Down in the Mines

This week, I've been at a conference sponsored by the Foundation for Research on Economics and the Environment (FREE).  Looking at "Boom and Bust in America," we visited Butte, Montana--"The Richest Hill on Earth." Butte is built over what may have been the world's biggest deposit of copper ore. Over the years 500 mines operated in Butte beginning in the late 19th century.

While mining in Butte peaked in 1917, in 1956, there were still miners putting on their headlamps and hardhats do travel up to 5,700 feet down into the mine shafts. That's when Ed Drabant began his career as a miner.

Ed was our guide at The World Museum of Mining on Montana Tech's campus in Butte. Born in Minnesota, Ed traveled west because the mining work was steady at the time and, due to it's inherent danger and the strength of the miner's unions, it paid very, very well.

Ed worked in six different Butte copper mines till the last one closed. Then he mined in Arizona until mining there closed down. Finally he mined till the bitter end in New Mexico after which he moved back to Butte to retire. He had "been underground" thirty-six years.

Now, in his eighties, he leads tours at the museum. When he guides groups around, yelling, "Fire in the hole!" just as he did in his youth. He waxed rhapsodic about seeing rock that was azure blue with copper ("It was so beautiful!") and told us about knocking down a wall of rock that revealed a stable for the mining mules thousands of feet below the surface.

"Do you miss mining?" I asked. No, he told me, but, he said, he got "all worked up" telling the old stories about drills and picks and dynamite and old friends.

Ed appears proud of what he did for a living, proud of his place in Butte history, enthusiastic about his job, and contented with his life. It was a privilege to meet him.

Backpackin' Baby

Living 1300 miles from the grandbaby, I don't get to see many firsts. Lucky for me that I'm here in Wyoming and got to participate in one. Matthias went on his first backpacking trip.

He rode the four miles to our camping site on his mom's back. That is, he was more of a backpack than a backpacker, but nonetheless he was a trooper. He seemed to adapt seemlessly to living outdoors and in a tent (though he's delighted to be back home and crawling among familiar objects). The campfire held a great fascination needless to say and he tried to climb every boulder in the rather boulder strewn area where we camped. Sleeping was no problem though he didn't stay in his "sleeping bag," a down vest with the neck and arm holes duct taped together.

My son and I left camp in the morning and went further up and further in, all the way to Thumb Lake at 11,000 feet. The sky was bright blue and the lake was crystal clear and surrounded by cliffs at the end of a cirque. Magnificant! Then we went down to Island Lake for a bit of fishing.

It won't be long before Matthias, now age 14 months, is boulder hopping up to Thumb Lake with us. Soon he'll outpace us and wonder why we're so slow. And I fully expect that he will catch the most and the biggest fish on any expedition we take together.

Someone said that grandchildren are the reward for old age, kind of a consolation prize. They're also one more reason to stay in shape, remain active, and look for ways to enjoy more firsts together.

Sit Back and Relax

When I sat down in my window seat on the Frontier flight from Washington to Denver I commented to the woman in the middle, "Every time I get on a flight, I think they've shrunk the seating room by another inch." She agreed. It was very tight.

The plane filled--and I mean it filled--and off we went.

As we took off the fellow in the aisle seat, a man of about 70, was reading the paper. Once in the air, the guy in front of him reclined his seat. And that's were the trouble started.

As I said, the seats were tight and reading was difficult. With the seat in front reclined, it was even worse. The paper reader in the aisle retaliated by repeatedly brushing his paper against the head of the  reclining passenger in front of him. He turned around asking that the paper reader cease and desist--assuming, I think, it was happening by accident.

"I'm reading my paper! If you don't like it, get your head out of my lap." Now reading the Washington Post can ruin anyone's day, and, as I said, it was tight, but the guy was over the top. He was caustic, nasty, self-rightous, and, in the final analysis, central casting's idea of a cranky old fart.

I had three responses. First, I was nervous that the altercation would escalate and we'd head back to DC. Second, I started laughing. The poor fellow became a caracature and it was a bit funny. No one would write such lame dialogue. Third, I prayed for him and for myself. I want to be that cheerful, gracious old person. Don't you?

Tech Overload

Yesterday I attended a conference called "Shaping the Industrial Internet." The "industrial internet"--aka: the internet of things, the cloud of things, the smart planet, and a few others--is the networking of everything. Sensors in the road, in your car, and in everyone else's car to ensure a safe trip. Refrigerators that know when the milk has expired and order a replacement bottle. Home thermostats controlled by your smart phone. WiFi cameras that post your snapshots to Facebook automatically. And tens of thousands of other industrial, business, and personal applications.

We talked a lot about privacy that in the European Union is considered a fundamental human right and in China is considered something of a problem. Technical, ethical, political, and policy problems abound, but don't expect any of that to stop it. Mountains of data already exist about you including that you're reading this blog and, if you're reading on a smart phone or tablet, where you're located while your reading. It's astounding.

More than once during the conference, I peeked at my email on the iPhone. Others did the same thing. In fact, the fellow sitting next to me, a journalist, had two phones going and a number of participants were blogging.

That's when the tech overload set in. I am deeply grateful for my devices. Facetime with distant grandchildren is the greatest invention ever. And yet, well, I'll just admit it: I miss card catalogues. I know that library collections on computer are faster and more efficient, but flipping through cards, I found out all sorts of things I never even heard of. And flipping cards was and is much more pleasant than typing. I still like books and if I wasn't frankly a bit lazy about it, I'd still write letters in script with a fountain pen.

I don't think I'm becoming an old fogie Luddite. It's just that there's something very human about books and pens and paper and card catalogues that digital media simply don't share. There's an acknowledgment of our embodiment. We can't be everywhere all at once even if that's the promise of the wired world. We can only be here, now, with our hands on one thing--even if that one thing pretends to be everything.

Calvin College Professor Quentin Schultz wrote in his book Habits of the High-Tech Heart:

We love to presume that our newest contraptions will equip us to engineer a better world. We thereby display an enormous capacity for collective self delusion, because the same machines that appear to give us a greater command of life are harder and harder for us to control. [Vaclav] Havel writes that "as soon as man began considering himself the source of the highest meaning in the world and the measure of everything, the world began to lose its human dimension, and man began to lose control of it."

Quentin Schultz argues that in order to live, as he says, "virtuously in the Information Age," we need to carefully assess the technologies around us to use them wisely without losing our humanness in the process.

Gone Fishin'

I'm late with my blog today because I had a project to finish in the morning and then I went fishing. The tidal Potomac River as it runs through Washington, DC is an excellent fishery. Check out the video  by Urban Anglers.

The weather report in the morning said thunder showers and, like most sentient creatures, I'd rather not be in a thunderstorm while waving a 9' fly rod over my head. Then I checked the weather again at noon. They had changed their tune. No thundershowers until evening and so I rushed down.

