I haven't listened to Pandora in such a long time. But, for some reason, last night - it was Pandora for me. And it was good. First of all, for those of you not familiar with it, Pandora.com is an innovative radio station website - created as part of the Music Genome Project. Without getting overly technical here, they have somehow concocted a site that plays music according to your particular tastes. The user creates different radio "stations" by genre. And once the user sets up various stations, the system then selects songs that fit pretty much within each particular genre. The whole system is based on the actual make-up of the music and production - (e.g., guitar and bass lines, string arrangements, etc...) One thing I particularly love about Pandora is that I can have it on and be piddling around in my apartment or doing work and all of a sudden I'll hear something I like and have no idea what it is. I'll glance at the laptop and see what's playing and the system gives me the complete info injection - title, band, writers, album , etc ... That's all a throwback to me. I remember the days of listening to the radio when the good DJ's used to actually tell you all kinds of info about the last played song. Remember that? It doesn't happen any more. Then again, how would I know? I haven't listened to music on the radio in a about a decade.

Last night, at one point on my "Crosby, Stills & Nash" station, The Traveling Wilbury's came on - "End Of The Line." I love that song and haven't heard it in a long time. And, one by one, first it was George Harrison's voice. Then Tom Petty's, followed by Jeff Lynn and then, of course, Roy Orbinson. I know Dylan was in there some place, but I don't think he had any solos on that track. Anyway that, of course, got me thinking about how much I miss the Beatles and how I especially loved George Harrison and his writing. Nothing against Lennon and McCartney, or Ringo for that matter. But there was something special about George ... the "quiet" one. Something spiritual that seemed to shine through.

Just a thought for the night.

"While My Guitar Gently Weeps" just came on Pandora.

Right on cue, of course.

Memories of Mr. Tippett

"Mr. Tippet."

I'm smiling as I write this. I'm smiling because when I think about every young man who grew up in Longmeadow, Massachusetts during the 60's, then into the 70's ... and I think about them hearing those words uttered today, my hunch is that as soon as the sound waves hit their ears, their minds immediately make a shift. And when that shift occurs, hunch #2 leads me to believe that the following words then follow, flowing from their mouths in a long, drawn out, monotone-like voice:

"Boys. Step away from the vices."

I hated metal shop. Wood shop, I enjoyed. But metal shop? No friggin' way. While the girls in middle school went to their home economics classes, it was two varieties of shop and mechanical drawing for us. I don't know how it's done these days but, back then, it was all about gender separation when it came to those so-called career-skills classes.

With wood-shop, at least Mr. Shube's classroom presented a lighter, more cheery environment. Was it the light pine or oak? Perhaps it was the smell - I loved the smell of the freshly cut wood, the feathery shavings coating the gray concrete floor. But metal shop? Whoa. Dark and grayish black, the stink of rust - that metallic odor wafting it's way up my nostrils every time I entered that place. It always smelled like something was burning in that room which, to me, always seemed a lot more dangerous than good ole' Mr. Shube's work space. I was always thinking a blow torch was going to sear off my eyebrows or a soldering iron was going to melt my fingers into the table top.

Trip To Bountiful - Okay. So it's not as though I think about metal shop a lot these days. But while home for Emma's birthday a few weeks ago, I had a chance to take a look around the old neighborhood - actually two old neighborhoods. I've done this kind of thing before but, for some reason, never seemed to have a camera handy. This time, with the Canon by my side, I decided to drive through Springfield and Longmeadow to take some photos. I figured it might be nice to share a few on here.

I loved the Springfield house. Whereas my younger brother remembers the next (Longmeadow) home better, this is the house I connect with my childhood. To me, this is the house. As I drove by to snap these photos, I opened the windows to let some of the crisp, cold winter flow into the car. I smelled burning timber - a familiar smell. I'm not sure, but I think there was always some kind of controlled burning area in Forest Park, located right across the street from our house. I remember that from when I was very little and smiled when I thought that now, some 45 years later, the burning apparently still happens, in that very same spot. As I closed my eyes, it could have easily been 1963 again. The birds chirping, the soft hum of the cars driving by on the noisier Dickinson Street side, the sound of melting ice cracking and dripping ... Yep. This is where I grew up all right. And there was the house - 499 Trafton Road.

