"You've got to have a sense of humor..."

"sitting on the dock of the bay 

wasting time..."

    Frank was a honcho at Cal Tech, and JPL (Jet Propulsion Laboratory) back in the heyday of the space race. Some of his underlings have won Nobel prizes for science. He is modest, so I will say it, he's brilliant and one of the sharpest minds to inhabit this planet.

    Frank will often remind us at our monthly dinners, "You've got to have a sense of humor!" This is a man who in his mid 80's was still climbing a ladder to his roof. He's also devoted years to reading history. 

   Hearing "you've got to have a sense of humor" from a man who has calculated how to stare more deeply into space so as to look further back in time" carries credibility.

    

    My mother was a believer in the principle of laughing at least three times a day. She was a fan of Norman Cousins and his advocacy of laughter as a healer. Medical science has caught up with mom and Cousins and there is data that explains how laughter is indeed very healthy and healing. 

      I was considered a "serious" little boy and so mom would tell me to go outside and watch the clouds. I still love to watch clouds. And now I stare at the tide. My dad would sit, zen monk like, watching the tide, whenever family vacations took us to the shore. I get it dad. 

     So, if you happen along on the California central coast and find an old boomer staring at the tide rolling away, maybe humming Otis Redding's ditty or laughing at seemingly nothing, know that you have encountered a guy who is taking advice, from those far more wise than he.

      And in this day and age, if you can't laugh at what's going on, you'd cry!

explosive news

    I, like a couple of thousand other folks, was a bit mystified by the local fireworks.

        They opened strong. I think I even muttered, this is more like a finale.

     Turns out, something went wrong. It began with the end and it could have been worse. My source is the diligent local reporter Kathe Tanner who has revealed the story.

   After starting like gangbusters, things slowed, and then it was as if things went crazy.  They did....

    Kathe reports in our local weekly The Cambrian that a new pyrotechnic specialist, utilizing a new electronic system, goofed. The intended end of the show opened the display and then things went down hill. The intended 20 minutes display was over in 7-9 minutes. A lot of stuff went off at once. 

     It was an exciting 7 minutes though. Those of us down then beach thought it looked a little wild at the park, where the aerials were launched.

     Back story here---the fire Marshall and the fire chief was about to shut it down because the launch area was too close to the folks in the park. A rapid negotiation followed by moving people further away, allowed the show to go on. However the new pyro, unfamiliar with Cambria, was sending stuff up in a wrong sequence and still too close to people and homes.  He could have used Frank's satellite and telescope calculus expertise.

      It's become a matter of local "fireworks" over the fireworks. Ash and debris landed where it should not. It took two or three days to clean the beach and nearby neighborhood. And then when you consider the complaints of pet owners with terrified dogs and cats, and the complaints of naturalists worried about birds and wild life, we've got a local hubbub underway.

        Don't you feel a chuckle coming on? 

        The belly laugh is for our Labor Secretary and his boss! Not even Carl Hiaasen could make up stuff like that. 

         I think mom would be getting in maybe 300 laughs a day.

       See you down the trail

A Good Night in America

winners

      The hometown kids prevail and Jon Batiste wails. Good nights in the US.

  

    High tides, driving rain, breaks of sun play. Victories too.

 game night

  Game night, school night is a good night in America.

   It is the rhythm and soul of our collective dream, the sweat and the lessons of life. It is sweetness, pure and simple from large urban field houses to small village gyms.

    That is especially so in a school like Coast Union in Cambria with an enrollment under 250 kids.
    I am almost religious about basketball. It's in my DNA and has been a constant dream since I learned to dribble in grade school. I love the game and I love to see kids also love the game. That is especially so here, for sure.

   I'm watching a classic basketball scenario run before my eyes here on the California Central coach.  It seems only a couple of years ago Coach Gehrig Kniffen was the floor captain of his scrappy Broncos team. He played with heart and a court sense. Now he's teaching the love of the game to his team.

