Unfortunately, the National Enquirer got this one right. I hate to admit it, but I always check the tabloid headlines while waiting in the supermarket checkout line. A couple of weeks ago I saw a blurb on the cover of NE, complete with a hideous picture of Paul Newman, including a caption that he had just weeks to live. I filed it away, not thinking much about it. After all, dire predictions and titillating gossip sell thousands of copies. I remembered that picture this morning when Newman's passing tornadoed its way across the media spectrum. While the entertainment industry often revels in controversial publicity, this particular story prompts only sadness. Paul Newman touched far more people and genres than his acting ability could ever reach. He most definitely qualifies as a man for all seasons.
Movies have always been the great escape. Whatever our disposition, another viewing of a "Casablanca", "Bull Durham", "Sound of Music", or "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" can calm, lighten, or change most dark moods. There remain certain actors and actresses whose talent, demeanor, and script choice always place them in our individual comfort zones. Names like Bogart, Rosalind Russell, James Garner, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jimmy Stewart, and yes, Mr. Newman rise to the top of my appreciation list. But Newman ocupies a separate category. I tried recalling all of his work, but that was futile. From "Somebody Up There Likes Me" through "Road to Perdition", his remarkable career spanned over 50 feature films, nine Academy Award nominations (only one win), and a variety of themes, roles, and performances that any group of five actors could never approach. His versatility bordered on the astounding. He was boxing's Rocky Graziano, a chain gang's Cool Hand Luke Jackson, cocky pool shooter Fast Eddie Felson (twice, over 20 years apart), yellow journalism victim Michael Colin Gallagher, cynical private detective Lew Harper (twice), alcoholic attorney Frank Galvin, con artist supreme Henry Gondorff, witty outlaw Butch Cassidy, immoral ranch hand Hud Bannon, implacable half-breed John Russell, aging gadfly Sully Sullivan, hockey coach Reg Dunlop, and aging Irish gangster John Rooney. Of course that list excludes about 40 other roles worthy of mention. Yet acting brilliance covers only a snippet of his complete life.
Despite consistent placement in the footlights, Newman eluded the glitz and gossip so prevalent throughout his profession. I remember his appearance following his only son Scott's death from a drug overdose. It was brief, poignant, and sincere. But it led to another facet of his life that subsequently emerged, philanthropic activities. Whether it was a drug rehab center, summer camps for sick children (all proceeds from his Newman's Own food products), or bequests to his alma mater, he gave freely of both time and money. The final tally for his generosity numbers in the many millions of dollars.
He had a distinct passion for auto racing as a driver and owner, was happily married to actress Joanne Woodward for some 50 years (three daughters), served with honor during a naval stint in World War II, and was active politically. But enough biography. Paul Newman entertained me.
Although "The Hustler" was released in 1961, I didn't see it until much later. It was during my first year at college. I returned to campus the day after Christmas because of a job commitment. The temperature was 26 degrees below zero when I arrived, with snow knee deep, and icicles on the INSIDE of my dorm windows. I was one of three people in the building (I didn't know the other two). Aside from work, I had nothing to occupy my time except the cold. On my third night back, I walked downtown to catch a movie. "The Hustler" was playing in a double feature at one of the theaters and I decided to see it. I was so stunned by Newman's performance as pool shark Fast Eddie Felson that I watched it four times in two days. His portrayal of the brash, selfish, stick man astonished me. The gritty black and white production introduced me to George C. Scott, Piper Laurie, and the gifted Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats. It wasn't pretty, the ending left one hanging, and Felson was hardly a sympathetic character, yet Paul Newman owned that role, not to mention the movie. It was and is the best film he ever made (only my opinion).
Near the end of his career he made another gem, "Nobody's Fool". No awards, not much publicity, and mediocre reviews. Yet it was pure Newman -- independent and in charge as an aging, stubborn small town handyman. The magic remained. I still watch it from time to time. He was the best.
I stopped at Safeway this morning to pick up some milk, and once again turned toward the tabloid rack as I waited my turn. Not much happening this time -- space aliens will be arriving soon, Laura Bush wants a divorce, and Jen still loves Brad. Just another week in gossip central.
Oh, I almost forgot. I bought a jar of Newman's Own marinara sauce too. If I keep eating pasta, another kid might go to camp.
Thanks, Paul.
MM
Monday, September 22, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO...