I circled around to the other side and, after snapping off a few more photos, headed toward Tiffany Street and then past my elementary school, originally called, aptly, Tiffany Street School. Now it's named after a woman, Alice Beal, but, other than the name change, the place looks exactly the same. A quick memory: I was what? Five? Six? What age are you when you're in kindergarten? There was a hill outside, with a playground (both are still there, of course). I remember one day back then, heading back into school after recess and something about the lining around one window caught my attention. The building was brand spanking new and I discovered some kind of gummy sealant around the edge of the window, where glass met concrete. Of course, I started to play with it, digging my finger in as far as it could go; it was kind of like "Silly Putty." I made all kinds of designs in the gooey, mucky stuff and I'm sure they appreciated my arts & crafts contribution to the building. I remember checking out a number of the school's windows in the days that followed; it's a good thing the whole building didn't fall down with the chunks I was taking out of the place. Come to think of it, that's probably the single most destructive thing I've ever done in my life. And now, it's 2008 and I remember those windows; that's funny to me. Part of me wanted to get out of the car, walk over to the side of the building to see if my artwork was still in place. But I didn't go and proceeded to head to my next stop. Anyway, I'm guessing there have been some new windows installed since 1963.

"Well, We're Movin' On Up ... " - My family moved to Longmeadow when I was in the 4th grade. That was a strange year for me which I won't get into here. New home, new school, new friends - a lot happened in a very short time. 4th ... then 5th ... then on to 6th grade - it was time for a shift. But not just any shift - a pioneer-like shift, in a manner of speaking. That was the year Massachusetts changed their school structure with the concept of junior high becoming a thing of the past. 5th grade graduation meant it was time to head to ... middle school.

So, don't worry. I'm not going to recount every memory from my childhood on here. So, it's time to go back to the two words that triggered this entry - "Mr. Tippett."

As I approached Williams Middle School, I decided to take the turn down the familiar long driveway, lined by the ball fields where I played some of my first baseball games, with the Senators. I remember the navy hats with the big red "L." And as I drove up to the building, I found myself drawn to one side of the school, in particular. Then, I drove the car up to one door on that same side. Stepping from the car, I pulled out the camera and, after walking up to one of the entrances, carefully placed the camera lens up against the door window.

There it was. The hallway. This was the same hallway where I remember walking to gym a few times a week, yes. But that's not the reason I was peeking through this window, staring at this view. No, no, no. This was all about the route to a very different destination. This was all about that dark place. That gloomy, rusty gray-scale of a dungeon room.

"Mr. Getzov, where are your safety glasses? How many times do I have to warn you boys about your safety glasses."

I snapped off a few photos, then turned the camera to get another angle.

"And, don't forget the rivets. The rivets, boys."

For some reason, that line about the rivets popped into my head. I think it had something to do with a spatula which was, from I can remember, my first metal shop project. I'll have to ask her later, but I think my mom actually used that spatula in the house every now and then - to flip burgers or pancakes.

My contribution to the family. Manufactured with fire, sweat and yes ... rivets.

Thank you, Mr. Tippet.

"This Day"

99.

Like the Toto song. Or Maxwell Smart's girlfriend.

I like that number. I like the look of it. The last of the two digit combos. One step in front of an obvious watermark.

Emma Foote is now an official member of the 99-year club. It was her birthday yesterday and it was time to celebrate.

The Comeback Kid - After two touch 'n go months which some of you may know about since I wrote about it a few weeks ago, Emma was ready to move ahead to the next level. I've been thinking about this particular birthday for some time now, as I'm thinking about the next one, if it comes, God willing. We're all looking forward to that day. Emma used to joke about her name being mentioned by Willard Scott on The Today Show.

I hadn't seen Emma for a couple of months and certainly hadn't seen her since she went through her ordeal, so as I was driving to Springfield for the first visit, I was a bit apprehensive about the Emma I was about to see. But, before heading over to see Emma, it was time for Stuart and I to pick up ... yes ... the cake at the Noho Stop & Shop (of course, I had to snap a good photo for all of you to see. I know my brother loved this). "That's chocolate icing," I asked. Stu made a face and we both decided the day wasn't so much about the state of the icing. So, it was on to Agawam, to HeritageHall, where Emma now resides.

As we walked into Emma's room, we peeked in but didn't see her so we walked down the hallway to the nurses station. When we turned the corner ... there she was. Smiling, eyes bright, there was no doubt about it. Emma was back and fully aware of the two men standing in front of her - the two little boys whose lives she's helped to shape. We leaned in - and immediately, I felt that familiar soft skin brush up against my lips. I thanked God I was able to have this moment. This year. This day, as Emma always likes to say. "To thank God for this day." As I gave her a hug, steadying myself on the wheelchair arm, trust me, I was thanking God at that very moment. Honestly, I didn't think it was going to happen.