   They're not big. One of the kid's mom tells me only 3 or 4 of the boys were basketball players. The rest of the kids grew up on soccer.
   Coach Kniffen has done well. The team plays smart, they spread the floor, they move the ball, work for a shot and show a tenacity and drive. 

    In this gym on this night the game was see saw, tight with heart and soul pushing up and down the court. Parents and friends were enthralled and entertained. On this night the hometown Broncos gained a well deserved victory. And on this night in America winners and losers met as good sports.

Orcutt would have a ride home, considering those few plays, those missed opportunities that could have made the difference. The Coast Union Broncos would give the new coach another first season win. It is the way of the game, an American way.

    It is a game that is immensely personal to a boomer from Indiana. My life is measured in chapters of basketball.

    I got the love of the game from my dad who was a skilled and accomplished player who, were it not for WWII, probably  would have continued on in semi pro and eventually professional hoops.

    I'd practice ball handing and dribbling in the basement of our little Muncie house and clip newspaper articles of my beloved 1950's era Muncie Central Bearcats.

    In Indiana a kid plays basketball wherever and much as he can. I remember Jon Hilkene's old barn with a hard packed uneven dirt floor on half the court and uneven old planks around the hoop and free throw line. We used to shovel snow or chip ice from Tom Johnson's extra wide driveway that was bathed in a street light and well pointed night spots on the house. In the winter we had to wear gloves, which affected our shooting and in the summer, sweat soaked we'd swat at mosquitoes and gnats. Summer basketball camps where the smell of the gym was especially sweet from the wax. Playing between the Hackbee's and Lowen's on an uneven, sloping alley with hoops hanging on the backs of garages, stopping when trash trucks or cars drove by. 

    An Indiana kid dreams of wearing the school colors, but life and moves and broken bones and size can conspire against that "glory." But in Indiana a kid can play in community centers in the inner city with dazzling players and shake and bake moves, or in a legendary old hotel in industrial or AAU leagues with true one time stars, or in church leagues campaigning around the city in great old gyms, at the Y, in pick up games on hallowed field house floors.  

     Even in middle age and beyond an Indiana kid can play in the elbows for lunch bunch at the Y, or in "celebrity games" barnstorming around the state in hallowed old field houses and gyms, playing local all stars or faculty teams to raise money for schools, bands, charities and the like. 

     Game night in America is a good night. It is stepping into a slip stream of good nights that reach back to the beginning and flow forward with that sweet, sweet sound and smell and swish of a net.

   New Orleans virtuoso Jon Batiste, leader of the Stay Human band that is Steven Colbert's house band on CBS is a hoopster. He is also a dynamic and charismatic performer.

   After his recent piano concert in San Luis Obispo he lead

a "love march" out of the auditorium. Was he great? Look at the smile on that little guys face. If you ever get a chance to see him, don't miss it.  It is pure joy, love and energy.

    He said his concert is like sitting in his living room while he just plays around. That's a great thought.  So is spending some time in a gym with him, playing the great American game.

     See you down the trail.

Respect

orientation

     It is a difficult challenge that confronts all of us. In a time of intemperance, anger and hyperbole how can we remain civil?

     How do you disapprove, disagree and dislike attitudes and beliefs of friends and associates but not disrespect them?

     The old adage about avoiding religion, politics and sex never took with me. We have brains and spirit, passion and thoughts and we'd never fully engage our humanity if we did not exercise, fully exercise, our intellect and freely explore thought and especially those boundaries between us.

     The challenge, it seems, is to probe those lines of demarcation, so as to understand and learn, but do so in a way that does not threaten. And perhaps that is a flash point, threatening. It is difficult to watch and listen to an attitude or policy that seems anathema to those ideas and values one holds most dear. But, how to respond? I suspect this will be a growing challenge.

     

whither

into storms?

or

into light?

    My father Karl was also my best friend. I was particularly blessed that way. 

    A WWII combat veteran, political activist, competitive athlete, church officer, humanitarian, believer in human dignity and full human rights, he reared my brothers and me with the toughness of the drill instructor he had been but also with love and a liberal dosage of wisdom. A quote I grew up with was "I disapprove of what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it."