A number of years ago I was fascinated by a series of books entitled "Whatever Happened To...? by Richard Lamparski. I'm not positive, but I think he wrote 11 of them chronicling former television, movie, and cultural stars, and their lives after the fame and fortune. Some sad, some surprising, some as expected, yet all interesting. The series also piqued my personal curiosity as I drifted back in time. In a previous post I mentioned attending a grammar school reunion some years back. Of the 50+ members of our class, nearly 35 attended, a high percentage indeed. Throughout the two-day festivities, names of the missing were bandied about, however several remained mysteries. I kept running through those halcyon days of my early youth, and one name kept inserting itself at each stop. I eventually asked the question: Whatever happened to Johnny Palmer?
I suppose everyone can remember best friends from the formative years. Mine was Johnny Palmer. I was blessed with a number of pals in grade school, but for some reason Johnny and I were just a bit closer. After the reunion I kept thinking about the lack of surety in the responses concerning his whereabouts. A couple of years ago, while preparing to teach, I looked at one of my class lists for the opening semester, and the name Johnny Palmer stared at me from the page. Obviously not the original, but a strange reminder. Why does this mean anything now? I guess we all want to relive or at least revisit the past, just to see if it was as much fun as we think we remember. It's hard to explain Johnny Palmer; he was different from the herd, what we call a maverick these days.
We attended a Catholic grammar school (grades K-8) located in a lower middle class, blue-collar, heavily Catholic neighborhood. Both Johnny and I lived on the border of the school's loosely drawn boundary line, but our families were members of the parish, just in case. I guess you could say we had an outsider-type kinship. We often walked to school, a long jaunt by any standards. It wasn't the five-miles-in-a-blizzard situation we all remember our parents and grandparents describing, and we could take the bus if we so desired. I liked to walk because that left me 15 cents to buy maple bars at the nearby bakery. Both of our dads were working men, to whom dollars were precious, and our moms toiled as homemakers. The concept of a two-paycheck family was still years away. Why Johnny and I became close remains a mystery. I loved sports; he tolerated them. He enjoyed building things; I reluctantly watched. Despite the monotony of wearing the always-popular salt and pepper cord pants, blue sweater, and white shirt every school day for eight consecutive years, I was fussy about my appearance, and Johnny could have cared less. He wore patrol boots (heavy, clunky high top work shoes) 24-7, while I always needed the latest model of white Red Ball Jets that made me run faster and jump higher. We were indeed a 50's version of the grammar school odd couple.
The age-old saying that opposites attract certainly applied to the two of us. In the sixth grade we both had stupendous crushes on a classmate named Barbara. I'm not sure why (who can ever understand young affairs of the heart), because she was about six inches taller than either of us. Somehow we overcame the competition, not to mention Barbara, at about the same time. On another occasion we decided to build a model hydroplane (racing boats were highly popular in Seattle), and enter it in a contest. If memory serves me right, it took us (mostly Johnny) at least a couple of months to construct. When the day came for the much-anticipated contest, we were most confident in our first-place chances. It didn't quite work out as planned. We placed the boat in the water and it promptly sank. Seems as though we didn't quite patch that gaping hole in the bottom of the hull. I hate to admit it, but I think that was my responsibility.We fussed and fumed for about 23 seconds, then marched on to our next adventure.
Our final bonding activity came in the eighth grade when I was our baseball team's best (and only) pitcher, and Johnny donned the catching equipment. Occasionally, he could catch a fastball, but he simply let curveballs hit the dirt and picked them up on the rebound. His less-than-20/20-glasses enhanced vision was a contributing factor, but that never really bothered me despite my competitive nature. To borrow from a common baseball saying of today, it was just Johnny being Johnny.
Our paths rarely crossed after grade school. He attended a public secondary institution and I ventured off to the area's new Catholic high school. We rarely saw each other then, but I would hear things from time to time. Johnny struggled with his education, at least that was the grapevine rumor. He had never been an honors student, and possibly developed other outlets. I don't think we visited more than twice during those subsequent years. I do remember two things about my friend: he was incredibly loyal, and marvelously independent. What you saw is always what you got. I learned from him, even though I didn't realize it at the time. Johnny Palmer was my first friend.
After asking the question at the reunion, there was no definitive answer. Finally, someone said, "I think he died." I stood nearby, stunned. There was no follow-up explanation, nothing concrete. Just those four saddening words. It seemed as if a sizable chunk of my childhood had been scratched and eliminated. I always wanted to apologize for not patching the hole in the boat. Sorry Johnny, it won't happen again.
