MY SUN DAY NEWS
January 14, 2021
Of all the heart-breaking endings that this pandemic has wreaked upon us, add one more â the probable death of the snow day.
I have a lot of hats, but only one that I ever wrote a song about.
I have racks and racks of baseball caps honoring the Cubs and the Bears and just about every exotic place Iâve ever visited, but I never wrote a song about any of them.
Decades ago, when my son Dave was only about five years old, he sat in the back seat of the car, staring at the full moon as I drove through the night. He was quiet, lost in thought.
First, an admission: I have no idea what Iâm talking about.
Oh, plenty of readers will say, âSo what else is new?â But this time itâs different, because as I write this, it is 8 a.m. on November 3, Election Day in America, and although you know what happened next, right now I donât.
The bad news is: Louis LâAmour is still dead. The good news: Iâve made my peace with it â a necessary healing because, after all, Iâm the guy who killed him.
The bad news is: Louis LâAmour is still dead.
The good news: Iâve made my peace with it â a necessary healing because, after all, Iâm the guy who killed him.
One of the special pleasures in life is checking off item by item on your bucket list. Iâve been lucky to live long enough and to travel extensively enough to wear my bucket-list pencil nub down quite a bit. Notre Dame Cathedral, The Louvre, Sydney Opera House, Brandenburg Gateâthe list has narrowed quite a bit since I was a young, wonder-eyed boy.
One of the special pleasures in life is checking off item by item on your bucket list.
Iâve been lucky to live long enough and to travel extensively enough to wear my bucket-list pencil nub down quite a bit. Notre Dame Cathedral, The Louvre, Sydney Opera House, Brandenburg Gateâthe list has narrowed quite a bit since I was a young, wonder-eyed boy.
Last week, as our nation teetered on the brink of 200,000 citizens dead from a criminally mishandled pandemic, and with my mind reeling from the never-ending stream of disastrous news, I hit the road to escape self-imposed lockdown and hopefully find someplace to unwind in relative safety. It was Starved Rock State Park, where one could wander peaceful outdoor trails through winding canyons, as gold and orange leaves drifted down through the still air. And although I knew I might meet others seeking a bit of sanity, I felt confident that I would find enough safe social distance outdoors.
Last week, as our nation teetered on the brink of 200,000 citizens dead from a criminally mishandled pandemic, and with my mind reeling from the never-ending stream of disastrous news, I hit the road to escape self-imposed lockdown and hopefully find someplace to unwind in relative safety.
It was Starved Rock State Park, where one could wander peaceful outdoor trails through winding canyons, as gold and orange leaves drifted down through the still air. And although I knew I might meet others seeking a bit of sanity, I felt confident that I would find enough safe social distance outdoors.
All things considered, itâs not really all that hard to obey the Ten Commandments, is it? Oh, sure, we all waffle a bit when it comes to coveting, but most of us manage to steer clear of outright murder and theft, and weâre pretty fond of Mom and Dad. But then thereâs that pesky Commandment Number Two, the one ordering us to âmake no graven images.â Are selfies covered under that rule?
All things considered, itâs not really all that hard to obey the Ten Commandments, is it? Oh, sure, we all waffle a bit when it comes to coveting, but most of us manage to steer clear of outright murder and theft, and weâre pretty fond of Mom and Dad.
But then thereâs that pesky Commandment Number Two, the one ordering us to âmake no graven images.â
Are selfies covered under that rule?
One clear night this summer in mid-July, I stood out among the corn fields at the western dead-end of Ernesti Road and finally knew what it must have felt like to live during the Middle Ages. For the record, I have always felt a touch of envy for those long-ago folks because medieval art is filled with paintings showing blazing comets in the sky, and I have always wanted to see a comet blazing across the sky above me.
One clear night this summer in mid-July, I stood out among the corn fields at the western dead-end of Ernesti Road and finally knew what it must have felt like to live during the Middle Ages.
For the record, I have always felt a touch of envy for those long-ago folks because medieval art is filled with paintings showing blazing comets in the sky, and I have always wanted to see a comet blazing across the sky above me.