    Nothing was off limits in our dinner table conversations and they were lively. My parents often had guests in the home who held different views and politics. There were disagreements, but they were civil and often my dad would inject that quote. 

     By the way dad would frequently say "... as attributed to Voltaire..." I asked him once why he said that. He said it was what Voltaire thought but there was a question about whether he said it in those words specifically.  On later research it appears it was a summary of Voltaire's thinking and written as such by historian Evelyn Beatrice Hall in her book The Friends of Voltaire. She also wrote The Life of Voltaire. The wisdom and capacity of the philosophy is none-the-less a fundamental principal of a civil society.

      In the last analysis it's all a matter of where we stand as to how we see things.

  green extension  

   The magic green carpet of California's Central Coast extends into wine country as well.

     See you down the trail.

FRAGMENTS OF CHARACTER

EXCERPTS OF A LIFE

     Winter mornings in the depression could be raw. Karl would stand by the rail track and collect pieces of coal thrown out by the train's firemen. He'd run home with his pockets full so his widow mother could toss coal onto scraps of wood in the stove. 

     She was an usual woman and spoke with a British accent. Her eldest son was dead and so was her husband who had taken her from Muncie to California and back as he knew his own death approached.  Karl made that trip and now the journey into young adulthood. He was a teen and the man of the house.

     His mother worked in the chilly kitchen making and wrapping sandwiches, putting them into boxes with cookies. Karl placed the box lunches into bags carried over his shoulders and ran a couple of miles to a factory gate.

     He'd sell lunches to the lucky men with jobs. On the coldest of mornings a foreman put down bricks that had been heated so Karl could warm his toes as he stood hawking the lunches. Then he'd run home or directly to school.

    On the rawest mornings he'd remember his days at his first house in California.

     His mother and other women made lunches to serve to real estate prospects in what had been orange groves north of LA. The husbands had gone to work, Karl's dad to the LA Brick Factory, where he contracted the lung disease that would claim his life.  But on those days he had plenty of sun and land to run.

   But there were a few good years when his mother and father bought a new house and where he could roam the hills when he was not caddying and then playing golf.

    He was a bright eyed and happy youngster who didn't mind the 6AM car to the LA Country Club for a day of carrying bags. He and  the other boys being shuttled knew that before sunset they'd be given a sandwich and allowed to play a few holes, even getting lessons from a pro. They got to keep the tips.

FAST FORWARD

     By now Karl had watched his father die, and had seen his mother who came to the US as a young English girl, labor to make ends meet in the depression by making those box lunches and working as a char woman. He did what he could to help-selling the lunches, sweeping up at a lumber yard, helping a coca cola driver unload cases and working at the Y.

   There was little time or place for a depression era kid to continue golf, so he learned basketball.  By his senior year those days of running to sell lunches, gathering coal and his time at the Y left him a talented ball handler and shooter. He was recruited from the Y and AAU leagues to play his senior year as a scoring guard on the vaunted Muncie Bearcats.

FAST FORWARD

   He had met the love of his life but their marriage came abruptly, with WWII.  Karl was a Drill Instructor at Camp Shelby, turning recruits into men who were bound for jungle combat.

   Eventually he was sent to the south Pacific as a "top kick" or Sgt. Major. Friends recalled  he was a true hard ass. He never spoke much of those experiences. It wasn't until he was dying and when I pressed him that I learned about those days, and others.  

    Karl's friends had shared a few stories, but he would usually cut them off.

    Karl was without a doubt my best friend. Though I knew him my entire life, there were a few years when my youthful rebellion put a strain on the relationship.  That ended though as I grew to admire this man who though he had deep convictions was fair, just, open minded, well read and traveled, informed and hard working. He had indeed worked his entire life, but without regrets. He carried a philosophy that you make the most of each day and live it as fully as you can. He'd been raised by an Englishwoman and her sisters and was every bit a gentleman. And he remained a great golfer. He never shied from tough issues.