The Fiesta - It was great. Billie Joe, Novis, Ruth, Mamie, Bernice - Emma's family up north - and their kids and grandkids. I don't have a chance to see these folks much since I live far away now, but I love visiting with them when I do get home. People like Novis, (my favorite, by the way - she's one of the first people I can remember seeing as a child - that's her above). That would've been the early 60's when Emma would always invite her family over to our home for visits and I remember playing with Novis and Grace like it was yesterday. Since then, whenever Emma celebrates her birthday we make sure we all get together. Add to that some unbelievable Thanksgivings at Ruth's house ... (Note:I don't think I've ever had better macaroni and cheese in my life) ... Let's face it. Emma's family is my family, too. I've already asked Ruth and Novis if I can interview them for the project when I'm back East in a few months, so I'm looking forward to that.

So it was good Stuart was able to snag the large conference room down the hall so we had plenty of room for Emma's family as well as other Heritage Hall residents who wanted to join in the fun. It was good seeing Emma enjoying the afternoon in her quiet way. I loved being able to read all the cards to her, which, I've noticed, has become sort of an event fixture at these parties. Of course, then it was all about the cake which was pretty good, I have to admit - fake chocolate? mocha? tan? beige? icing and all.

Three hours was about enough for Emma - I could see her eyes tiring. Quite frankly, I was surprised she wanted to hang out with all of us for that long. But before it was time to shut things down, Stuart and I promised our sister, Marla, that we'd call her, as well as our Mom and Dad - that part of the family all living in Florida. One by one I reached them on the phone and Emma chatted away, eagerly accepting their long-distance love and birthday wishes.

And that was that. The room cleaned, hugs and kisses exchanged and there we were, back in Emma's room, helping her to get comfortable for the evening. Of course, that was about the time they brought in her dinner in through the door and Emma chuckled, shooing them away, saying she wasn't hungry after having her fill of birthday cake. Still, I noticed that didn't stop her from eating the pears. It's good to see that her appetite has come back like that. At one point, she kept fumbling around with the plastic cup, doing her best to snag the last piece of pear. I was going to help her, but I knew Emma would have frowned at that. Finally, after working on it for what seemed like ten minutes, Emma was able to pierce that last piece of pear, lifting the forkful into her mouth and laughing hard the entire time. It was actually pretty funny.

* * * * * * * * * *

As Stuart and I left, saying goodbye to a few folks on the way out, I thought again about my phone call with Emma a few weeks back. She wasn't able to talk that day and Stuart was relaying some pretty bad observations to me and Marla at the time. And there we were: Emma up in Massachusetts. Me in Missouri. Simply put - I wasn't sure I'd ever see that smiling face again.

But, I did see her. And I hope to see her again tomorrow if that's the way it works out.

And when I see her, you better believe I'll be thanking God for that very moment. For allowing me to see Emma Foote - This Day.

I Am Soooooo Happy

For anyone who's a baseball fan, you know how this picture makes me feel. For those of you who understand what happened to the Mets last year, then you really understand why this photo soothes our collective souls, like a warm salve, healing the wounds inflicted last September. Now, all he has to do is pitch well and we're half-way home.

Honestly. I look at this and still can't believe he's wearing a Mets' jersey. Okay, okay. I know $150,000,000 had something to do with it happening. Still, I'd like to think that was only a part of the equation.

'It's A Family Affair"

It's not a show I would normally choose to attend. Seriously, I'm not a huge country fan and I'm even less a fan of "American Idol." Having said that, I like Reba McIntyre from what I've seen of her and today's country music isn't the country music of Conway Twitty and George Jones. Also, even though I don't like "American Idol," I did see parts of that first season and one would have to be an idiot to not notice what incredible voice Kelly Clarkson has.

So - I went to see the Reba and Kelly perform this past Saturday night at KC's Sprint Center. And it was great.

It's A Family Affair - In a nutshell ... a childhood friend called a few weeks back and told me that Reba McIntyre was coming to KC and that another childhood friend, Jim, has been touring with her for years so ... Jim's sister, Susan, another childhood friend, was thinking of making the trip from MA to MO to surprise him. Great idea. I mean, why not? It would be fun and I could use the company of some old friends out here. So, the caper was set into motion with Susan making her travel plans and my brother, (who is a good friend of Jim's and has performed and written music with him), helping to set up the rouse. We were ready to roll. Jim thought Stuart was going to be visiting me in KC and that we'd be heading over to the show. He set aside some tickets for Saturday night and that was that.

Great plan.

Well, it was a great plan until I caught some kind of death respiratory virus a few days before the show. Still, I'm not going to go into any of that here. The fact is I'm now writing about this after the event and I'm happy to say (1) I made it to the show; (2) the surprise worked; (3) I had a terrific visit with Susie after not seeing her too many years; and (4) the two of us had a great lunch with Jim before the show. And I did all of that while sucking on crushed ice for the better part of two straight days. Who knows? Perhaps it was stupid for me to be out and about feeling the way I was feeling but the truth is, I had told Susie this was going to happen and I wanted to keep my word, no matter what.