On Independence Day this year, this is the speech I wish we had heard.
Fifty years ago, when I was a graduate student at Wake Forest University in Winston Salem, North Carolina, I lived in a cheap row-house apartment built during the Depression. My next-door neighbor was Mike Coe, a young, self-proclaimed redneck.
John Prine was a childhood neighbor of mine, though I donât think I ever met him directly. He was a year and a half older than me, and we grew up just a bike ride apart â I in Elmwood Park, and he in Maywood, no more than five miles away. His dad was a tool-and-dye maker, shaping the steel that my dad produced in his steel mill job.
John Prine was a childhood neighbor of mine, though I donât think I ever met him directly.
He was a year and a half older than me, and we grew up just a bike ride apart â I in Elmwood Park, and he in Maywood, no more than five miles away. His dad was a tool-and-dye maker, shaping the steel that my dad produced in his steel mill job.
I know, in a world so filled with death, itâs a horrible thing to wish for the death of any person, place or thing, but this time I just canât help myself. Because just a few months ago, Betelgeuse gave off some clear indications that it will die soon â and I have to admit Iâd like to see it happen.
I was eating Pringles the other day for the first time in a thousand years, and I wondered: âHow do they get them all to look like this, each of them perfectly nestled, each with the gentle swoop of a Panama hat brim without the crown?â I have no idea why that can of Pringles ended up on my snack tray, because I never eat junk like that. Iâm more of a health-food nut â Fritos or Cheetos. Never Pringles.
I was eating Pringles the other day for the first time in a thousand years, and I wondered: âHow do they get them all to look like this, each of them perfectly nestled, each with the gentle swoop of a Panama hat brim without the crown?â
I have no idea why that can of Pringles ended up on my snack tray, because I never eat junk like that. Iâm more of a health-food nut â Fritos or Cheetos. Never Pringles.
Leave it to a lawyer to turn a party into a âparty of the first part.â Call me old-fashioned, but I think it would kill the mood if I was a young guy on a hot date that started getting pretty steamy, but before any garments hit the floor I had to run to my filing cabinet to pull out another âcopulation consent formâ for my panting partner to sign.
Leave it to a lawyer to turn a party into a âparty of the first part.â
Call me old-fashioned, but I think it would kill the mood if I was a young guy on a hot date that started getting pretty steamy, but before any garments hit the floor I had to run to my filing cabinet to pull out another âcopulation consent formâ for my panting partner to sign.
I donât go to Hobby Lobby very often, but I did this weekâtwice. The first time was a few days ago, when I picked up a few gadgets for my friendâs grandson, who had recently undergone serious spinal surgery in Chicago. Vincent will be spending a lot of time healing flat on his back, so I wanted to give him some things to take his mind off the boredom.
I donât go to Hobby Lobby very often, but I did this weekâtwice.
The first time was a few days ago, when I picked up a few gadgets for my friendâs grandson, who had recently undergone serious spinal surgery in Chicago. Vincent will be spending a lot of time healing flat on his back, so I wanted to give him some things to take his mind off the boredom.
It must have been rough for those ancient Greeks when they really, really needed something, and they had to turn to their gods for divine intervention in order to get it. After all, those ancient Greeks had so many deities cavorting around Mount Olympus, they made summit day at Mount Everest look like a lonely day in the park.
As January eases into February and the days inch longer into night, I sit with a drink in my hand and remember winters (and loved ones) past, and last night a winter memory of Dad brought a smile to my face.
I am glad we no longer have debtorâs prisons as England did during Charles Dickensâs day, because my friend Carol might be sent to the slammer because of that huge debt she owes to her insurance company. Her finances are tidy and orderly â or at least she thought they were. She bundles her mortgage, property tax and home insurance into an escrow account, and when they all come due, the bank writes a check. Done and done.
I am glad we no longer have debtorâs prisons as England did during Charles Dickensâs day, because my friend Carol might be sent to the slammer because of that huge debt she owes to her insurance company.