No more reunions.
MM
I suppose everyone can remember best friends from the formative years. Mine was Johnny Palmer. I was blessed with a number of pals in grade school, but for some reason Johnny and I were just a bit closer. After the reunion I kept thinking about the lack of surety in the responses concerning his whereabouts. A couple of years ago, while preparing to teach, I looked at one of my class lists for the opening semester, and the name Johnny Palmer stared at me from the page. Obviously not the original, but a strange reminder. Why does this mean anything now? I guess we all want to relive or at least revisit the past, just to see if it was as much fun as we think we remember. It's hard to explain Johnny Palmer; he was different from the herd, what we call a maverick these days.
We attended a Catholic grammar school (grades K-8) located in a lower middle class, blue-collar, heavily Catholic neighborhood. Both Johnny and I lived on the border of the school's loosely drawn boundary line, but our families were members of the parish, just in case. I guess you could say we had an outsider-type kinship. We often walked to school, a long jaunt by any standards. It wasn't the five-miles-in-a-blizzard situation we all remember our parents and grandparents describing, and we could take the bus if we so desired. I liked to walk because that left me 15 cents to buy maple bars at the nearby bakery. Both of our dads were working men, to whom dollars were precious, and our moms toiled as homemakers. The concept of a two-paycheck family was still years away. Why Johnny and I became close remains a mystery. I loved sports; he tolerated them. He enjoyed building things; I reluctantly watched. Despite the monotony of wearing the always-popular salt and pepper cord pants, blue sweater, and white shirt every school day for eight consecutive years, I was fussy about my appearance, and Johnny could have cared less. He wore patrol boots (heavy, clunky high top work shoes) 24-7, while I always needed the latest model of white Red Ball Jets that made me run faster and jump higher. We were indeed a 50's version of the grammar school odd couple.
The age-old saying that opposites attract certainly applied to the two of us. In the sixth grade we both had stupendous crushes on a classmate named Barbara. I'm not sure why (who can ever understand young affairs of the heart), because she was about six inches taller than either of us. Somehow we overcame the competition, not to mention Barbara, at about the same time. On another occasion we decided to build a model hydroplane (racing boats were highly popular in Seattle), and enter it in a contest. If memory serves me right, it took us (mostly Johnny) at least a couple of months to construct. When the day came for the much-anticipated contest, we were most confident in our first-place chances. It didn't quite work out as planned. We placed the boat in the water and it promptly sank. Seems as though we didn't quite patch that gaping hole in the bottom of the hull. I hate to admit it, but I think that was my responsibility.We fussed and fumed for about 23 seconds, then marched on to our next adventure.
Our final bonding activity came in the eighth grade when I was our baseball team's best (and only) pitcher, and Johnny donned the catching equipment. Occasionally, he could catch a fastball, but he simply let curveballs hit the dirt and picked them up on the rebound. His less-than-20/20-glasses enhanced vision was a contributing factor, but that never really bothered me despite my competitive nature. To borrow from a common baseball saying of today, it was just Johnny being Johnny.
Our paths rarely crossed after grade school. He attended a public secondary institution and I ventured off to the area's new Catholic high school. We rarely saw each other then, but I would hear things from time to time. Johnny struggled with his education, at least that was the grapevine rumor. He had never been an honors student, and possibly developed other outlets. I don't think we visited more than twice during those subsequent years. I do remember two things about my friend: he was incredibly loyal, and marvelously independent. What you saw is always what you got. I learned from him, even though I didn't realize it at the time. Johnny Palmer was my first friend.
After asking the question at the reunion, there was no definitive answer. Finally, someone said, "I think he died." I stood nearby, stunned. There was no follow-up explanation, nothing concrete. Just those four saddening words. It seemed as if a sizable chunk of my childhood had been scratched and eliminated. I always wanted to apologize for not patching the hole in the boat. Sorry Johnny, it won't happen again.
No more reunions.
MM
Sunday, September 7, 2008
ARE YOU READY FOR...?
So much going on these days. The political campaigns have begun their final lap to November, gasoline prices are lower but not low, unemployment is up, the economy is shaky, Afghanistan has moved to the front burner, the Russians look like the bad guys again, and the housing crisis continues. However, none of that is terribly important in the grand scheme of things. Yes, we should all be concerned. Yes, we should pay attention to these headache-inducing problems...But seriously, ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBAWL?!! (spelling correct in conjunction with pronunciation) -- I mean what else could possibly matter? It took a full week, however I finally stopped worrying about the aforementioned trivialities and realized what's actually important.