The Smile - "Look what a great time he's having up there." Susie must have said that five times during the show as she snapped of photo after photo. And each time I glanced over and watched her, watching her older brother up on the Sprint Center's stage in front of 14,000 fans, playing guitar with Reba and Kelly - I couldn't help but be inspired by the whole scene. Susie must have taken 40 pictures or so; every time Jim's face popped up on the huge video screen, she was right on it. And as I've already written to Jim since the show - I don't have that many people in my life who are really enjoying what they do for a living. It's just so rare. So to see him that way ... that night? It just felt plain old good, chest cold or no. And I don't know if it was a coincidence, (maybe it was the ice cold Cokes and soft pretzels) but I could have sworn that on the way home that night, I felt better physically. And to think I was just going to drop Susie off and return after the show to pick her up. I'm just glad I chose to take the shot. What a frickin' treat. Once again, I figure it goes somewhat like this: when life presents chances to have these kinds of special moments, it's pretty much up to us to notice these opportunities for what they are. And then it's up to us to make a choice as to whether we grab hold of them - or not.

I'm glad I chose right the other night.

Scrambled Eggs

I talked and talked. Stopped to wipe a tear that started running down my right cheek. And then I talked a bit more. It wasn't so much that I was thinking it through, I wasn't. I allowed my mouth to move, giving voice to something that was occurring right at that moment, flowing directly from what seemed to be my stomach area. My brain seemed to have very little to do with anything as I stared at the top of my kitchen table, picking at the chipped metal edge as I talked away into my cell phone.

My brother had placed his phone next to Emma's ear as she laid in her bed at Heritage Hall up in Agawam, Massachusetts. A strange series of events had brought Emma to this point. What point that was or is, we're not even all that sure. But one thing I am sure about. Last week, I experienced a couple of minutes that broke new ground for me.

Emma Foote is ... - I've never really known what label to put on her. My nanny? That's too shallow a term, although she did serve in that role for me and my brother and sister when we were first born. A housekeeper? Sure, Emma played that role, too. But to refer to Emma as a mere housekeeper is to insult her and I just won't have that. A grandmother? Now, that's one I've always loved. I like referring to Emma that way because in every way possible, Emma has been and still is a grandmother to me, as she is to my siblings. Convention dictates some hesitation to label Emma as a true grandmother simply because she is not, in fact, my mom or dad's parent. And one look at her, it doesn't take much to notice that she's a black woman so - of course, the next phase of someone's analysis would be for them to look at me and ... well ... at least want to ask a question or two about how someone like Emma could possibly be my grandmother. I mean, how could such a thing be, right? But, I have to tell you, that's precisely what she is to me. And add to that - friend, mentor, teacher, coach ... and quite possibly the best fried chicken maker in the history of the world - and that's what Emma Foote has meant to me and my family. That's what Emma Foote has meant to just about anybody who's ever met her.

And there I was one week ago. Sitting in the same chair I'm sitting in now as I write this, talking to her as she laid in her bed up in Massachusetts, seemingly out of it, unable to respond with more than a few grunts here and there.

"I don't know," Stuart said as he sniffled. I could tell he was holding back tears.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not sure," he added. "I think ..." He paused. "I think this may be it."

The Head Rush - When Stu said that - you know something? It's not as though I can explain what happened next. I had spoken with Emma just moments before, telling her about my planned visit to Springfield for her March 2 birthday - her 99th! I asked her what kind of cake we were going to get this time? And Stuart told me later that her eyes seemed to light up when I asked her such things. Just three minutes before, I was pretty much figuring everything was going to be okay. Even though she couldn't talk, Stuart told me Emma was definitely able to understand my words. Sure, she was recuperating from a surgery to get more circulation into a bum right leg and she was out of it, yes. But dying? Come on.

"Stu. I need to get back on the phone. Do me a favor and put the phone near her ear again," I added.

A Second Chance - And as I spoke this second time, it was like I was a different person. I had crossed over. This time, it wasn't words about preparations for an upcoming birthday. This time what drove me was the idea, the unfamiliar idea that this might very well be the last time I would be able to speak with Emma while her soul was of this Earth. As I talked, I just could not compute that thought. That sad thought. My mouth kept moving as I told her how much I loved her, what she's meant to me and our entire family all these years. I told her that if she felt it was time to go, then just know how much I loved her and that I would always be connected to her - every single day of my life until it's time for me to go.