   He promoted racial equality, supervised Sunday School, was president of the PTA, coached little league and did those other selfless

things fathers do.  Karl was not only a friend, he was a mentor and an example. Karl W. Cochrun was my father. I hope my daughters have learned from their grandfather through me. 

   Our best wishes to all fathers. It is a responsibility deserving our best.  

    See you down the trail.

THE DAY LIGHTS

PASSING DAY LIGHT

Cambria April on Windsor

KNOCKOUT

     The Boys Club boxing space enveloped a smell of canvas, leather and balm while the accoutrement's and apparatus triggered an urge.

      You could hit the big bag with all you had, repeatedly until the bag won. The speed bag could be danced by skilled hands in a rhythm that was poetic. I could bang short bursts, but never got so talented as to pound out a dance beat. I liked the footwork and was able spring around the ring quickly. The rapid air punching rotations and jabs were great arm and shoulder work. But before I could box competitively my dad knocked me out of the game.

      "No son of mine is going to get his brain rattled like that." He knew boxers who he said were "punch drunk", their speech or thinking were victims of the fight game. I was not fond of the idea of "cauliflower ears." I watched a Friday night boxing match as Dad and a couple of neighbors pointed out the work being done by the "cut man," on a boxer's eyebrow. As much as I fancied myself a winner, he did me a big favor. And he told me I could take the pugnacious urge and turn it into defensive basketball. He was right.

walk by solar

SORRY 

     Manny Pacquiao is the better man but Floyd Mayweather Jr.is a stronger and better fighter. An almost $200 Million payout is staggering. Big money sports is another fight, though. 

       I befriended a foreign student at while Ball State. He struggled with his early attempts at reading and speaking English. He was a graduate student, had been a young employee in a government agency and was in the US to get a PhD. His English rapidly excelled and over a couple of years we'd chat and shared classes. I lost contact with him many years ago but learned he had returned to Nepal and worked in education. I've thought of him these past days and the suffering of his nation.

      I've also thought of how desperate are the lives of refugees and victims of disaster and war. Hundreds of millions of dollars spent on sports entertainment seems embarrassing in the same paragraph and on the same planet.

      See you down the trail.

QUEER AT THE MAIN STREET BARBER SHOP

THROW BACK THOUGHTS

     Dave Letterman said it the other night. The Indiana on display in the last week is "not the Indiana I remember."

        Letterman continued, "folks were folks.  We breathed the same air. We were all carbon based life forms. We all wore shoes, had the same organs, had hair, went to the barbershop…" Indeed!

       My dad had patronized the Main Street Barbershop in Muncie, since he was school kid and later when he played on the famed Muncie Central Bearcats basketball team. Though back in the mid '30s if they lost or had not played well they might get their "ears nicked a little."

      I looked forward to our Saturday morning visits.There behind the big plate glass window next to the rotating  red, white and blue barber pole was a social mecca of sorts. It was a bright, cheerful gathering place which is probably why dad took my younger brother John and me to the venerable spot every other week. It was a kind of magic place.

      The long mirrored room with ceiling fans smelled great. Hair tonics, shave cream and lotions were exotic aromas. Claude, the owner and one of three or four barbers, always greeted dad like a hero. He'd open his pop machine and invite John and me to pull out our own bottle of Coke. Sometimes he'd toss us a bag of salted peanuts, pulled from a metal clip stand near the cash register.

     As dad and the others in the crowded room chatted about all manner of things, I tuned out and instead got absorbed in the stacks of magazines. This was very special. There was of course Field and Stream, Argosy, Life Magazine, Look and Science Digest. But what I liked most were True Detective, Stag and Confidential.  

     The art of True Detective featured woman in nightgowns, or garter belts, perhaps a revealing a stretch of leg. They appeared to be being rescued and/or there was a guy with a gun in the picture-or some such. It's been a while. Stag and Confidential though were the big score and those images are more fixed.  