A friend told me about Four Mile Run and I thought I understood where to park. The river was there emptying into the Potomac as he described, but I couldn't get down to it so I moved on to Gravelly Point, a spot I knew for sure.

While it's on the river, Gravelly Point is better known as the best place in the country to watch airplanes takeoff and land. It's border is about four hundred feet from one of Reagan National Airport's major runways. Whether taking off or landing, the planes come in very low. It's exciting and, needless to say, very noisy.

Yet once I began fishing, I didn't hear a single jet even though they were just a couple of hundred feet over my head coming in one after another. I was completely absorbed in watching, wading, casting, and water. I'd like to say that it was also absorbed in landing fish, but they, alas, didn't get the memo. And besides, once I arrived we were nearing slack tide, the great fishing slowdown.

That I've lived within ten minutes of the Potomac for fourteen years and have been fishing so rarely is embarrassing and just a little crazy. It's so relaxing whether I catch fish or not and it refreshes my whole outlook. Writing is easier now than it was this morning.

Next week I'll be in Wyoming fishing the high country streams and lakes with my son and then on my own in Yellowstone on my way to a conference in Montana. Yes, that's fishing heaven, but when I get home, I need to make more trips to my local river, enjoying the beauty, serenity, and thrills just down the street.

Is That Too Much To Ask?

According to "America's Finest News Source", Pew Research just released a study that found:

...Americans indicated that when it comes to what they expect from their country, all they really want is to be safe, happy, rich, comfortable, and entertained at absolutely all times.In addition, the U.S. populace reportedly wondered whether it was too much to ask that they always be healthy, fulfilled, successful, safe, loved, relaxed, inspired, motivated, worry-free, and content every second of their lives from birth until death “given that this is America, after all.”

Now, given that "America's Finest News Source" is the Onion, there is, of course, no such Pew study, however, I wonder how different the real results would be if Pew asked the questions invented by the Onion.

We saw it in the Occupy movement: I got my college degree, many of the protesters lamented, now where's my great, high paying job? We also see it in the after mid-life set: We worked hard all these years and thus deserve a good retirement with government benefits, great free medical care, luxury on the cheap, and our senior citizen discounts at Denny's.

As one respondent "told" the Onion:

Can’t the government just hurry up and solve the student debt crisis, make colleges lower their tuition, make them do a Friends reunion, ensure that everyone finds their soulmate, and then guarantees that the spark lasts? We’re talking about our inalienable rights as Americans here.

 And of course we want "our inalienable rights" with "low taxes or no taxes" and free wifi.

It's called a sense of entitlement, that feeling that we are owed all of the good things in this life and none of the bad things. Feeling entitled is part of our human nature. When bad things happen we immediately ask, "Why me?" When good things don't happen on schedule, we become cranky and look for someone to blame. When good things happen on schedule, well... that's the way it's supposed to be.

As a result thankfulness and joy go right out the window. And God help us if we're trying to live a good life after mid-life without thankfulness and joy.

Moonstruck

It's cherry season. Get 'em now or you won't get them at all.

I like that since it's not true of most produce. Asparagus, an early spring treat, has become a Thanksgiving staple (which is at least a venial sin). Blueberries are available fresh year round as are most other summer fruit. Add to that heat, air conditioning, underground walkways, and it's easy to lose touch with the fact that we're connected to the ebb and flow of seasons. But make no mistake about it, we are connected with the world as much as we erect barriers between the world and ourselves.

For example, a short article in the paper today begins "Sleepless night? Blame it on the full moon--even if you can't see it."

In the few days before and after a full moon... people took an average of five extra minutes to fall asleep, slept 20 minutes less per night and had 30 percent less deep sleep. 

Small wonder that on the nights around the full moon sleep volunteers reported that they didn't sleep as well as usual. And this was true even though they volunteers didn't know the moon was full and couldn't see the light of the moon through their windows.

While the scientists know there is a correlation, they admit that they don't know how it works. I suspect that, though it doesn't explain the mechanism behind the correlation, it's happens because we are connected to this world in fundamental ways that in our technologically advanced culture we ignore.

We can insulate ourselves from the seasons, pay no attention to the phases of the moon, and set bedtime and the alarm when it suits us rather than the light of the day, but we can't escape the rhythms inherent in creation because those rhythms are in us as part of the creation.

The next full moon isn't until August 21. If cherries are still in season, I'll plan to stay up late with a bowl full outside on the patio under the full moon. After all, we're not sleeping that night anyway.

Divorce After Mid-Life

In 2010, more than 600,000 people over the age of 50 got divorces.

A new study by the Center for Family and Demographic Research at Bowling Green State University found that the divorce rate for those over 50 doubled between 1990 and 2010. In fact, in 2010, one quarter of all divorces were to people over 50.

While it's not clear what specifically has caused the rise, researchers have some suggestions that are noted in the study.

First, because of earlier divorces, many over 50 are on second or even third marriages, that is, marriages that, according to the study, have a failure rate 2.5 times greater than first marriages.

Second, divorce is more accepted in society and, according to other studies, divorce tends to be contagious. If the people around you are divorcing, it becomes a more attractive option.

Third, more and more women work and women who work are financially able to go it alone.

Fourth, "lengthening life expectancies decrease the likelihood that marriages will end through death and increase the length of exposure to the risk of divorce."

Most important, the study points out that the meaning of marriage has changed from a life-long commitment to a commitment contingent on having my needs met. Or you could say we've gone from marriage "for as long as we both shall live" to "for as long as we both shall love" or at least (given no-fault divorce) until one of us is finished with the relationship. "Life-long marriages," they note, "are increasingly difficult to sustain in an era of individualism and lengthening life expectancies...."

So how do we keep our marriages from being among the casualties? By undoing the probable causes. Define your marriage as life-long. Remember it's "ours" not mine and even if you can go it alone, don't. Hang around with people who are happily married. I suspect marital satisfaction is contagious as well.

Old friends in their fifties recently got divorced. What a disaster for the two of them, their married and unmarried adult children, for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law, and for all those grandkids.

In contrast, a couple at church recently celebrated their 70th anniversary. I want Dottie and me to be like them.

Happy Hearts and Heart Health

The headline in the Washington Post Health and Science section reads: "A cheery attitude may be beneficial even for those with a family history of heart disease."

Negative emotions, including those associated with anxiety and depression, have been found to be hard on the heart. Might the opposite--feeling generally upbeat and happy about life--have the reverse effect and be beneficial to heart health?

It turns out that the answer is probably, yes. A study published in the American Journal of Cardiology looked at people with a family history of coronary artery disease and found that "People who were positive and felt good about their lives... were 33 percent less likely to have had heart problems than those who were not as upbeat."