She's always been there for us in the ways that mean the most - no matter where she or we lived physically, geographically. First in our home for many years as a part of our family. Then in her own apartment, when she would then visit our home for prolonged stays, always welcomed back to her old room. And then in her next home where she lived for many years as most of us moved to different parts of the country. Phone calls kept us in touch and we always worked out ways to get back to Western Mass. to see our Emma.

For me, one experience that always comes to mind is sitting in the chair next to her as she sat in her rocker chair and footstool, the TV on in the distance, her stories (soaps) on as we watched together. 99.9% of the time, I fell asleep in that position. I mean a good, calm, deep nap. Spending time with her all those years, talking with her, confiding in her when I went through my divorce, etc..., Emma has been like a human sedative for me. So it's always been natural to feel that heart rate decrease and doze off while watching "One Life To Live" with her.

And the phone calls that obviously never substituted for the real thing. Those calls always end with me telling Emma how much I love her.

"I love you, too. You know I do," is Emma's routine response. And when I tell her I'm heading up to see her, she always adds, "I'll be lookin' for ya."

The phone. We think we can pick it up anytime and the people we love, the people we've been speaking with for all these years - it feels like they voice is always going to be there on the other end. Whenever we need to hear that voice. The other day, I suppose it hit me - the reality of it. The fact is these people will not always be there. It is going to end.

Okay, so for all of you who have been through this, I'm sure I sound like a child right now. I know I've been blessed simply because I haven't had to go through this before. This is my debut.

* * * * * * * * * *

Update - The good news is that Emma seems to have rebounded a bit. We think she may have been over medicated (pain pills). So when they cut down the dosage, she started to come back to us - slowly. I'm heading up to see her and, hopefully, we'll be able to share a little of that big 99th Gus & Paul's birthday cake.

But, for now, I'm going to make dinner and think about her recovery. I'm going to have an omelette. And when I beat the eggs, who do you think will be on my mind?

That's right.

Add "cooking teacher" to the above referenced list.

It's Time Of The Season ...

First of all, I understand that unless you're from New York or Boston, the events of the past week probably don't mean all that much to you. Still, while working in the library today, I couldn't help but to write just a bit about the following two things:

1. Last night's game - A few observations. To say it was one of the best Super Bowls would be an understatement ("The Catch" - when it happened, you pretty much knew how the game was going to end). And as most NFL fans know, the game usually has a habit of rarely living up to its hype. And even though last evening's 4th quarter ended up being one of the most dramatic quarters of pro football I've ever watched, there was still something strange to me about the way the game unfolded. I'll preface the following comment by saying this right up front: I'm a baseball fan - to the core. And while I enjoy all sports and still like to get out there and toss around a ball, it's still baseball for me. The fact is, as the final seconds of the Super Bowl wind down each year, a quick glance at a calender always brings a smile to my face as three words pop into my head: pitchers and catchers. More on that in a minute. Back to last night.

I don't know if it's just me but, what's the story with the "one play - three commercials" ratio? I know, I know - the game is just as much about the commercials as it is about ... well ... the game. But I enjoy the game. And as a fan, I found it hard to get into the flow when, every time a play would be run, Fox would quickly cut away to a series of ads. Then they'd come back, run another play and, whoooshhhh - off to another commercial break - and then another and another. At one point I couldn't help but wonder, "If I'm having trouble getting into the flow - and I'm just sitting there watching - how the hell do the pro athletes deal with this herky jerky rhythm? Okay, so I know this is part of Super Bowl lore but, more and more I'm finding it doesn't work for me.

In the end, I was thrilled for the Giants, I really was. I was torn during the game because, being from MA and growing up around the Patriots, I was caught up in their quest for the perfect season. I would have liked to see them get it - I like the team and Belichick a lot. But on the other hand, I love Giants - ever since the Homer Jones, Tucker Fredrickson, Fran The Scram days. And how could you not be rooting for Eli Manning. Talk about an athlete weathering the storm. I can't imagine what it would be like being a legend's younger brother (and Dad, too) and having to put up with the NY sports press the way he's had to deal with it.

So - congrats to the Jints. And to the Pats? I have a hunch they're going to be right back in there next year - and with even more to prove now.

2. Ahhhh ... Those Three Words - 10 days? It's funny, as soon as December 21 rolls around, just the mere knowledge that the days are getting longer by milliseconds seems to pick me right up and out of the winter doldrums. But now - a mere 10 days before pitchers and catchers? To me, spring is already here. I swear I can smell freshly cut grass and hear bird chirping, mitt popping and bat cracking in my dreams. But this year, just this past week, there is something else to be excited about. Something really big.