Her finances are tidy and orderly â or at least she thought they were. She bundles her mortgage, property tax and home insurance into an escrow account, and when they all come due, the bank writes a check. Done and done.
The greatest gift of any holiday may be to remind us how far we have traveled down the road since the last time that holiday rolled around â or even over the past half-century or so of holidays. Last Christmas was the first Christmas I spent without my wife in almost a half-century. She had passed away from a Valentineâs Day stroke in 2018, and I spent last Christmas day in Florida, paddling alone in my kayak, feeling the tides change. But this Christmas, almost two years after Gailâs passing, I had other thoughts on my mind.
The greatest gift of any holiday may be to remind us how far we have traveled down the road since the last time that holiday rolled around â or even over the past half-century or so of holidays.
Last Christmas was the first Christmas I spent without my wife in almost a half-century. She had passed away from a Valentineâs Day stroke in 2018, and I spent last Christmas day in Florida, paddling alone in my kayak, feeling the tides change.
But this Christmas, almost two years after Gailâs passing, I had other thoughts on my mind.
Never trust everything a fisherman tells you. His story may start believable enough, but always hold on to the tag-end of suspicion, just in case his tale plummets past plausibility, pulling you into the gulch of gullibility. Thatâs why, as I stood in Southwestern Michigan in October, listening to the guy casting into the Black River as it flowed into Lake Michigan, I kept listing for the moment his tales started to stretch beyond believability.
Never trust everything a fisherman tells you. His story may start believable enough, but always hold on to the tag-end of suspicion, just in case his tale plummets past plausibility, pulling you into the gulch of gullibility.
Thatâs why, as I stood in Southwestern Michigan in October, listening to the guy casting into the Black River as it flowed into Lake Michigan, I kept listing for the moment his tales started to stretch beyond believability.
I slipped the leather jacket on and walked to the upright mirror, with a chorus of three female âOo-o-ohsâ echoing behind me. Always a good sign. It was a beautiful leather jacket, the kind I could never afford when they were in style decades ago. The leather was soft and supple (âlike buttuhâ some might say) and it fit me perfectly. It was the bomber style I love, with snap closures at the wrist, leather collar, and zip-up front. Slash pockets on the side, and two internal pockets with buttons to close them for security. Even a zip-out liner for extra warmth on cold, windy days.
I slipped the leather jacket on and walked to the upright mirror, with a chorus of three female âOo-o-ohsâ echoing behind me. Always a good sign.
It was a beautiful leather jacket, the kind I could never afford when they were in style decades ago. The leather was soft and supple (âlike buttuhâ some might say) and it fit me perfectly. It was the bomber style I love, with snap closures at the wrist, leather collar, and zip-up front. Slash pockets on the side, and two internal pockets with buttons to close them for security. Even a zip-out liner for extra warmth on cold, windy days.
It was a tooth-popping weekend when the grandkids came to visit, and one more chance to learn how far out of the loop I have fallen. âDo you want to pull it?â I asked Olivia as she sat at the dinner table, wiggling that little bicuspid in her lower jaw. She had three teeth in her head that were ready to jump ship, but this one was likely to be the first to weigh anchor.
It was a tooth-popping weekend when the grandkids came to visit, and one more chance to learn how far out of the loop I have fallen.
âDo you want to pull it?â I asked Olivia as she sat at the dinner table, wiggling that little bicuspid in her lower jaw. She had three teeth in her head that were ready to jump ship, but this one was likely to be the first to weigh anchor.
As frightening as it is to imagine a madman with an assault weapon targeting indiscriminate victims, it is even more harrowing to imagine a weapon like that in the hands of a madman who views himself as a patriot. Someone, for example, like major league umpire Rob Drake, who on October 22 tweeted this threat: âI will be buying an AR-15 tomorrow, because if you impeach MY PRESIDENT this way, YOU WILL HAVE ANOTHER CIVAL WAR!!! #MAGA2020.â
As frightening as it is to imagine a madman with an assault weapon targeting indiscriminate victims, it is even more harrowing to imagine a weapon like that in the hands of a madman who views himself as a patriot.