Now, as with all studies, there are assorted caveats. But nonetheless, it seems reasonable that happy people are healthier than unhappy people.

It also occurs to me that even if it isn't true, happy people are... well, happy people are happier, that is, emotionally healthier even if they're not necessarily physically healthier. So all in all, I'll go with being happy, upbeat, cheerful, and positive.

But what about the problems in the world? How can we be happy in light of all that's going on in our families, communities, country, and world?

That is where faith comes in and there's no getting around it. You may or may not appreciate their politics, but three happy warriors come to mind, two of whom I had the privilege of knowing personally. Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, William F. Buckley, and Chuck Colson were up to the minute on the sorry state of the world. They faced business, family, and personal issues. They were highly opinionated and argued rigorously for what they believed even when their counsel was rejected. Even now, after their deaths, things are still not going their way. Yet sustained by lively faith, they wrote, spoke, and debated with cheerfulness.

As someone who has a family history of heart problems, I take this study as both a warning and as encouragement. Given the alternatives, I'll be a happy warrior.

Slots

Whether it's in Atlantic City, New Jersey, Laughlin, Nevada, or Biloxi, Mississippi, casinos across the country have one thing in common: senior citizens. Thousands of them flock to the gambling halls in cars, RVs, and casino owned busses. And most, absurdity of absurdities, play the slots.

I remember driving through Nevada once when I say a sign for a casino boasting "the loosest slots in Nevada." Their machines had a 96% pay out. This means two things. First, for every dollar you throw into the machine, you can expect 96 cents in return. That is, the gamblers always lose even if occasionally someone hits a jackpot. In fact, someone hitting a jackpot means that the average gambler gets less than a 96% payout. Second, it means that other casinos around the state are not nearly so generous. Atlantic City slots average less than a 91% payout.

According to an item in First Things, "Americans lost $92 billion gambling in 2007, about nine times what they lost in 1982." With the growth in the number of casinos and increase in internet gambling, the number today is probably even bigger.

The article goes on to quote Jay Evensen, associate editor of the Deseret News:

Gambling produces no product that can be sold or exported. It does, however, remove billions of hard-earned dollars from people who otherwise might spend or invest in things of value. It also takes money from other forms of recreation.

I've walked into enough casinos to have seen the senior spending their savings and I know that the places fill up the week Social Security checks come in the mail. It's tragic and it's a grave evil to prey on the elderly--and, thus, on their children.

I admit to have fed a few slots in the past, but I always keep a story my parents told me in mind. Years ago, they found a dime--one thin dime--in the tray of a slot machine in Las Vegas. One of them picked it up, put it in the slot, and pulled the handle. They won! Then, needless to say, they invested their winnings back into the machine and won even more. And so it went until, at one point, they had a couple of large cups full of dimes. An hour or so later, they had half a cup of dimes, then a quarter cup, then one thin dime. Into the slot it went never to be seen again.

They had a lot of fun, but it seemed to me at the time and still today that gambling and a good life before or after midlife mix about as well as oil and water.

On Education

Doodling about the internet, I came across two quotes about education. The first is from Nelson Mandela: "Education is the most powerful weapon we can use to change the world." And it seems to me that it's true--as far as it goes, which, it turns out, isn't very far.

Education will certainly "change the world," but not necessarily for the better. And changing the world for the better is the real challenge. North Korea has been carefully educating its people for generations, educating them to belief lies and in the process to be tyrant-worshipping automatons. Such education can be described in hip terms as an epic failure.

Closer to home, Michael Toscano and Peter Wood concluded in a recent National Association of Scholars report, that the things Bowdoin College, the elite Maine liberal arts school, does not teach includes:

Intellectual modesty. Self-restraint. Hard work. Virtue. Self-criticism. Moderation. A broad framework of intellectual history. Survey courses. English composition. A course on Edmund Spenser. A course primarily on the American Founders. A course on the American Revolution. The history of Western civilization from classical times to the present. A course on the Christian philosophical tradition. Public speaking. Tolerance toward dissenting views. The predicates of critical thinking. A coherent body of knowledge. How to distinguish importance from triviality. Wisdom. Culture. 

And, of course, Bowdoin isn't alone. An education that leaves such things to chance may change the world, but probably not for the better. This is particularly true if education is void of self-restraint, hard work, self-criticism, moderation, prudence, wisdom, and virtue.

The second quote is from the poet William Butler Yeats: "Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire." While our pails will be filled by education--you need information in order to think critically--real education uses the information as tinder and then strikes iron to flint so that sparks fly. Read a great book and things begin to happen internally and in our world.

They say, "It's never to late to have a happy childhood," but I'm not sure. Nonetheless of this I'm certain: It's never to late to get a well-rounded, well-grounded education. School, you may know is derived from the Latin word schola, meaning "leisure given to learning." and getting older in America typically means more leisure time. 

What better way to spend that time than striking sparks and lighting fires. We can overcome our own educational gaps and deficiencies, encourage young friends in their educations, and, if we choose wisely, change the world for the better.

Passing on the Family Destiny

Yesterday in my daily devotion, I read the story about King David's instructions to his heir, soon-to-be-king Solomon.

David wanted to build a temple to the LORD God, but God forbade him. He was a man of war and his son, Solomon, would be a man of peace (Solomon derives from shalom). The man of peace would build the temple, not the man of war. But while Solomon would build the temple after David's death--a temple David would never see--David was all excited about the prospects.

David commanded to gather together the aliens who were in the land of Israel, and he set stonecutters to prepare dressed stones for building the house of God. David also provided great stores of iron for nails for the doors of the gates and for clamps, as well as bronze in quantities beyond weighing, and cedar timbers without number.... (1Chronicles 22:2-4a)

When David died, Solomon inherited his title, his wealth, and his kingdom. And Solomon inherited a task, a project. In a sense, he inherited a destiny.

If you've lost your parents as I have, you may know all about inheriting houses and wealth and you surely know about inheriting stuff. The house gets sold and turned into cash. The cash is invested or spent. And the stuff... Heavens to Murgatroyd! What do you do with all the stuff?! You take some, your siblings take some, your kids take some, ebay takes some, and the local thrift stores take a ton. And sooner or later everything is gone. That's the way with stuff which is why it's such a mistake to build a life on creating consumerism. As singer/songwriter Bruce Cockburn wrote, "Everything that exists in time runs out of time someday."

But a project, a task, a destiny doesn't exist in time the same way stuff does. It doesn't get used up. It gets worked on and accomplished.

I have no grand building project or family business to pass on to my son. You probably don't have those either. We do, however, have the opportunity even if our children are grown of handing them the work of faith, family, and a life of virtue--things they can in turn leave unfinished to their children. It's the way a family history of faith, hope, and love is built, a history that lasts forever.