Amazin' Ace - Johan is here. I won't go into it now but, after last years Mets' meltdown, this is the tonic the Mets' faithful needed. What a lift. Sure, when I see the huge amounts of money being thrown around - an average of $22,000,000 each year? For a guy who only works 1.5 days a week? - the whole thing is obscene. I know this. Still, I love the Mets. More than that, I love the game, even with all it's steroid/HGH warts and the ridiculous money flow.

10 days and then it's time to play ball. That beautiful, drawn out 162-game schedule starts to play out and through the spring, dog-days of summer and into the autumn chill. Months and months of morning box score analyses, standings changes and, hopefully, this year - a much needed World Series championship. What a perfect cherry to top off a final year at Shea.

And, worth a mention before I sign off - March Madness isn't exactly what I'd call chopped liver. The combo of college hoops and baseball ... it's the time of the season, for loving.

Just Like That!

It's February 1st. I can't believe it.

One year ago to the day I was stuffing as much as I could into two bags and setting them down in Howard's hallway as Max (Howard's cat) watched me from the top of the stairs. I checked my freshly compiled iTune's CD's before stuffing them into the last available section of my bursting bag while figuring out which CD I was going to use first. After all, within 24 hours I was going to be driving from Wichita, Kansas to Dallas, Texas - hitting the open road. Was I excited? Are you kidding?

One year.

Just like that.

February 1, 2007 - "Off We Go ..." - I remember looking out the plane window, watching Shea Stadium and the new Citi Field construction shrink and fade into the thickening clouds. I was on my way to the middle of the country; my days of merely flying over the flyover states were about to end. As I sat back and closed my eyes, I remember taking a deep, happy breath. I was letting go of something big, even though I couldn't pinpoint what that something was. Truthfully, it didn't matter. I just felt downright good. After thinking about driving cross country for, I don't know, 30 years? I was finally doing it. Chalk one up for Eldercation. A decade's worth of stored up stories about taking leaps, not regretting things, and the like - it was time to take some of that wisdom out for a test run in my Enterprise car rental.

And, as I pecked away on my laptop and started to write what would end up becoming my road-journal, certainly the last thing I figured was that I'd end up living in Kansas City, Missouri. So it just goes to show you - it simply doesn't make any sense to ... well ... figure on anything. For the most part, life unfolds on its own. I smile when I think back to that first day of the trip and how, after landing, I found myself staring at the shiny black baggage belt as it kept running by me from right to left, bag after bag. That belt kept running and running until there were no more bags. I had made it to Wichita; my bags hadn't. As Frank Rizzo like to say, "Ehhh, I see we're off to a bad start, Paul."

The thing I remember most about that particular moment? I smiled. I'm not kidding. I actually smiled. Well, okay - so I freaked out for about 10 seconds and then I smiled. But pretty soon, after filling out the lost baggage forms and meeting the young man who was to later become my luggage hero, I walked over to an airport bar and ordered a cold beer. I was celebrating that fact that my bags were somewhere else in America besides NYC and I was sipping a beer in the Wichita, Kansas airport. Breaking free of the New York's sometimes mesmerizing hold, I had finally moved forward, starting the process of fulfilling a dream. And, boy, it felt great.

February 1, 2008 - "Brick By Brick" - I've been using that phrase a lot lately. The Eldercation project is (and I know I'm obviously biased), quite a remarkable experience collection, I have to say. My focus now is to convert these interviews into a format where I can share just a small sampling of what I've been seeing and hearing as I've traveled around meeting some of the best people you'd ever want to meet. A lot of work was in the can before I left last year; hundreds of interviews were already in place. But, this trip, this adventure - it's allowed me to spread my wings. Something started to click with me and it seemed to happen almost as soon as the plane's wheels left the LaGuardia runway. Dallas to Austin to Liberty Hill to Fort Worth to San Antonio to Oklahoma City to Kingfisher to Stillwater to Tulsa to Hot Springs to Benton to Little Rock to Eureka Springs to Branson to Springfield to Columbia - back to Wichita to Lawrence to Kansas City ...

And it wasn't supposed to stop in Kansas City. The fact is, I had already made plans for the next leg - up to Nebraska and then over to Iowa. And the interesting thing is, whenever I fantasized about making this trip, for some reason it was always Nebraska that popped into my head. Which is a pretty strange thing considering I had, as you already know, never been there before. Go figure. Maybe it was memories of being at the 1969 Orange Bowl, watching the Cornhuskers beat LSU that year. From that day forward, I always felt kind of attached to Nebraska football. Which wasn't such a difficult thing to do, seeing as they seemed to be in the hunt for the national title every year up until very recently.