As the days shorten noticeably, as the morning temperatures take a slight dip, as the school year entrenches in routine, only one thing seems to matter: that pigskin spheroid (sans lipstick), symbolic of weekends (and some weeks) spent in an HD stupor glued to that electronic signal sender-- eye level -- mid-living room. It might be a jailable (new word?) offense not to possess an over-sized recliner complete with drink holders and remote pockets (a side tray for snacks would certainly enhance the furniture).
Physical fitness, healthy eating habits, daily exercise, and a versatile social schedule comprise a popular formula for human longevity. Yet I think weekend dispensations merit strong consideration given the importance attached to this sacred passion. Let's face it, short of a 12.0 (on a big Richter Scale) trembler that takes out half the western hemisphere (particularly football stadiums), not much can dissuade or disturb the true fan from late August until late January. Whether the venue is high school, junior college, college Division I, II, III or 10, the NFL, and even Pee Wee,no outdoor activity approaches football for dedicated observers.
This past weekend qualifies as a perfect exemplar for my personal football fanaticism. On Friday night I arrived home just in time for the Navy-Ball State game on ESPN's Friday Night College tilt. I also changed channels to watch a live high school game (high school?). On Saturday morning I woke up just in time for ESPN's acclaimed College Gameday show where host Chris Fowler tries not to laugh at the silliness known as former coach, turned analyst, Lee Corso. At 9:00 it was time for Ohio State-Ohio and Michigan-Miami(the Ohio version). I wish they would stagger the starts so they didn't reach halftime simultaneously. That forces me to wander aimlessly for 20 minutes until the action renews. I checked off my signal calling to Encore Westerns as a short buffer. After halftime I displayed my manual dexterity with quick, decisive forcefulness on the remote, a talent developed through years of practice. Dedication hardly ends on the playing field. At noon BYU and Washington kicked off, followed at 12:30 By Notre Dame-San Diego State, Oregon State-Penn State, and Mississippi-Wake Forest. Oh, the decisions one has to make! But I like pressure situations such as thumb pressing fast enough to avoid commercials, a true art form. On to more action. At 1:30 West Virginia and East Carolina began their battle, and at 2:00 it was the Texas A&M-New Mexico clash. I saved my timeouts for the late games and caught South Florida-Central Florida as well as Alcorn State and Grambling at 4:00. The 5:00 shift began with Rice-Memphis and Florida-Miami. I started to feel the effects of blurred vision and leg cramps just before the day's finale, a 7:15 barn burner matching Texas and Texas-El Paso. At 10:00 I called it a day because I had to rest up for the NFL pre-game shows and three more games on Sunday. Talk about exhaustion. I was absolutely spent.
When you consider the fantasy leagues, food consumption (why didn't I open a sports bar?), clothing sales (I need my JaMarcus Russell jersey), and ticket revenues, the pig lobby probably wishes it had negotiated a better contract (call Babe that cute, smug British porker). How can one work during the season; it's such an annoying distraction.
Well, time to check the TV schedule; the weekend will be here before I realize it.
To quote the legendary Fats Domino: "Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday."
MM
As the days shorten noticeably, as the morning temperatures take a slight dip, as the school year entrenches in routine, only one thing seems to matter: that pigskin spheroid (sans lipstick), symbolic of weekends (and some weeks) spent in an HD stupor glued to that electronic signal sender-- eye level -- mid-living room. It might be a jailable (new word?) offense not to possess an over-sized recliner complete with drink holders and remote pockets (a side tray for snacks would certainly enhance the furniture).
Physical fitness, healthy eating habits, daily exercise, and a versatile social schedule comprise a popular formula for human longevity. Yet I think weekend dispensations merit strong consideration given the importance attached to this sacred passion. Let's face it, short of a 12.0 (on a big Richter Scale) trembler that takes out half the western hemisphere (particularly football stadiums), not much can dissuade or disturb the true fan from late August until late January. Whether the venue is high school, junior college, college Division I, II, III or 10, the NFL, and even Pee Wee,no outdoor activity approaches football for dedicated observers.