    As dad and the guys chatted, I sat there and saw things probably not intended for an 8 or 9 year old. What exotic things they were!  I think I became aware that women had breasts by scanning those pages. That is where I met Jayne Mansfield. And it was there I discovered women wearing high heels in a bathing suit had a certain, something. I didn't know why, but I liked it.

     Understand, those glimpses of Stag and Confidential were furtive. They were also short lived adventures, especially when using the eyes in the back of his head, dad would grumble from the barber chair "hey, what are you looking at there?"

       To be certain I spent more time looking at the fascinating photo journalism of Life and Look or being awed by the futuristic designs of Science Digest. What cars, houses and cities  we had to look forward to.

     I also listened to more of the conversations than I  understood but I got a sense of different opinions about ball teams, insurance plans, politics, politicians and people.

     There was a guy who would come in frequently and he was just different. Jerry's voice was different and he walked differently but he was greeted just like all of the other guys. One Saturday when the door clicked closed behind Jerry, Gil, one of the barbers, said "Old Jerry sure is as queer as a three dollar bill." There were quiet chuckles from a couple of the chairs.  

     Claude looked down the line of chairs at Gil and said something like "But he's sure a good customer. Regular as prunes. Same time every week." 

     "He's been a great piano and organ player since he was kid" my Dad offered, surprising me with his wide knowledge.

     "Oh, he's all right, but you know," something to that affect Gil rejoined.

      On the way home I asked Dad if he had any three dollar bills and then asked what is a queer?

      Dad was always straightforward and he didn't miss a beat. He said some men were born differently and for whatever reason they weren't meant to marry a woman or have children. He said they wouldn't be interested in those men's magazines at the barbershop.  But he also admonished us to never use the word Queer. It's not nice he said. Everyone deserves your respect. He said we'd understand when we got older and he promised to tell us more sometime.  

      When I was older we had that talk, complete with old Army health information he used as a drill instructor-but that is a story for another day.

       Sometime after the "three dollar bill incident" dad introduced me to a legless man on a rolling platform. He was selling pencils on the street, not far from the barbershop. He explained he'd lost his legs in the war and sold pencils to make ends meet. They chatted a bit and I could tell they'd known each other since school. Dad gave him some money and told him he still had plenty of pencils from the previous purchase. On the way home he told me to never tease someone who is different, again reminding me everyone deserves respect.

       That's exactly what my old college friend Dave was saying on his program and it's what many others have been saying to Governor Mike Pence and his Indiana political allies who tried to used a so called religious freedom bill to treat others with less than respect, to treat them differently.

       I hope the "fixes" they are talking about will repair Indiana's image and maybe fix their own hearts.

     See you down the trail.

ABOUT A WOMAN AND WOMEN

HE SPOKE WISDOM

     Pay attention to the women in your life. Treat them with kindness, tenderness and affection. That in essence was an early lesson from my father.  He is the man who always made a point of kissing my mom when he returned home from a day at work, and always before leaving.  Not just a peck, a real kiss. There were times in my life when I was embarrassed by it.  I grew out of that.

     He was always quick to compliment my mother on her appearance, the meal she had prepared or something she may have said or done in a group or professional setting. He always had a good word for his mother or her sisters, all of whom were English, properly presented and sticklers on good manners.

     So now I brag for a moment about Lana, who's art and gardening have been the subject of previous posts.  This is a more seasonal praise.  She has been baking bread for some 40 years and in that time has become a true master.  But this holiday time of the year, she hears an even different call.

A BUSY KITCHEN

     Here is a representative sample of her efforts a couple of days ago.  There was more of everything, but these were captured before they too were boxed or gift wrapped. Biscotti, cranberry bread and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Nice to look at, but even better to taste. An incredible output you may think?  Well, on this day she also baked her regular bread and made pasta! 
     There are also chocolate covered orange peels, spicy almonds and sugared pecans, come to life on a different day.
     It is amazing that in all the effort, and there is a lot involved, she is humming or singing and operates with the efficiency a finely tuned factory. I get tired simply watching her, but she moves like an athlete.  I do my part my sampling.  And there is a later shoulder massage, well earned.