But, Nebraska and Iowa would have to wait. Like everything else on this trip, instinct took hold and something pushed me to stop the trip in its tracks. It was time to write, compile - write and compile some more - and then write and compile some more. The fact is all I've been doing for the past six months (besides working part/time) is writing and compiling. Tedious at times? Yes, I can't lie. There are no shortcuts. For every interview conducted, it means listening and combing through that interview several more times, culling out the one or two things that I want to pass along to readers.

Which reminds me.

It's time to write and compile.

"Oldies, But Goodies"

I’ve been watching old movies lately. I’m not sure why, but I am sure the "why" part of it doesn't really matter all that much. My guess is it's simply because I've now seen pretty much every post-1970 movie made - at least the ones stocked on the Plaza Library bookshelves. My "no-TV" rule has given way to a substitute visual fix –the DVD, both movies and television series. Still, watching television was one thing. Popping a DVD into my laptop is another. At least with a DVD, it’s a more finite process; a beginning and an ending. With TV, it was a perpetual kind of thing. It was on in my apartment in the city - all the time. My breaking point? As much as I love following politics and government affairs, I simply grew weary of the screaming and constant ranting. To me, that's not a productive approach to inducing change. It's not very, how can it put it? Enrolling. As much as I liked watching Chris Matthews and The McLaughlin Group, it was time to close down the shop.

So with my more modern day movie supply exhausted, it was time to enter a new phase: the black and white era.

One example, "Adam's Rib" - I just watched it last night; a cute flick with Tracy and Hepburn. The more I see those two together in films, the more I love them.

A few weeks ago, I watched a film called "Advise & Consent" - starring Henry Fonda, Don Murray, Peter Lawford, Burgess Meredith, Walter Pigeon, Jean Tierney and quite the performance by Charles Laughton. This was a great film.

Sticking with the Fonda theme, when I saw both the old and new versions of "12 Angry Men," on the shelf, I knew immediately which one my hand would reach for. That original cast (Can you name all those actors in this photo?) ... I think this might be one of my all-time favorite films, right along side "To Kill A Mockingbird." Well ... for me, that movie has a unique place in my heart and I'm saving it for a special day. I often see it on the shelf, but haven't acted on the urge yet.

Again, with Henry Fonda - "The Grapes of Wrath." You know, with all of the folks I've been interviewing, and all the stories they share about the Great Depression - when I watched this film again, it was like a whole new experience for me. Back in April, 2007, I interviewed a woman named Hazel McCrary, from Stillwater, Oklahoma. Hazel told me all kinds of stories about the Dust Bowl and how her family lived through that period.

"Well, we just existed, literally existed on, you know ... very little. We had some cattle, we had cows so we had milk. And we had chickens. We all worked as much as we could. My daddy sold his wheat for 5¢ a bushel, haulin’ it to Canadian, Texas (smiling), sellin’ it for 5¢ a bushel. You know, so you just didn’t make any money and then the dust blew in (motioning with arms) til’ the fence rose. It’d just cover over it, it’d be just like a little ridge. You’d just go up, you wouldn’t even know there’s a fence there because the tumbleweeds would gather on that fence and then that would start blocking the sand. And the dust just built up, built up (raising hands far above her head, showing me). It was unbelievable … "

Hazel talked with me about the dust and hardship and how the concept of scarcity has stuck with her all of her life, even to this day. We sat together in the hallway of the yoga studio and as I listened, I couldn't help but think about the John Steinbeck novel and the images he described. I mentioned the book to Hazel and she told me "It was like that. Pretty accurate, yes." So when I took out the movie a few weeks back, my brain already loaded up with these stories from people who lived the experience first-hand ... Talk about a different way to watch a movie.

TV-Lite: For now - just two words. "Perry Mason." For those of you who remember the show, close your eyes for a second. Think about the opening; those first few theme song notes. Now, I ask you, is there anything more stirring than that instrumental opening? That steady piano line; the heavy brass. Okay, so some of the episodes were funny to me and watching the court procedure was also … well … I smiled, sometimes even laughed out loud at some of the things unfolding on my screen. Being a lawyer and having seen a number of trials in my life, I have to say, I have yet to see a witness break down on the stand like they do in a Perry Mason courtroom ... on every single show!! I understand it was a formula for the times and, it clearly worked. And then, Raymond Burr – talk about one-of-a-kind. Add some Della Street (Barbara Hale) and Paul Drake (William Hopper), the white haired, playboy-like PI who always seemed to be wearing some kind of white suit, like the "Man from Glad" ... Of course, there was good ole' reliable Hamilton Burger, Mason’s prosecutor nemesis. Two things about Mr. Burger: (1) Did he ever get a conviction in his fictional life? And (2) Was his name the product of some kind of writing-session practical joke? (Ham – Burger?)