This past weekend qualifies as a perfect exemplar for my personal football fanaticism. On Friday night I arrived home just in time for the Navy-Ball State game on ESPN's Friday Night College tilt. I also changed channels to watch a live high school game (high school?). On Saturday morning I woke up just in time for ESPN's acclaimed College Gameday show where host Chris Fowler tries not to laugh at the silliness known as former coach, turned analyst, Lee Corso. At 9:00 it was time for Ohio State-Ohio and Michigan-Miami(the Ohio version). I wish they would stagger the starts so they didn't reach halftime simultaneously. That forces me to wander aimlessly for 20 minutes until the action renews. I checked off my signal calling to Encore Westerns as a short buffer. After halftime I displayed my manual dexterity with quick, decisive forcefulness on the remote, a talent developed through years of practice. Dedication hardly ends on the playing field. At noon BYU and Washington kicked off, followed at 12:30 By Notre Dame-San Diego State, Oregon State-Penn State, and Mississippi-Wake Forest. Oh, the decisions one has to make! But I like pressure situations such as thumb pressing fast enough to avoid commercials, a true art form. On to more action. At 1:30 West Virginia and East Carolina began their battle, and at 2:00 it was the Texas A&M-New Mexico clash. I saved my timeouts for the late games and caught South Florida-Central Florida as well as Alcorn State and Grambling at 4:00. The 5:00 shift began with Rice-Memphis and Florida-Miami. I started to feel the effects of blurred vision and leg cramps just before the day's finale, a 7:15 barn burner matching Texas and Texas-El Paso. At 10:00 I called it a day because I had to rest up for the NFL pre-game shows and three more games on Sunday. Talk about exhaustion. I was absolutely spent.
When you consider the fantasy leagues, food consumption (why didn't I open a sports bar?), clothing sales (I need my JaMarcus Russell jersey), and ticket revenues, the pig lobby probably wishes it had negotiated a better contract (call Babe that cute, smug British porker). How can one work during the season; it's such an annoying distraction.
Well, time to check the TV schedule; the weekend will be here before I realize it.
To quote the legendary Fats Domino: "Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday."
MM
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
BETTER LATE THAN....
One of my favorite pieces of writing is a column by Rick Reilly from the Dec. 19, 2000 edition of Sports Illustrated. Titled "The Thought That Counts," the piece is quite clever, going on at length about what to give his long-suffering, highly supportive wife for Christmas. The first 700 plus words described gift possibilities for and sterling examples of her wifely understanding and general goodness. The last sentence read, "So what do you give your best friend...?(etc) --THIS (referring to the column itself). It must not have struck a sentimental chord, because they were divorced a couple of years later. However, I find myself with a faintly similar conundrum.
I may be the world's worst at remembering important dates, especially birthdays. I've actually forgotten my own on more than one occasion (highly embarrassing). I sometimes remember my brother's, have no clue as to my niece and nephew's marking dates, and draw a complete blank on any close friends' b-days. The one I'm zeroing in on is the one that makes me feel most discomfited, my sister-in-law. For all our Irish sentimentality, tears at any movies, and loyalty to each other, we've never been a family that communicates our feelings with much candor. Hard to explain because none of us are shy. But this time I'm going to try my best.
I'm fairly sure her birthday is in the immediate vicinity, sometime between the 3rd and the 10th of September. The only reason I know that is because my brother's is definitely on the 22nd (that's another story), and her's is in the same month. Yet I babble on about numbers and dates -- not my intent here. She's been married to my brother for over 30 years, that's reason enough for praise. He is one of the world's characters, and just a bit eccentric in some respects. I'm sure he would tell you his life would be 99% less complete if she had said no to his proposal. Throughout their years of bliss, she has raised three wonderful children: two of her own as well as my brother. She's one of those rare people able to support, sacrifice, and love with equal fervor. There have been good days and bad, but she has always been front and center, offering comfort, advice, kindness, and the occasional admonishment. If there was a Wife and Mother Hall of Fame, she would be an automatic first ballot selection.
An overused, yet understood (by me anyway) saying these days is that a certain person, object, movie etc. is OLD SCHOOL. From my standpoint, the statement indicates a positive emanating from the past. My sister-in-law definitely earns that description. I've never told her this, but she reminds me greatly of my mother in that she fits with comfort and pride in any formal or social setting. My brother's friends are her friends. My brother's athletes and students (he teaches and coaches at the high school level) are her athletes and students. During the holidays numerous people stop by the house to say hello, dispense season's greetings, and renew acquaintances. She is a major reason why, making everyone feel at ease.