Counting on Plan "B"

On Friday I used a recipe I found at the William-Sonoma website: Shrimp with Lemon en Papillote. It's shrimp, paprika, and lemon in a parchment paper bag steamed in the oven. I'd recommend it as it is or with this improvement: add some chopped andouille sausage. But let me caution you, the recipe says 10 minutes in the oven, but you should add another two or three minutes to the cooking time.

Needless to say, I know this because I had undercooked shrimp and once the parchment bag is broken, there's repairing it for another few minutes. So what to do? Revert to Plan "B." Even though the shrimp was poached, we tossed it in a hot skillet and finished it as a sauté. Was it as good as yours will be with extra cooking time? No, probably not. But it was good. Hurray for Plan "B."

Someone once said that most of life is Plan "B." We know what we want to do and the outcomes at which we're aiming, but things go wrong leaving us no choice but to quit or make the best of what we've got.

The family vacation to the beach ends up being on the rainiest week of the summer. So read, play games, and go out in the rain. As long as there's no lightening, you can even swim in the rain.

Your tee shot faded (let's be honest, it sliced) into the right ruff. Get out a 3-Wood and hit a brilliant recovery shot--or some kind of recovery shot at least. Move from almost unplayable to playable.

It's true in little things and it's true in big things. Life rarely goes according to Plan "A." How many of us who remember the Summer of Love are where we expected to be this many summers later? And nothing about that is going to change now that we're passing mid-life. The future will surprise us and require us to adjust plans, methods, and expectations.

We should by all means pursue Plan "A," but we can't forget contingency plans and we need to remember how to think on our feet. It is, I believe, one of the secrets to a good life after mid-life.

Our Daily Bread

Fourth of July began at our house with breakfast: blueberry almond pancakes. How a mixture of flour, baking soda, salt, eggs, butter, almond paste, almond extract, vanilla extract, and blueberries can possibly taste so good is one of life's great wonders. The day ended with barbecued baby back ribs and a bottle of Kinneybrook Cabernet Sauvignon. Wine is, of course, nothing but grape juice. How the juice of little grapes grown in Sonoma Valley in 2008 can be so lush with fragrances of raspberry, cherry, and spice is another of life's great wonders.

I am an unashamed foodie. I browse in William Sonoma and/or Sur la Table every time I go into the mall, subscribe to food magazines, and have at least eight open bottles of different vinegars in the cupboard. My spice cabinet overfloweth. Most days just after breakfast I'm considering what I'll be cooking for dinner.

Food more than almost anything else serves as a constant reminder of our embodiment. We are not "true selves" rattling around in bodies. Our bodies are part of the "true self" package deal. Our need to eat and the pleasures of eating never let us forget. We were created whole people.

Now I realize that as we age, our sense of taste and our appetites wane. In addition, we can't eat the quantities we once ate nor can we tolerate the kinds of spice or richness we once could. And medical conditions also dictate what we will or will not be able to enjoy.

Having said that, food is one of the great daily pleasures of life. It can cause us to affirm the goodness of our bodies, of the creation from which our food comes, and of the God who provides our "daily bread."Which makes saying grace to give thanks not so much a chore as a privilege.

N.B.: I've written more about food in the past. Here are the links if you're interested: Food Glorious Food and Food, Finitude, and Faith.

Feeling Lucky?

I'm back!

We had a wonderful vacation with my son, his wife, and Matthias, our one-year-old grandson. Maine and elsewhere in New England. Great weather, good food, and amazement at how quickly kids change at a year old. How does a one-year-old who can't even talk yet manage self-consciously to make jokes to amuse the grown-ups?

The Old Testament book of Proverbs (17:6a) says, "Grandchildren are the crown of the aged." And while I'd rather be aged some other day, I'll go with the crown part. Matthias is a wonder to behold with wonderful parents and (if I may be so bold) wonderful grandparents on both sides.

Today, the first day back, I was slumming for lunch at the local Taco Bell. Walking to a table, I kicked a penny that was on the floor, but since my hands were full, I left it there. A minute or so later, a little boy who was probably about six came over to my table with the penny. "Did you lose a penny?" he asked as his mom looked on from another table. "No," I said, "I didn't."

He went back to his table and his mom said, "I guess you can keep it." He raised it on high in triumph. "You know," I told him, "my mom always told me that if you find a penny, you're sure to have a great day."

Actually what she said was that if you find a penny, you'll have good luck. She even had a couplet (even if it didn't rhyme) expressing this profound idea: "Find a penny, pick it up/And all the day you'll have good luck." She and my grandmother placed a penny in any wallet and purse given as a gift. I suppose so that the receiver would "find a penny and pick it up."

Smooth white stones also were said to convey good fortune and, in our family, were known as "Lucky Stones." This convention, however, stopped when my dad bought several tons of "Lucky Stones" to pave our driveway. It was, apparently a supply and demand thing.

At this point, I don't believe in luck at all. I believe in providence. Life is not a random roll of the dice. It has meaning, purpose, and direction--a telos or final cause. Matthias is not a "lucky kid." He is a blessed kid and we are blessed grandparents just to know him.

Back from vacation and in the same routine again, it's easy to look around and believe you're somehow lucky or unlucky depending on how you feel about the same routine. But we're not lucky or unlucky; we're blessed. And the sooner we see it, the happier we'll be.

Family Heritage

In the early 20th century, my grandparents immigrated from Belorussia to the United States making my family relative new-commers compared with my wife's family that includes at least two of the passengers on the Mayflower.

Two hundred years after landing on Plymouth Rock, a number of them had found their way to Maine and in the 1820s, Isaac Carter homesteaded an island just off the coast. The farmhouse still stands and the island, farmed until about the time my grandparents arrived, is now a family vacation home. 

It's the place my wife, Dottie, feels most at home, having made the drive north and the row across the channel since she was a little girl. My son, Jon, also feels the island is his home. 

And this year, Jon's son, Matthias, having turned one last Sunday will set foot for the first time on the beach at Grandpa's Cove, the rocks of the Foreshore, the chilly water in Merry's Bathtub, the front room of the White House, and the rest of the familiar island landmarks. (Still in diapers, he will get a pass and not have to cross the threshold of Trail's End--the island has no indoor plumbing.)

Dottie, Jon, and (eventually) Matthias feel the connection to the island in a much deeper way than I do, though I've been going up there for 35 years. It's their heritage in a way that it will never be mine. I'm family by marriage; Dottie, Jon, and Matthias are family by blood.

How odd to use that phrase, "by blood," in 2013 when the word on the street is that a family is whatever you'd like it to be. "Love makes a family," we're told. Well, actually, no. Love may make for a happy family, but marriage, adoption, or, above all, blood make a family. And from our families we receive our identities. Family has to do with you we are, not who we'd like to be. Family is our roots whether we like it or not.

