27 Years

“Twenty-seven years is far too short a time to spend with such an admirable woman.”

When I wrote these words on the card accompanying a dozen medium-stem roses, I knew she would have no idea that the phrase was lifted nearly word for word from Bilbo Baggins’s birthday speech from “Lord of the Rings.” But I was under the gun; it was my anniversary and, as usual, I had not made any definite arrangements beforehand to celebrate our 27 years together. I stopped at the florists on the way home from work so as not to be totally empty-handed and on the spur of the moment, decided to include a small card with the roses. The phrase was the first thing to pop into my head. It’s hard to be original when you are in a hurry, so I went with it.

And yet, now that I have had time to reflect a bit, I can’t think of anything more appropriate. Although the famous old hobbit uttered his original speech just before leaving his home to go live with the elves, I plan to stay on with my admirable woman for at least 27 more years and much longer if I can. I need no elves for enchantment. I still find it in her eyes.

It was her eyes, in fact, that first attracted me and eventually entrapped my heart. I am completely bound by other means now, but her eyes still convince me that in submitting to such bonds I find the greatest freedom. During a family quiz game last week, I was asked what title I would give a song about someone I love. My answer was “Pools of Blue.” I didn’t fool anyone.

Twenty-seven years is a milestone of sorts. It marks the point at which she has been with me longer than she was ever without me. And though certainly there have been times when she would have liked to have strangled me, I have always been confident of her love and her desire for me to remain. She has no idea what great comfort that is, nor what exhilarating joy it brings. I should tell her, but how can one express such monumental feelings without causing her to worry that something is wrong? Nothing is wrong, but worry she will. And I do not wish to add to her burden.

Instead I keep still, watching in wonder at her constant movement to reach out and help, feed, console, or nurture those around her. Though her eyes entrance me, her greatest beauty is in that divine motion to serve the needs of others. In her case, it is a beauty rarely hidden.

It was this beauty that first brought us together. Her roommate was directing a play and needed more “chorus line” players, so she volunteered to help. I went to audition for a part and was disappointed to learn that all the named roles were already filled and they only needed extras. I was cast as a lowly “knight” and she was my “lady in waiting.” She had been waiting a good quarter century. It became my favorite role ever.

I had always fantasized about meeting my mate “on stage,” but had no interest in some flighty prima donna. She was too emotionally honest and grounded to be an actress, however, and when we were first introduced, my mind and heart were prompted with the words, “She could be the one” as clear as if spoken aloud. I have trusted such promptings ever since.

For more than two decades she has stayed at home and raised three exceptional children while I was off at work trying to become a better provider. She had worked for 16 years before the first child came along. She used to have money, a fancy sports car, and traveled wherever and whenever she wanted to go. But she traded it all in for a struggling writer who drove an old AMC Pacer and held his Sunday shoes together with electrical tape. There must have been other times during the past 27 years when she wondered if, financially, she made the right choice. But if so, her doubts have been fleeting, for her commitment to me has always been as Gibralter.

The kids are older now and growing in their independence, so she has started working again. Not so much for the money, though every little bit helps. But for the company of other good women and the chance to make a difference in the lives of struggling school children. “The lights went on for Sally today,” she’ll say, and her eyes will dance in triumph. And I fall all over again.

Yeah. Twenty-seven years is too short a time to spend with such a goddess. Happy Anniversary, Laura.

Middle Age Haiku

And now, in honor of my esteemed 9th grade English teacher who taught me the delicate art of haiku, I present a short collection celebrating the life and frustrations of the middle aged.


Pink slip lies crumpled
in old hand, replaced by young.
Arbys is hiring.


Dental work and cars

are the grief of all good men.

Bills. Bills. Bills. Bills. Bills.


"I'm freezing," "I'm hot"
though temperature's constant.
Hot flash rules the day.

Rugged pinecone falls
To sail upon the water
Seeking distant shores.


Menopausal wife
Arises, then sits again
To mourn her lost youth.


Creaking bones arise
To face another morning.
No pushups today.


I eat no more now
Than I ate when just a boy.
Whence come these handles?


You need some wheels, boy
To visit your girl in town?
A bus pass ain't much.


Argue 'til your blue,
Son, you still don't get the car.
We own this keychain.


I am no chauffeur,
Yet the miles I drive the kids
Make me cross...country.


Went to Disneyland.
Fought the crowds for five whole days.
My dreams are of queues.


Breaking wind at night,
Sheet rises, then slowly sets.
Hope the wife's asleep.


