Well.
This afternoon at 3:00 pm Eastern Time, the Midshipmen of the United States Naval Academy shall sail up the Hudson River (metaphorically speaking) and engage their brothers from other mothers, the Black Knights of the United States Military Academy in the 121st Annual Army-Navy Football Game.
For the first time since World War II, one of the two service academies shall host the game. In 1942, the two squads banged helmets at Annapolis. The following year, hostilities resumed at West Point. Every year since 1944, the game has been played at a neutral site. Presuming we the people of these United States re-learn in 2021 how to get out of our own way, a skill in dangerously short supply here in 2020, when the two teams meet again in 2021, they shall do so on the neutral ground that is Philadelphia.
Michie Stadium shall host the Corps of Cadets and the Brigade of Midshipmen. It is anticipated that the Corps and the Brigade may very well make up the entirety of the crowd in attendance, due to COVID-19 guidance, although earlier this week the Commander-in-Chief declared his intention to travel to West Point for the game.
It is a game that features one of my favorite traditions in all of sports, which is the post-game singing of each academy's alma mater - by both squads. Tradition dictates that the two teams gather first in front of the losing team's student section and sing that Academy's song first. Then, they move to the other side of the field and, standing in front of the victor's students, sing the song of the winning Academy. In 2016, having lost to Army for the first time since 2001, Navy sang its alma mater "Navy Blue and Gold" first (I implore you to watch the entire fifty-five second video):
Navy Midshipmen singing "Navy Blue and Gold"
2016 Army-Navy Game
As it turned out, in 2016, after waiting fifteen years to "sing second" the Army players found themselves joined on the field by a stunningly large number of their fellow Cadets for the singing of their Alma Mater:
Army players & Cadet Corps singing "Alma Mater"
2016 Army-Navy Game
The first shall be last and, today, the first shall Sing Second...
Hanukkah began last night at sundown. I had no idea (a) Hanukkah existed; or (b) what Hanukkah was until Kara, Jill, and I moved to Wardlaw-Hartridge, which we did when I entered 5th grade in the fall of 1977. It likely comes as no surprise that Hanukkah did not appear on the school calendar at either St. Paul's School in Princeton, where I attended Kindergarten, 1st grade, and 2nd grade, or Immaculate Conception School in Somerville, where I spent two fun-filled years in 3rd and 4th grades.
One of the things I enjoyed the most out of attending W-H was the number of kids I met, including many with whom I became friends, who were Jewish and through whom I learned the meaning of Hanukkah, including but not limited to its songs. I still find myself singing The Dreidel Song every now and again.
If you and yours celebrate the Festival of Lights, then may your celebration last for every minute of all eight days. 2020 has felt at times like a year in which reasons to celebrate have been few and far between. One is here now. Embrace it. Enjoy it...
...and may this world enjoy the light it - and each of us - needs right now.
Among the rewards Theodore Roosevelt garnered due to his willingness to be the man in the arena, daring greatly, and being unafraid of failure was the Nobel Peace Prize. On this date in 1906, he became the first American awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.
President Roosevelt helped mediate an end to the Russo-Japanese War, which the Russian Empire and the Empire of Japan waged against one another in 1904 and 1905. Some historians believe that the conflict, which resulted in 150,000 casualties between the combatants and approximately 20,000 Chinese civilians, was effectively "World War 0", and set the stage for World War I, which began less than ten years later, and World War II.
During the spring and summer of 1905, President Roosevelt oversaw the peace talks - held in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, which talks resulted in Russia and Japan signing the Treaty of Portsmouth, which treaty both sides signed on September 5, 1905.
Good fortune shone upon me last week. In order to take care of something for Margaret, I spent Thursday night at our little Paradise by the Sea, from which location I then worked all day on Friday. Ah, the joy of spending an entire work day without (a) wearing a mask; and (b) checking the "Vacant" or "Occupied" sign on the 3rd floor men's room door. 2020 has taught me to dream a different dream.
But I digress.
I woke up at 4:00 am Friday morning and worked for about two-and-a-half hours, until there was sufficient usable daylight in which to run. One of the things I love most about the Jersey Shore is that irrespective of temperature or the weather, there are always people out on and near the boardwalks and the beaches taking in the sunrise. If you have never experienced sunrise over the ocean, then I hope you have the chance to do so - at least one time.
It is usually extraordinary. It is never redundant. Every day's unveiling is different than the one that preceded it.