Someone, for example, like major league umpire Rob Drake, who on October 22 tweeted this threat: âI will be buying an AR-15 tomorrow, because if you impeach MY PRESIDENT this way, YOU WILL HAVE ANOTHER CIVAL WAR!!! #MAGA2020.â
When I read that PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) urged all Americans to be a little more sensitive with our animal metaphors by banning phrases like âbringing home the bacon,â or âyour goose is cooked,â I reacted as I think any sensitive American would.
I really donât think I felt all that old when my great-granddaughter, Anastasia, was born last September. Oh, sure, there were all those âgreat-grandpaâ jokes everybody thought were so funny, but among all the other emotions flooding through me â pride, joy, love, wonderment â I think âoldâ was curiously absent. But things change.
I really donât think I felt all that old when my great-granddaughter, Anastasia, was born last September. Oh, sure, there were all those âgreat-grandpaâ jokes everybody thought were so funny, but among all the other emotions flooding through me â pride, joy, love, wonderment â I think âoldâ was curiously absent.
But things change.
I took a time-machine trip with a friend a couple weeks ago. Well, to be honest, the machine was actually a 2012 Subaru Outback. But it had no trouble carrying us back into the past.
I took a time-machine trip with a friend a couple weeks ago.
Well, to be honest, the machine was actually a 2012 Subaru Outback. But it had no trouble carrying us back into the past.
When I was a kid, Mom had a little pearl-handled pistol that she kept in her top dresser drawer. I wasnât supposed to know where it was â but I did. And sometimes when Mom and Dad were in the yard I would sneak into their room, take the gun out and play with it because it was prettier than any toy I owned. I donât know if it was loaded, because I never pulled the trigger. It may have had a safety that would have kept it from firing if I had pulled the trigger, but I donât know. I just pointed it here and there and pretended I was shooting bad guys. I squinted one eye and stuck my other eye into the end of the barrel to see what it looked like down there.
When I was a kid, Mom had a little pearl-handled pistol that she kept in her top dresser drawer. I wasnât supposed to know where it was â but I did. And sometimes when Mom and Dad were in the yard I would sneak into their room, take the gun out and play with it because it was prettier than any toy I owned.
I donât know if it was loaded, because I never pulled the trigger. It may have had a safety that would have kept it from firing if I had pulled the trigger, but I donât know. I just pointed it here and there and pretended I was shooting bad guys. I squinted one eye and stuck my other eye into the end of the barrel to see what it looked like down there.
As I stood on stage last week with my band, little brown-eyed Isabella smiled right in front of us, twirling her hula-hoop around her hips. She hula-hooped through our entire 90-minute show. And so near the end of the show I called for the band to swerve out of our set list so I could sing âBrown-Eyed Girlâ and dedicate it to her. The crowd of more than 800 erupted in applause for this energetic little 8-year-old girl â the real headliner of the night.
As I stood on stage last week with my band, little brown-eyed Isabella smiled right in front of us, twirling her hula-hoop around her hips. She hula-hooped through our entire 90-minute show.
And so near the end of the show I called for the band to swerve out of our set list so I could sing âBrown-Eyed Girlâ and dedicate it to her. The crowd of more than 800 erupted in applause for this energetic little 8-year-old girl â the real headliner of the night.
My sister-in-law went to see a psychic recently, and when she called to report back to me how the meeting went, I had my reservations. After all, there are psychics, and then there are psychics. The fake ones should be put in jail for lying to us about their phony abilities. The real ones should be put in jail for not telling us when an earthquake or tornado is about to hit.
My sister-in-law went to see a psychic recently, and when she called to report back to me how the meeting went, I had my reservations.
After all, there are psychics, and then there are psychics. The fake ones should be put in jail for lying to us about their phony abilities. The real ones should be put in jail for not telling us when an earthquake or tornado is about to hit.