Feel free to add your own in the comments section.  Remember: 3 lines, 5 syllables in the first and last lines, 7 syllables in the middle line.

Keep your arms and hands
Inside the car at all times,
Stay seated. Have fun!

The Politics of Outrage

Am I just out of touch or has the nation gone crazy? Who are all these people who actually take talk shows seriously, especially those on radio?  Are they lonely souls who have no one else to listen to?  Are they angry, inarticulate souls who cannot express their anger and thus rely on professional mouthpieces to express it for them? Are they souls in turmoil or pain looking for someone who can sympathize, or looking for someone to blame for their troubles?

Whoever they are, there seems to be a lot of them.  And the demand for talk show blather shows no signs of ebbing.  The political power that the current bevy of celebrity spokespersons now seems to wield should be a source of shame for Americans.  Whether the name be Beck, Limbaugh, Hannity, Oprah, Franken or Stern, these are entertainers, not political geniuses. No one should be taking them seriously or giving their political opinions any more weight than you would give David Letterman's opinions on sexual harassment.

Why? Because in the long run, they do what they do for one reason only: to sell advertising.  They are selling products just as assuredly as the used car salesman down on Main Street.

I have no beef with Main Street.  I have no beef with entertainers. My problem is with the number of people who look to these new cultural icons in order to know what or how to think.  It's like this huge segment of the population tunes in to find out what to be upset about.  "What would Jesus do?" seems to have morphed into "What did Limbaugh say?"

What happened to the age old search for truth or enlightenment? The modern search seems to be focused on fueling outrage. "What should I be mad about now?"

The problem with the politics of outrage, however, is that nothing gets done.  Sure there may be shouting and bluster, but when you start from a position of anger, the only option seems to be revolution rather than compromise. And few people are really angry enough to follow through with revolutionary options, as these generally include the spilling of blood and great suffering. We're not big on suffering, nor of much blood nowadays (except on TV or in the movies -- another personal gripe that we'll save for later).  So we just get a little angry and frustrated and grouse that someone ought to do something (specifically, someone else) while we preen in self-righteous indignation.

Real political progress, however, almost always depends on compromise, a continual give and take that requires both an understanding of and a respect for the opposition. Yes you can have strongly held opinions. But you must also realize that those whose opinions are diametrically opposed to yours probably hold them just as strongly as do you. Just like you, they also regard themselves as advocates for what is right and true. They may very well be dead wrong, but to see any progress in a democracy, the people must realize that many times it is more important to be together than it is to be completely right.

Outrage may be easier, for the world is thereby seen as black or white, good or bad, right or wrong, villains versus heroes. Battle lines are drawn, but all that occurs is polarization, not progress. Compromise is harder, but richer, its colors not only more numerous but infinitely more promising. When you choose the path of compromise, you start with the assumption that there are neither villains nor heroes--just good people trying to do good. And when that turns out to be true, common ground can usually be found and change can happen. Rarely will anyone get everything they want, but we move forward and together we can celebrate each small step.

Outrage fueled by today's talk show clowns prevents progress by diluting the nation's focus.  Entertainers certainly can't maintain an audience if they repeat the same things day after day, so they must come up with something new for people to be mad about each day.  Compromise, however, usually requires a concentrated focus on the same issue over a long period of time in order to discover common ground and the basis for change and progress. It's hard, often boring work -- not the stuff upon which products are sold nowadays.

I am, of course, speaking of politics specifically.  There are some areas of life where compromise is neither wise nor a precursor to progress. There are times when lines must be drawn and no quarter given. But even then, outrage is rarely helpful. Quiet determination and perseverance will win the day long before the fiery howling of the outraged.

Think Gandhi.

Change the channel. Turn down the volume. Then let's work together.

Spaghetti Western

Finest Western ever made: Once Upon a Time in the West.

Casting perennial good guy Henry Fonda as the cold-blooded villain was sheer genius. Extreme, steely-eyed close-ups and the mystery surrounding Mr. Harmonica build the tension with each gun battle. And the soundtrack by Ennio Moricone is to swoon over. It's definitely the only western that I would ever have patience to sit through more than once -- and this one is just shy of 3 hours long. I've seen it probably half a dozen times and it still entertains.

I'm not sure why I like it so much, but it may have to do with the ambiguity it presents in defining the line between justice and vengence. I won't spoil it for anyone who has not seen it, but whichever concept you favor, the ending of this flick is definitely sweet.