A number of years ago, my father passed away. I was working in the Bay Area as I still do, and spent about a week with my brother going through details, funeral arrangements, etc. I was forced to leave due to job responsibilities following the funeral, but my brother and sister-in-law stayed and sorted everything out. If it had been left up to me or him alone, it never would have been finished correctly. She was the catalyst. When my brother and his son had communication difficulties during the lad's senior year in high school, she was the one who maintained the buffer zone and kept the family solidified. I could mention about 20 additional instances where her intelligence and good sense overcame the familial temptation to err with compulsive reactions to obstacles.
She may not remember this, but several years ago, I attended a 40-year grammar school reunion in Seattle. I was profoundly affected by the event, seeing numerous former classmates for the first time in decades. I started to write some things down when I stopped by their house in Portland on my way home. For whatever reason, I needed someone to hear my thoughts and listen to those words. She patiently sat in the front room as I expounded for the next hour or so. It may seem like a small thing, but it was tremendously important to me at the time. A perfect example of her unique ability to support.
Well, I obviously will miss the b-day. For the many-numbered consecutive year, I failed to send a card. But I want her to know how much she is loved and how important she is to all of us fortunate to call her family. In the vernacular of the times, she rocks!
I'm not Rick Reilly, but it's the best I can do.
Don't count the candles, just the sentiments.
MM
I may be the world's worst at remembering important dates, especially birthdays. I've actually forgotten my own on more than one occasion (highly embarrassing). I sometimes remember my brother's, have no clue as to my niece and nephew's marking dates, and draw a complete blank on any close friends' b-days. The one I'm zeroing in on is the one that makes me feel most discomfited, my sister-in-law. For all our Irish sentimentality, tears at any movies, and loyalty to each other, we've never been a family that communicates our feelings with much candor. Hard to explain because none of us are shy. But this time I'm going to try my best.
I'm fairly sure her birthday is in the immediate vicinity, sometime between the 3rd and the 10th of September. The only reason I know that is because my brother's is definitely on the 22nd (that's another story), and her's is in the same month. Yet I babble on about numbers and dates -- not my intent here. She's been married to my brother for over 30 years, that's reason enough for praise. He is one of the world's characters, and just a bit eccentric in some respects. I'm sure he would tell you his life would be 99% less complete if she had said no to his proposal. Throughout their years of bliss, she has raised three wonderful children: two of her own as well as my brother. She's one of those rare people able to support, sacrifice, and love with equal fervor. There have been good days and bad, but she has always been front and center, offering comfort, advice, kindness, and the occasional admonishment. If there was a Wife and Mother Hall of Fame, she would be an automatic first ballot selection.
An overused, yet understood (by me anyway) saying these days is that a certain person, object, movie etc. is OLD SCHOOL. From my standpoint, the statement indicates a positive emanating from the past. My sister-in-law definitely earns that description. I've never told her this, but she reminds me greatly of my mother in that she fits with comfort and pride in any formal or social setting. My brother's friends are her friends. My brother's athletes and students (he teaches and coaches at the high school level) are her athletes and students. During the holidays numerous people stop by the house to say hello, dispense season's greetings, and renew acquaintances. She is a major reason why, making everyone feel at ease.
A number of years ago, my father passed away. I was working in the Bay Area as I still do, and spent about a week with my brother going through details, funeral arrangements, etc. I was forced to leave due to job responsibilities following the funeral, but my brother and sister-in-law stayed and sorted everything out. If it had been left up to me or him alone, it never would have been finished correctly. She was the catalyst. When my brother and his son had communication difficulties during the lad's senior year in high school, she was the one who maintained the buffer zone and kept the family solidified. I could mention about 20 additional instances where her intelligence and good sense overcame the familial temptation to err with compulsive reactions to obstacles.
She may not remember this, but several years ago, I attended a 40-year grammar school reunion in Seattle. I was profoundly affected by the event, seeing numerous former classmates for the first time in decades. I started to write some things down when I stopped by their house in Portland on my way home. For whatever reason, I needed someone to hear my thoughts and listen to those words. She patiently sat in the front room as I expounded for the next hour or so. It may seem like a small thing, but it was tremendously important to me at the time. A perfect example of her unique ability to support.
Well, I obviously will miss the b-day. For the many-numbered consecutive year, I failed to send a card. But I want her to know how much she is loved and how important she is to all of us fortunate to call her family. In the vernacular of the times, she rocks!
I'm not Rick Reilly, but it's the best I can do.
Don't count the candles, just the sentiments.
MM
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