I no longer run long distances. I hope to do so again but presently I have no plan to do so. 2021? Perhaps. Right now, two or three miles in the peace, quiet, and simple beauty of the early morning is enough for me.
The Lord and I have an understanding. He does not darken my door and I return the favor. I am neither an Atheist nor a lapsed Catholic. I am simply a mortal man whose faith is vested absolutely in (a) the face staring back at me in the bathroom mirror every morning; and (b) myself. I do not begrudge anyone his or her faith, although I would point out that recorded history's annals attribute more deaths to organized religion than to any other source and that it is an uncomfortably short walk (for me anyway) from faith to zealotry. I have little concern about spending eternity in Hell. I have driven east to west through Kansas AND Nebraska - on separate cross-country drives. I can handle it.
I recall from my parentally-forced attendance at (a) Catholic elementary schools; and (b) Sunday mass that today is a Holy Day of Obligation on the Roman Catholic calendar. It is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. It is a day that as a Springsteen fan has long made me think of this and now, courtesy of the stunningly good new record Letter to You now also makes me think of this.
Meanwhile, from his seat at the bar in the Holy Grail Saloon, Franco Harris smiles...
Seventy-nine years ago today, the Empire of Japan declared war on the United States. It was, as President Franklin Delano Roosevelt described it to a joint session of Congress the following day, "a date which will live in infamy."
It, of course, proved to be much more. In that instant, borne out of a sun-filled Sunday morning in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, this nation became an active participant in World War II. We fought against the Germans and the Italians in Europe through the spring of 1945, when Germany's surrender brought an end to the war on the Continent. We fought against the Japanese throughout and all over the Pacific until August 1945 when, following President Truman's orders to drop an atomic bomb on Hiroshima and, thereafter, on Nagasaki, the Japanese finally surrendered.
Buoyed by a common purpose and imbued by the knowledge that failure was simply not an option, we the people of these United States came together. We did what was necessary because it was necessary. It took courage to do it. It took imagination to do it. It took determination to do it.
If you are a digital subscriber to The New York Times, then you might have seen this piece on its web site Thursday. In case you do not subscribe - or if you do and simply missed this piece - I thought it might be a fun way to spend a few minutes on a Sunday morning.
I subscribe to the theory that an informed electorate is critical to our Republic operating with a modicum of functionality. In the month-plus since Joe Biden defeated Donald Trump to gain election as our nation's 46th President, I have been mystified and mortified by the apparent ignorance many possess regarding what I had long presumed to be well-known, familiar processes and procedures. Truthfully, the ignorance would itself have been easy to overlook had it not been expressed repeatedly and loudly.
The present administration has toughened the test for becoming a United States citizen, which is something with which I, for one, take no issue. If one wants to become a citizen of a particular country, then requiring that person to pass a test that is harder than a pee test but significantly easier than any of the Twelve Labours of Hercules seems to me to be a fair, reasonable requirement. The 2020 version of the Civics Test includes twenty questions drawn from a pool of 128 possible questions, of which a person applying for citizenship must answer twelve correctly. The testing materials one can review in preparation for the exam include the 128 questions and their answers.
It is an oral exam. A lifetime ago, Mrs. K assured me that "60%" was not a passing score in Pre-Calculus. 60% is, however, a passing score on the Civics Test. Fun fact: Even if 60% had been a passing score in Mrs. K's Pre-Calculus class, I still failed.
But I digress.
How would you do on the oral Civics Test. Based upon a lot of what I have heard and I have read these past thirty-plus days, to borrow a line from the Poet Laureate of the Jersey Shore, it certainly appears that, "You guys in trouble out here". Maybe? Then again, maybe not. The piece in The Times referenced in the first paragraph of this essay provides its reader the opportunity to answer nine questions, which the paper put in multiple-choice form to make it a bit easier:
1 of 9
James
Madison is famous for many things. Name one.
President during the War of 1812
Fifth president of the United States
Writer of the Declaration of Independence
First Secretary of State
2 of 9
The
American Revolution had many important events. Name one.
The
Nation’s first motto was “E Pluribus Unum.” What does that mean?
We the people
Self-government
Out of Many, One
One Nation, Indivisible
Spoiler alert: I passed! I presume that you did too. Even so, keeping the list of 128 questions and answers handy is probably not a bad idea. Useful tool to have handy to make certain you stay sharp on subject matter that you might not know as well as you once did or, perhaps, have never known as well as you might have believed you did.