And the island--including all the family dynamics and issues that go into managing a shared property--is a reminder for Dottie and Jon of their identity. And, one day, the same will be true for Matthias. Or at least I hope so.

Be a Clown

Judy was chief of staff in the Office and the Secretary of Defense. Her husband, Gary, was an executive at Fannie Mae. Now that they've retired from those positions, they're still actively employed if not gainfully employed. Judy and Gary Kopff are a couple of clowns.

According to an article in The Washington Post, Judy and Gary spent years struggling with infertility and finally recognized "their inability to be parent as an opportunity to help others." So Judy, dealing with her own disappointment, took a class on how to make balloon animals, taking her new-found skills into the SecDef office and offering balloon hats to honorees at various office functions.

According to the article, Judy was wearing a three-foot tall balloon hat she had made when:

"Secretary Rumsfeld came out, and he saw me [wearing the hat] and kind of did a double take.... I said: 'Very nice to meet you again. Would you like my hat?' ...He looked at me with this big smile and said, 'I think I'll pass.'"

Judy eventually bought a clown suit and began visiting hospitals, rehabs, and other facilities. Meanwhile Gary, who was in the midst of the banking meltdown, started to catch the bug as well. "Watching a $2 trillion global crisis I think prepared me well for clowning," he told the Post.

The article goes on:

The Kopffs could make as much as $400 an hour as professional clowns, Judy Kopff said, but they’re not in it for the money, red noses or paddle shoes. 

They do it for the 85-year-old blind woman who smiled upon touching a balloon animal. 

They do it for the veteran who broke into tears after hearing a balloon pop because his post-traumatic stress disorder triggered memories of exploding bombs. He asked for another balloon, determined to overcome his fear and give his child a life with balloons. 

And they do it for the autistic boy who smiled all day, his father said, after Judy Kopff twisted a balloon for him at the Pentagon. 

“While we’re physically tired, it’s always a privilege to be able to [help people], and we don’t have any sense of regret,” Gary Kopff said.

I'm not sure why Gary felt compelled to say there wasn't "any sense of regret." Clowning around--though sans balloon animals, makeup, wig, and funny outfit--and always been my idea of time well spent.

Rather than have regrets, the Kopffs, it seems to me, have found a very good life after mid-life. 

The Next Twenty (?) Years

Yesterday I met with a distinguished friend who is 81 years old. We met at his office in Washington, DC. This was in spite of the fact that he "retired" in February. Before that he was working 50-hour weeks, traveling, leading meetings, mentoring, writing, and speaking. Now that he's "retired" he's doing all the same things, but I suppose not putting in quite so many hours--maybe. He no longer runs his business unit, but aside from his title, only difference I can see is that they moved him to a smaller office and he has a new assistant. He's still full of life, energy, and ideas.

I thought about my friend and his "retirement" later in the day talking with another friend. Though I'll turn 60 next year, I keep thinking and saying that I have another 20 years to give to the cause. Another 20 years to contribute. How I came up with 20, I don't know, but that's the number I'm working with.

And why not. If God grants me life and breath, why should I stop? My dad died at 70 as one of the newest and most popular professors at the local community college. My mom died at 84, working nearly full-time as a travel agent until her last brief illness. Why not die with my boots on the way they did, the way Chuck Colson (age 81) did and the way my 81-year-old friend is sure to do?

The world is a troubled place. We live in a troubled culture. People over 70 and over 80 are still making a positive difference in the midst of the trouble. I get excited thinking about all that might be ahead and about being a part of fighting the good fight.

Other People's Children

As of this graduation season Sarah, the three-year-old who used to call me "funny Uncle Jim" (the "uncle" was honorific and Sarah, for reasons that are unclear, supplied the adjective) is now the proud possessor of a Bachelors of Arts in Psychology "with all the honors, rights, and privileges to that degree appertaining."

I'll have more to say about colleges and college degrees in my ReligionToday column in a few days, but for now I'm letting it sink in that the little blond girl twirling in front of me in her new pink dress has graduated from college. It's sobering.

Years ago (1985-ish) I watched Dr. James Dobson's video series "Turn Your Hearts Toward Home" and still remember something from the first tape (in 1985, you'll remember, videos came on tape). Regardless of what you think of Dobson and his politics, he had wise insights into life and child rearing. If you don't feel as though you're getting older, he said, take a look at the children you know. When the kids you remember as three-year-olds graduate from college, it's safe to say you've gotten older.

Sarah's graduation is a reminder of my advancing age and of why I'm writing this blog. I want to finish well and I want you to finish well. And truth be told, we have less time than we'd like to believe.

In light of that, consider the words of the Roman Stoic philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 BC-AD 65): "It is not that we have so little time but that we lose so much. ...The life we receive is not short but we make it so; we are not ill provided but use what we have wastefully."

Keeping that in mind and battling our profligate tendencies is, I'm convinced, one of the keys to finishing well. And that three-year-old who just flipped her tassel brings in all into focus for me. 

Vanity of Vanities

Lately I’ve been rereading the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes. It’s one of my favorites and a book that can easily be misunderstood. Anything that begins like this could be (mis)construed as, well, as positively depressing:

Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth, vanity of vanities! All things are vanity!

What profit have we from all the toil which we toil at under the sun?

One generation departs and another generation comes, but the world forever stays.

The sun rises and the sun sets; then it presses on to the place where it rises.

Shifting south, then north, back and forth shifts the wind, constantly shifting its course.

All rivers flow to the sea, yet never does the sea become full.

To the place where they flow, the rivers continue to flow.

All things are wearisome, too wearisome for words.

The eye is not satisfied by seeing nor has the ear enough of hearing.

What has been, that will be; what has been done, that will be done.

Nothing is new under the sun!

Even the thing of which we say, “See, this is new!” has already existed in the ages that preceded us.

There is no remembrance of past generations; nor will future generations be remembered by those who come after them. (Ecclesiastes 1:1-11)

Sounds pretty grim, but Qoheleth (“the Preacher”) didn’t intend to depress his readers. Instead he wanted to share wisdom, that is, the way to life a good life—at mid-life or at any other age. Simply stated, his message is, “Please grow up and stop taking yourself so seriously.”

Qoheleth tried all the fun things of life. He got rich, he built fabulous homes and other projects, he pursued wisdom, he collected fine wine and spirits, ate the best foods, and had more girlfriends than Elvis and the Beatles. It’s all “vanity” he says.

The Hebrew word translated “vanity” is hebel. It literally means a breath or a breeze. If you put out your hand and blow you can feel the hebel.  Hebel is real and recognizable—even pleasant—but it’s insubstantial, momentary, and ultimately profitless.

“The eye is not satisfied by seeing nor has the ear enough of hearing” and enough is never enough. After all, he writes, “He who loves money will not be satisfied with money; nor he who loves wealth with gain: this too is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 5:10).