The good news: There are tons of titles, especially old TV shows, I have yet to see again, so the horizon is vast on that front. I think it may be time for some more lighthearted stuff, to soothe the soul at bedtime. Shows like "Dick Van Dyke" and "I Dream of Jeannie" will work just fine, I'm sure. I see those particular DVD boxes on the shelves and, if I listen carefully, I think I hear them calling out my name. The bad news: Well, it's not actually bad news. The fact is I simply have to curb the urge. "Everything in moderation. Everything in moderation. What applies to food, applies to DVD's. That's the ticket.

New Year - New Approach

Less, More Often - My personal mantra for the new year. I've been doing some thinking about this, the blog part of the site, and decided that it's worth a try to write a little less but to do it more often. Actually, that's more along the lines of what a blog is supposed to be. Instead of working to post what I would call “finished” pieces or essays, I’m going to simply write tidbits here and there and simply … post them.

Come to think of it, less, more often is also my dietary goal. Portion control (laughing). My goal this year is to actually take home some food from a restaurant every now and then. I envy folks who can do that on a regular basis. This will be uncharted territory for me. Last year it was the Midwest. This year, it's the doggie bag.

So, on that note …. As Mr. Gleason used to love to say, “and away we go….”

* * * * * * * * * *

Man, It’s speeding Up - Back in, I think it was July, as I walked into the KCUR-FM studio, getting ready for my Walt Bodine Show interview, I met a very nice woman, Ruthanne, at the front desk. On the way out after the show was over, I bumped into Ruthanne and she asked if I’d be interested in coming to speak to her church Sunday school class at the start of the new year. I'm finding that I love doing that kind of thing so, of course, I said "Yes" right away. And I remember thinking, “January. That’s soooo far away. I mean, I don’t even have a 2008 appointment book yet."

Well ... January 6th rushed into place faster than any January 6th I can remember. It seemed like just yesterday I was standing in the KCUR lobby, Ruthanne asking me to speak at her church; Me, thinking about my lack of a 2008 appointment book.

A Meriwed Sunday - What a wonderful group of people. The Country Club United Methodist Church has several Sunday school classes, the Meriwed Seekers being one of them. Briefly, the group was originally formed many years ago by some newly married World War II veterans and their wives and it is this same core group that keeps things going, although newcomers are always welcome. They meet every Sunday, inviting guest speakers from both inside and outside the class, covering all kinds of subjects.

As it turns out, the church is about two minutes from my home, right around the corner. I drove over, parked, and as I walked into the church’s side entrance, Ruthanne’s husband met me as soon as I entered the building, right at the 9:15 designated time. After a cookie, cup of coffee and a short introduction by Ruthanne, I was up at the podium, microphone in place and the Eldercation program had begun.

As I said before, I enjoy doing this kind of thing and look forward to doing more of it down the road. My hope is that the 30-40 people sitting in front of me (all seniors, of course) enjoyed listening to what I had to say as much as I enjoyed saying it. After talking about the project for a few minutes, explaining why I’m doing what I’m doing, I spent some time putting out to the group a few of the questions I ask during a typical Eldercation visit. And that gets the ball rolling. It’s so much fun to listen to people’s answers but it's just as much fun to listen to and watch folks interacting with one another. That’s a nice twist to the one-on-one interview, reminding me of when I organized a series of focus groups at The Murray Hill Center a few years back. The group dynamic presents a completely different picture.

Normally, I’m able to put on about a 90 minute program but, after Ruthanne told me I had about 45 minutes or so, I knew I had to make some adjustments. It was a bit of a challenge but, in the end, it wasn't all that hard to do. As things wound down, I finished up by reading a few excerpts from past interviews and, since it was a Sunday morning and I was speaking with a church class, I figured it would be a good idea to focus on some religious, more spiritual issues. I can’t tell you what I joy it was to be able to stand up there, reading an excerpt from an Emma Foote interview. The more I find myself sharing Emma's words like that, the happier I get. The idea that I can put some of that woman's words and ideas out to the world like that … well … let’s just say it warms my heart and moistens my eyes. Of course, I called Emma on the drive home, (she’s turning 99 this March) .

“You’re famous!!” I told her. And she laughed ... and then laughed some more, the way only Emma can laugh. I refer to that laugh as a Deputy Dawg laugh, the way she ends each chuckle with a soft, sighing kind of “eewww.” I’m not sure that translates here, but perhaps you know what I mean.