REEL THOUGHTS

     American Hustle is a brilliant film adventure and it is no wonder it's gotten a lot of buzz.  The acting is the brilliance! 

     It is a "somewhat truthful" retelling of an odd moment in American history, ABSCAM, thus a good story. It is well directed by David Russell and made entertaining by its capture of time by wardrobe and bad haircuts and amusing. But the acting sells the deal.

      Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Jeremy Renner are all-have I used the word-BRILLIANT. Louis CK is perfect in his supporting role and Robert DeNiro turns in a short but stunningly haunting role.

      This is a fun and captivating entertainment and I suspect you'll leave the theater talking about how good the cast was. 
       If you are interested in such facts, Amy Adams and Jennifer Lawrence are dazzling beauties. I notice these things. Again it goes back to my dad, who while always an English gentleman-he was raised that way-truly enjoyed the company of women and they were comfortable with him.
      He was chivalrous and sensitive. My memory is somewhat hazy, but it was fortified by mom's recounting. When I was a wee one, dad taught me how to wink, using the women of his office as my training partners.  Never a full wink, like a blink.  No, as he was in teaching me basketball skills, he was specific.  A real wink needs to be subtle, a gentle motion to be seen only by the recipient. 
       As I recall a wink toward a blond coed led to something that more than 40 years later leaves me with a partner I gladly kiss on arriving and departing. And who does things in the kitchen for which there are not enough compliments.
      Maybe you are shopping for a new year's resolution-pay attention-work on your wink and as Otis Redding sang "Try a little tenderness...."
      See you down the trail 
      
     

A COUPLE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS

DECEMBER DREAMING
and ghosts-see below

WHERE THE PAST LIVES

     Snow had turned to freezing rain and the old wiper blades spread a smear of icy trails across the windshield. It was dark but the snow covered road shone in the headlights courtesy of the glaze of ice. It was late Christmas Eve and I seemed to be the only car on the highway and now on this county road.

      I saw the old beater off the road to the right with the hood up when a dark figure stepped around from the front of the car and stood there. It did not beckon or wave but  simply watched me approach as though resigned to see me drive by. The headlights caught the visage of an older black man in a threadbare overcoat. Ice crystals matted into his hair. He appeared surprised I was pulling the old Studebaker over to park behind his even older car, I think it was an Oldsmobile.  As I started to alight he walked toward me wearing a smile that shone.

     I had worked late at the commercial radio station in a city some 60 miles away. While my college was on holiday recess, I needed to be back at the station the next morning to sign it on at 6:00 AM. The winter storm had slowed my progress to get home to my parents house to spend a bit of Christmas. I knew my parents and brothers were probably concerned about my travel in the snow and ice. This was long before cell phones or adequate snow clearing equipment on county roads or state highways.

     Something "froze up" he said.  He was on his way to his daughter's house with part of their Christmas Eve meal.  He'd been there "a while" he said and the few cars that had passed slowed down, but sped by "when they got a look at me."  A black man on a county road.  

     He was headed for a neighborhood near the downtown of Indianapolis, a neighborhood I would not normally frequent nor drive through.  We chatted about how our Christmas fates had put us together as we navigated the ice covered road that led to suburban streets which in turn fed us into the car lined streets of old houses, commercial buildings and vacant lots.  Lights gleamed from windows, rimmed with Christmas decorations.  We chuckled at how a few of the homes had painted snow scenes on windows or doors.  No need for that now as the ice had turned back to snow and the drive crunched on.

     His daughter and son in law looked curiously out the door and then came down the steps when they saw the old man get out of the car. They were visibly surprised to see a young white man get out of the other door.  

     Two or three little faces peered out of the large window on the porch, their eyes were wide.  "Those little angels are my grand children," the man said, his smile even wider now.

     Both the old man and his son in law went to their billfolds as though to offer me money.  No way I said. It's Christmas Eve.  I'm just being a Santa's helper I added, looking at how other doors were opening and seeing people appear in windows.  The daughter wanted me to come in and warm up, have something to eat. I explained my family was waiting and I needed to get on.  We shook hands and his big grin had a special quality of that caused a tingle in my chest.