So stop taking yourself, your projects, and your successes (or failures) so seriously. Instead relax and enjoy life. How? Seven times in the course of the book, Qoheleth tells us how. Here’s the fifth instance:

So I commend the enjoyment of life, because nothing is better for a man under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany him in his work all the days of the life God has given him under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 8:15).

Life and all it contains is God’s gift. Enjoy it as much as you are able to (keeping legality and morality in mind). Work hard and enjoy your work, but don’t expect too much out of work. That is, work to live; don’t live to work. Because as the (I’m happy to say) no longer ubiquitous T-shirt has it, “Life is good! J”

Also Ecclesiastes is good and much more in depth than this blog entry. Why not sit down and give it a read? Let me know what you think.

Career--Take 2

According to an article in the Wall Street Journal, "Flocks of people in their 50s and 60s are putting aside thoughts of a comfortable retirement and heading to theological school, where they've become the fastest growing age group in recent years."

Baby boomers, Marc Freedman of Encore.org told the Journal, are "turning to careers in which meaning and purpose are front and center."

On the one hand, I have a problem with this. Medicine, law, business, investment banking, teaching, lawn care, homemaking computer programming, and any other legitimate vocation can be careers where meaning and purpose are front and center. I have friends in all these callings who find great spiritual and emotional fulfillment. And I ministers and others in the "helping professions" for whom meaning and purpose are not front and center. They're just going through the motions.

Meaning and purpose are not inherent in any vocation, but are characteristics we bring--or don't bring--to everything we do.

On the other hand, this is great news. That baby boomers are (1) getting increasingly serious about their faith and (2) putting their gifts and experience into work that will last well past "retirement age" is wonderful.

My friend Fr. Robert Cook is in the midst of just such a second career. He spent his first career as a criminal defense lawyer, seeing to it that those accused of federal crimes were treated as fairly as possible. It was a nobel and good career in which he was respected and successful. Then in his mid-fifties, he discerned a call to the priesthood, went to seminary and was ordained in 2000. He pastored a church until 2005 when he was asked to be the founding president of Wyoming Catholic College. By that time he was in his sixties. Can you imagine founding a college from the ground up in your sixties? Oh, his partner was Dr. Robert Carlson, a long-time college professor who was even older than Fr. Cook.

Now, as Fr. Cook has entered his seventies, he's stepping down as college president, but not retiring. There's more to accomplish and no one begins a second career in mid-life unless he plans to die in the saddle. More power to him and hurray that his tribe is increasing.

(N.B. In the name of full disclosure: my son, Jon, is Dean of Students at Wyoming Catholic College.)

Flourishing Through Business

My friend, Chuck Stetson, is an inspiration to me. Not only does he run his own venture capital business, but he keeps starting nonprofits to serve the public good. And while I suppose he could retire, it's just not going to happen. He sees far too much that needs to be done to quit or even slow down.

His latest effort is Flourishing Through Business, an e-learning effort that "covers what colleges and business schools with rare exception don't teach."

The first course, "Flourishing Through Business 101" looks at things like "the common sense practice of putting the customer first, followed by the vendors, employees and then shareholders, priorities that are rarely being taught today at our schools, colleges, or even business schools. Greed is not good and almost always ends badly."

For anyone--regardless of age--interested, this first course is offered free of charge through the summer. So if you're interested, now is the time to try it out. Or to encourage young people you know to try it out. Maybe even encourage them to try it out with you. That way you can discuss what you've learned.

I say that in large measure because of something Chuck learned in preparing Flourishing Through Business. "Adults take note,"says Stetson, "our focus groups tell us high school and college students want to network with adults and discuss these issues. As adults we have an opportunity to mentor not only our own children, but also the young people joining our businesses from college." Not to mention members of the youth group at church, college students home on break, and who knows how many others.

Ordinary Time

Sunday was Pentecost, the last day of the Easter Season. And so today, Monday, we find ourselves back in the workaday rhythm of “Ordinary Time."

Ordinary Time means it’s we’re not in the extraordinary times of feasting the Church celebrates: Christmas and Easter with their respective periods preparation of fasting—Advent and Lent. And so we will be in Ordinary Time until Advent begins on December 1 this year.

The late Fr. Richard John Neuhaus understood why Ordinary Time is called “ordinary,” but he hated the term. Time, particularly time from a Christian point of view, he said, was never ordinary. Each day is an extraordinary gift. As Neuhaus’ friend George Weigel wrote:

For he insisted that there was nothing “ordinary” about the times of our lives, for those lives were all being lived in the time after the Resurrection. We were living, he insisted, in the time when the horizon of our hope has been made secure: for God made clear his answer to the worst that human beings could do by raising Christ from the dead and by Christ's exaltation at the right hand of the Father—and in all of that we learned our true destiny. This time, our time, is the time of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, the time in which our energies are woven into the tapestry of Providence, in ways we never fully understand. And, for über-energetic Richard John Neuhaus, there was nothing in the least ordinary about it.

 And while I fully understand and agree with Fr. Neuhaus, this year, I find the switch back to Ordinary Time somehow comforting. It is, after all, in ordinary days and weeks that our lives unfold as something extraordinary. Ordinary time is getting up, making coffee, having breakfast, getting to work, caring for the people in our lives—spouses, family, friends, colleagues, and neighbors—reading, learning, praying, and, when day is done, putting our heads down to sleep in preparation for the next ordinary day.

It can all become drudgery if we let it or we can look for—and occasionally catch a glimpse of—something beyond the daily, something noble, something good, something fully and satisfyingly human.

So here’s to Ordinary Time. May we discover in the ordinary weeks of our lives the truly remarkable. 

Hardwired to Connect

I can't resist just one more blog post about Rod Dreher's book The Little Way of Ruthie Leming, the story of the life and early death of cancer of Rod's sister.

Reflecting on Ruthie's life and death in the little town of Starhill, Louisiana and on the fact that like it or not suffering and death comes into every family and every life, Dreher writes:

The insurance company, if you're lucky enough to have insurance, pays your doctor and pharmacists, but it will not cook for you when you're too sick to cook for yourself and your kind. Nor will it clean your house, pick your kids up from school, or take them shopping when you're too weak to get out of bed. A bureaucrat from the state or the insurance company won't come sit with you, and pray with you, and tell you she loves you. It won't be the government or your insurer who allows you to die in peace, if it comes to that, because it can assure you that your spouse and children will not be left behind to face the world alone.

Only your family and your community can do that. 

In 2003, the Institute for American Values produce a report entitled "Hardwired to Connect" that addressed "the rising rates of mental problems and emotional distress among U.S. children and adolescents." Their solution is to encourage what they called "authoritative communities."

Authoritative communities are groups that live out the types of connectedness that our children increasingly lack. They are groups of people who are committed to one another over time and who model and pass on at least part of what it means to be a good person and live a good life. Renewing and building them is the key to improving the lives of U.S. children and adolescents.

Let me go further to say that renewing, building, and participating in such communities, places that are small enough that we know and are known--families, churches, clubs, small groups, towns--is the key to improving all of our lives regardless of our ages.

Keeping Isolation at Bay

While I was in Florida this week cleaning out my mother’s house, I heard the rest of a story that I thought I already knew.

A woman was extremely ill and dying. Hospice had been called in and the nurse visited several times a week. During one visit, the woman’s husband excused himself and went into the bathroom. Suddenly there was a gunshot. The Hospice nurse ran to the bathroom, opened the door, and found him dead on the floor. Suicide among seniors in retirement areas is a big problem.

The rest of the story is that his wife was furious with him not because he committed suicide, but because he hadn’t killed her before he killed himself. That was the plan to which they agreed and he welched on the deal, committing suicide rather than committing a murder/suicide. It breaks my heart.

I can’t begin to fathom the pain in the lives of those two people that would have driven them to such a gruesome agreement. Besides age and illness, there must have been enormous spiritual and relational pain in their lives. If you live long enough, my elderly friends tell me, you look around and realize that all your old friends are dead. If you have no younger friends, you have no friends. And family… well, families are complicated. Isolation comes upon us so easily in our culture.

While away from home, I finished reading Rod Dreher’s book The Little Way of Ruthie Leming, the story of his sister’s life and death from cancer at an early age. Ruthie lived in the small town in which she and Rod ( and their parents and grandparents and…)grew up. Rod moved out as soon as he was able, living in multiple cities building a career. Then after Ruthie’s death, all he was missing began to come into focus. He wrote:

Contemporary culture encourages us to make islands of ourselves for the sake of self-fulfillment, of career advancement, of entertainment, of diversion, and all the demands of the sovereign self. When suffering and death come to you—and it will—you want to be in a place where you know, and are known.  You want—no, you need—to be able to say as Mike [Ruthie’s husband] did, “We’re leaning, but we’re leaning on each other.”

I pray for the man who committed suicide and the angry wife he left behind—and the nurse who is, I’m sure, still traumatized months later. And I pray for others who are so desperately isolated.

And I pray for myself and my friends and family. Isolation will sneak up on us if we’re not careful. The goal, as Rod Dreher suggests, is to keep it at bay.

"Be Reconciled If You Can"

I got off the flight from Washington to Tampa less than an hour ago. I'm meeting my brother and my son at my mom's house. She died just about a year ago and the house has finally sold. We need to sort, save, sell, or give away everything left in it. Lots of memories there.

On the flight I was (providentially?) reading Rod Dreher's new book The Little way of Ruthie Leming: A Southern Girl, a Small Town, and the Secret of a Good Life. In it Dreher tells the story of the life and death from cancer of his sister Ruthie.

They were both small town southern kids, but while Rod though that happiness was Starhill, Louisiana in the rear view mirror, Ruthie flourished there. She married her highschool sweetheart, they built a house, and had three girls, while he worked as a fireman and she taught middle school.

When the news came that Ruthie was ill--possibly seriously ill--Rod made plans to fly back home from Philadelphia where he and his family were living on the next available plane. But before he left, he posted this to his blog:

To be sure, I'm not at odds with my stricken family member, but let me beg something of you: right now, on this very day, ask forgiveness of those you've offended, and offer it to those who have offended you. Be reconciled, if you can. Don't live as if you have all the time in the world, because you don't. None of us do.

Change your life. Repent. Love. It's urgent. You have no idea how urgent until you get a phone call like the one I received this morning.

I'm not sure there's anything else to say, except that he's right. Don't wait for the phone call. Do it now.

And here I am in Florida with family.

Toward a Grandchild Friendly Culture

Last Saturday Dottie and I attended the Chuck Colson Center for Christian Worldview’s annual Wilberforce Award banquet. Named for William Wilberforce (1759-1833), the great British Christian, politician, abolitionist, and social reformer, “the Wilberforce Award recognizes courageous leaders who are making an impact on the social ills of the day, showing perseverance and selflessness in combating injustice and making a positive change in the values and character of society.”

This year the honor went to Timothy Cardinal Dolan, Archbishop of New York and president of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, “In recognition of Dolan's efforts on behalf of life, traditional marriage and religious liberty in America….”

“The human project,” Dolan said in his acceptance speech, “is about babies. A man and a woman are made for babies. Culture is all about babies. Our lives are at their best when centered not upon ourselves, but upon babies.”

He then went on to comment, “Culture is simply humanity’s best effort to protect the baby, the mother, the father. Culture’s purpose is to embrace, nurture, and protect the baby, the mother, the dad and to see that this precious infant has the embrace of the community to grow in age and wisdom until—guess what?—the baby is an adult, can tenderly and faithfully love a spouse, have his or her own baby, and the sacred cycle begins again.”

Many of us around the age of sixty or older already have grandbabies. The truth of "the sacred cycle" is in front of our eyes at least via FaceTime and, when we're lucky, asleep in our arms or holding our hand crossing the street.

This is culture at it's best. It's culture worth building even as the culture in which we live becomes increasingly less child-friendly. And it's our responsibility to fight that trend. Our grandchildren are counting on us.

Sixty Years Old and Just Beginning

At a conference last Saturday, I saw my friend, John standing at a booth talking with one of the conference sponsors. After we greeted one another, he turned to the woman at the booth, "Jim and I have been friends for forty-three years," he announced proudly. And a forty-three year friendship is something for us both to be proud of.

John lives in New England, but I see him here in Washington with some regularity. In this case, he was attending a conference at a hotel down the street and just dropped in to see what ours was about.

Usually we talk shop, but this time we had the opportunity to be more personal. He's about to turn sixty and feels as though he has finally, over the past thirty years, learned enough to make a meaningful mark on the way we do politics in this country--looking for common ground combined with having and showing genuine love and care for others. His experience indicates that it's a great way to turn adversaries into friends--friends with whom you may disagree on just about everything, but friends nonetheless.

The intriguing thing for this blog is that he's been experimenting and tinkering with his approach for thirty years. Now, confident in what he has learned, he's ready to expand his work in new ways. Trips to Europe, Africa, and Asia are already on his calendar and he anticipates that this phase of his career will be the most fruitful.

Oh, and he has no intention of ending that phase with retirement at age sixty-two or sixty-five or seventy or any other year in the near future. While he didn't say it, it's clear that he intends to die with his boots on.

And why not? Why waste all he's learned? Why quit when he's finally getting ready to peak? Why cut short sharing his discoveries with others, particularly those younger than he is?