       As I picked my way back to the suburbs the aroma of the dish that had rested on the back seat continued to fill the car. It had a sweet scent that activated my hunger sensors and I began to think about my parents and brothers and how I hoped they had dined.

      When I made it to the driveway Dad was first out of the door, as Mom stood behind him, in her apron.

       "We were very worried about you," Dad opened the Christmas Eve conversations.

       Later when I had relayed the story and we had begun to eat the feast Mom prepared, I noticed she was sitting there, looking a bit distant, but smiling.

       "You did the right thing," Dad said, "but you took a chance in doing it."

        I never confessed my nervousness, in making the stop or driving into that neighborhood. It was the mid '60s and times were different.

        A ghost that visits me this time of year is that picture of Mom, sitting there and smiling. Later, and she would often remind me of the story, "you were a Christmas angel for that man."

        At least I was a young white lad who saw another traveler and realized color makes no difference. 

       The other ghost I recall is that heart warming smile. It spoke more than words.

        See you down the trail. 

DOWNTON ABBEY TALK BACK & A FINAL STOP ON THE GRATITUDE TRAIL-THE GREATEST GENERATION

ENTERTAINING HISTORY

     Their off and on romance engaged us and once they managed to get past all the obstructions we took delight in their marriage.  The birth of their child brought us no end of joy and then suddenly and shockingly Matthew was killed in a freak auto accident leaving Lady Mary a widow with a baby.

     Apparently many of us told Godfather Julian Fellowes we were unhappy with the plot-line he had crafted for his inhabitants of Downton Abbey, but in serialized drama, even elegant British Drama, soap operas need a few twists to keep us tuned in.

      The promotional season is underway and we countdown to the beginning of 2014 to see how our characters from the early 20th century transfer into the 1920's.  It is after all a century ago that we are so engrossed by.  Downton Abbey is a hit in 200 nations and is translated widely. 

      Though it is all fiction, Downton Abbey teaches history in a marvelous and rich way.  The British Empire is fading as the English aristocracy bumps into changing mores and social values and even technology.  Ideas of liberation, freedom, class discrimination, wealth transfer and management all perk along in the intricate script and plot turns. I was one of those guys who loved history back in high school, but oh how I wish teacher Donald Foreman could have played a few videos, as engrossing as Downton Abbey.

      Yes, it's only TV, but such good TV!  A masterful opiate for we masses. But still, did they really have to kill off Matthew?! And yes, we'll be there to see how poor Lady Mary copes.

OOPS

    Well, I goofed and apparently a few hundred of you also missed it.  Last week in a Thanksgiving post, I paid tribute to these "Turkeys."  Trouble is, I am told, they are Peacocks.  Sorry about that. Now, how is it that so many of you didn't catch me on it?  I guess we all need an editor, eh?

OF THE REASONS WE COUNT

MY MOTHER AND FATHER AND THEIR PEERS
A Last Stop on the Gratitude Trail

     Americans have rightly embraced Tom Brokaw's acclamation of the WW II generation as "the Greatest Generation."
     My father Karl and my mother Mary Helen played their part. Dad was in the infantry in the South Pacific.  Mom was like thousands of other women, waiting and praying for their men to come home from war.  When I made my first visit to the World War II memorial, I was there to pay respects to my parents and their peers, most of whom are gone.
     More than 16 Million Americans were involved, in some way in World War II.

   At first I felt a shudder of loss, seeing the 4,048 gold stars. Each star represented 100 deaths. More than 400 thousand American service personnel died.  After the shudder I felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude.

   This is a place you'll want to visit, next time you are in DC.

   And so we transition from the season of gratitude to the merriment of the "Holiday Season."

   I hope you have a wonderful and meaningful season of Advent, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice or even bah humbugging. Remember,'... you better not pout or you better not shout..."

    See you down the trail.