Not all of us have jobs that can go on forever. Not all of us have jobs we wish would go on forever. But all of us have wisdom that it would be a shame to waste. All of us (with the exception of the professional athletes, circus performers, and dancers I suppose) still have the opportunity to peak.

The world around us has needs. We have skills. It's a perfect combination.

He Stopped Loving Her Today

Country music legend George Jones died today at age 81. Jones was hard living, hard drinking, and sufficiently unreliable that he earned the name “No Show Jones” for his habit of skipping concerts. According to Associate Press, Jones wrote in his memoir, “In the 1970s, I was drunk the majority of the time. If you saw me sober, chances are you saw me asleep.”

Jones will be remembered for songs such as “No Show Jones,” the heartbreaker “She Thinks I Still Care,” and for his duets with his third (of four) wife, country singer Tammy Wynette.

But by far his biggest hit was the tearjerker ballad, “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” The song is the story about a man who, after a breakup still loved the same woman. In fact, he never got over her, never stopped loving her until he died. The song is set at his funeral. The AP story says:

In 1980, a 3-minute song changed his life. His longtime producer, Billy Sherrill, recommended he record “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” a ballad by Curly Putnam and Bobby Braddock. …Jones was convinced the song was too “morbid” to catch on. But “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” featuring a string section that hummed, then soared, became an instant standard and virtually canonized him. His concert fee jumped from $2,500 a show to $25,000.
 “There is a God,” he recalled.

The success of “He Stopped Loving Her Today” should probably not be added to the classic arguments for the existence of God alongside the ontological and cosmological arguments. Nonetheless, the song makes me ask a troubling question: When is it best to “just get over it” (whatever “it” is) and when is something so valuable that it shouldn’t be gotten over regardless of the price of hanging on?

I’ve always been inclined to view the man in the song as obsessive compulsive, sort of a male, benign, and generally harmless version of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. On the other hand, perhaps even unrequited love is love worth treasuring.

As we age it’s time to rummage through our literal attic and basement as well as our emotional attic and basement asking, “Trash or treasure?” Bitterness, fears, and resentments are clearly trash. Throw them out; they’re poisoning your system. But love? That’s not quite so simple, is it?

Staying Close to Home

This morning the Washington Post reported:

An AARP analysis of census data showed that nine in 10 older adults nationally were living in the same communities where they raised their children and built their lives. Proximity to children, grandchildren and friends is key. 

“Folks who have been living and working here for a number of years may find themselves surprised at the roots they've developed,” said Amy Levner, who specializes in housing and family issues for the AARP. “The lure of moving out fades over time.”

 It makes me think of the sad dirge the villagers sing at the end of "Fiddler on the Roof" about their little town, Anatevka. Yes, they admit, it's kind of a dump with rickety homes, little economic opportunities, and uneasy relationships with the neighbors. Yet at the same time, it's home.

Anatevka, Anatevka.
Underfed, overworked Anatevka.
Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?

Anatevka, Anatevka.
Intimate, obstinant Anatevka
Where I know Everyone I meet.

Soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place
Searching for an old familiar face
From Anatevka.

I belong in Anatevka.
Tumble-down, work-a-day Anatevka.
Dear little village, little town of mine.

Dottie and I spent this past weekend away at a lovely resort. I played golf; she had a massage; we both slept in, enjoyed good food, sat in the hot tub, and soaked in the beautiful spring creeping over the mountains and through the valleys of western Virginia.

As we drove home, stopping at the old familiar Giant Supermarket for ingredients for a tried-and-true pasta recipe it was good to be home. And while we may leave someday, nothing grows without strong roots.

A Very, Very, Very Dangerous World

Years ago we were having dinner with friends who we were just getting to know (and with whom we've since lost contact). He shared with me that he worked for the State Department. "Oh," I said, "and what do you do at the State Department?"

A serious look came over his face. "If you told me," I asked, "would you have to kill me?"

"Yes, pretty much," he replied. "But I can tell you this: I work on bio-terrorism and you're very, very, very glad I'm doing my job."

I must have looked stunned since, after all, I was stunned. Seeing my face he added sympathetically, "We live in a very, very, very dangerous world."

The bombings in Boston and the fertilizer plant explosion in West, Texas were this weeks shocking reminders of that truth. While we all long for safety for ourselves and our loved ones, safety is an illusion that can vanish in a flash. Life is fragile and there are no guarantees. Wealth can be an insulator, but bombs, tornadoes, and earthquakes know no socioeconomic limits.

Given that this is true, we have three choices.

First, we can acknowledge its truth and then go our and live as if we don't know it. We can convince ourselves of a pretend world of personal peace and security. It's expensive to do that, but it will probably work for a while as long as we carefully ignore the constant reminders that it's a sham. I think I need more reality than this option offers.

Second, we can despair, collapsing into cynicism. If the world's going to Hell, then why bother? We learn to expect the worst from others (and from ourselves) and trust no one. I've met people like this. Their lives are joyless and they feel compelled to share their wealth of misery with others. That's not the person I want to become.

Third, we can attach ourselves to some higher purpose, something that transcends this dangerous and all too sad world. The goal is not to pretend the dangers and sadness don't exist, but to see beyond them with hope and trust.

As many have observed, one of the most inspiring scenes of the past week was that of men and women in Boston, knowing that there must have been injuries, running toward the explosions in order to help. Neither false optimism nor dark cynicism produces that kind of spontaneous action. It takes hope and trust and the belief that in this sad and dangerous world, I can make a difference.

You Have Ten Minutes and ONLY Ten Minutes

This has been a miserable week. Not that anything bad happened. In fact, quite a few good things happened. But I've been sick and when I'm sick... I'm sick.

My cold and congestion began on Saturday. Sunday it got worse. Monday I was in the office and coughed quite a bit. Tuesday I coughed so hard I threw my back into spasm so that every subsequent coughing fit needed to be braced and standing up became a challenge. Mucinex, naproxin, and a Z-Pack from the doctor and I'm on the mend, but it's been a miserable week.

Which brings me to one of my wife's most important rules: At dinner parties in our home, we aging baby boomers have ten minutes--that's ten minutes total, not ten minutes each--to discuss the random aches and pains that are part of growing older. Big problems, such as helping a friend deal with her breast cancer, can be the topic of the night, but for the regular, run-of-the-mill stuff: You (plural) have ten minutes.

It's a great rule and she enforces it. More than once I've hear her say to a group of our friends, "Enough about our health. Let's change the subject." Not particularly subtle, but quite effective.

Two take aways. First, have more dinner parties. They don't need to be elaborate or large. One or two couples for simple fare and good wine is all that's required.

Second, adopt and enforce the ten minute rule. Get over the fact that coffee suddenly gives you dyspepsia or that your knee hurts when you do this and move on to religion and politics, arts and letters, or just about anything else. There are so many things about us and our fascinating friends that are not falling apart. Why dwell on the things that are?