Grateful? You Bet!

The one good thing about feeling this full after Thanksgiving is knowing there is no need to scrounge around for something to eat until at least Monday.  My generous neighbors, Rick and Roxanne, were once again kind enough to include me as an honorary member of their weirdly wonderful family and I ate accordingly.  I do believe it was my selection of not one but TWO slices of pie for dessert that caused me to succumb to the dreaded Dunlop's disease.  (You know, the condition which presents itself when your belly done lops over your belt.)  And I didn't even have the ice cream!

I have been thinking a lot about gratitude this week, just as many of you have.  Whether it's a function of more years on the old odometer or simply the wisdom that seems to if we're lucky, accompany age, a new appreciation of my good fortune has lately asserted itself.   This past Monday, while diligently getting in my 10,000 doctor ordered steps, I happened on a moment that will stay with me for the rest of my life.  I was traversing the same long over-water boardwalk around the Lake Coeur D' Alene resort where I recently came upon a young man proposing to his girlfriend.  Unexpectedly, in almost the exact same spot, I approached three individuals who turned out to be a grandmother, young mother, and a four or five-year-old girl.  As I got closer I heard the mother identifying various landmarks in great detail as she spoke carefully to the beautiful little girl.  The child's back was to me and it seemed strange that her mom was being so elaborate in her description of the landscape.  Then I saw it.  The girl, smiling radiantly, had a small white cane in her right hand.  She was blind and anxious for all the descriptive narrative her mom could provide.  She had eager and intelligent questions and seemed to be comfortable, at least to my untrained eye, with her situation.  The tableau made me both happy and sad at the same time.  Happy that the child appeared to be dealing with her handicap in a positive way yet sad that she had been robbed of sight.

I said hello and made some lame comment about the weather before continuing on my way still gobsmacked by the seeming injustice of it all.  I walked on in grateful appreciation of my now nearly perfect eyesight, thanks to my recent cataract surgery, and silently thanked God for the gift of vision and offered him the opportunity to deliver a swift kick should I ever forget my good fortune.  I've thought of little else all week.  I'm lucky.  Most of us are and we often take the things of everyday life for granted.  Vision, hearing, smell, our good health, kids who turned out okay, a warm bed, food, friends who love us, ALL of it can be taken in an instant.  During this week of thanks and the coming season of giving, I know I'm going to be thinking often of the little girl on the boardwalk and, though I can't make it possible for her eyes to see, maybe I can remember to appreciate the gifts given me.  The most beautiful presents we have are the ones that can only be purchased with our gratitude.
It is nearly sundown here in the Pacific Northwest and it looks to be another spectacular light show.  I view it now with new eyes and a newly ever grateful heart.

Give A Man A Fish? I Don't Think So!

Fishing is a lazy man's sport, which is precisely why it always appealed to me.  It still does, except now, in my eighth decade, I'm too lazy to participate.  Granted, it is, like boating, one of the very few sit-down, drinking sports but, still, it seems like too much work at my age.  What's that old saying?  "Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day."  I say, don't give a man a fish and you feed yourself.  He's a grown man, fishing is easy and so is going to Whole Foods.  He should take care of himself and quit bothering you.  Pass the tartar sauce, please.

"Ahm a thinkin' 'bout catchin' me a big ol' bass."

Recently I learned that fishing has graduated to the pantheon of lazy endeavors thanks to those happy drunks in Australia.  Apparently, in an effort to not interfere with their drinking hand, some wastrel decided that it was far easier and more effective to have a drone carry the fishing line from your reel to a target beyond the range of a typical inebriate's cast.  The drone, whining and looking like a large tasty insect, hauls line and lure via remote control to where the lunkers lie.  Once the desired location is reached and assuming you haven't miscalculated and run out of line, the lure is dropped and the drone idles above the water.  As it is with all new inventions, there are still some kinks to be worked out of this clever way of snagging finny prey.  There have been several instances of fish hitting the lure hard enough to drag a $1000 drone to a watery grave.  Also, depending on how hungry and large the fish is, a drone can be mistaken for a delicious winged insect snack and be consumed as an hors d' oeuvre, never in his wildest nightmares, envisioned by Sir Isac Walton.  So much for 21st Century fishing.  It may be best for the truly indolent and impecunious to stick to a cane pole and worms, though word has it that the drone thing has really caught on in Florida. (Natch)

In other news...
It distresses me to report that today singer (???) Bjork turned 54 years old.  That means she could, quite possibly,  be inflicting her crimes against the musical world and us for another thirty or forty years.  Oh, the humanity!!

On a happier note:  Bei Bei, the giant 4-year-old panda has left our National Zoo where he has been on loan from China.  He will be returning to his homeland where he'll enter a government-run breeding program.  It seems to this reporter that a similar program for retired geezers in this country might be worth exploring.  The line forms over here.

A Walk On The Mild Side

These days when I read the morning paper--yes I still do that--I tend to linger on what my pal, the Skipper, refers to as "the Irish sports pages".  I'm not sure when the obituaries became a must-read for me, perhaps it was when I began to see the birth dates of the latest souls to shuffle off this big blue marble zeroing in on years closer to my own.  Even though I most often don't know and have never met the subjects of the latest obituary notices, I now find myself shaking my head and muttering "too soon" while reading an exit peon to some soul in his late '80s.  This from a guy who used to proclaim, "If I live past 65 it means I didn't have enough fun!"  You'd think that after years of losing friends, relatives and, worst of all, a wife, that I'd at least be slightly more in touch with the reality of my own mortality.  Maybe it's a defense mechanism we have that keeps us believing we're still young and vibrant lest the hounds of dread and insanity render us crippled by paralyzing fear.  Well, that's my theory anyway.  Otherwise, why am I constantly mistaking my own reflection in mirrors and shop windows for "some old guy"?  You do it too, admit it.  Just yesterday when returning to the eye doctor for a check-up on my previous day's cataract surgery, (How can I be old enough for that?!) I momentarily thought there was another person in the examination room.  All I could see was a shock of white hair in the mirror and turned to look behind me wondering who it was only to find I was all alone.  Fooled again!

This morning, because the sky threatened rain, I thought it wise to leave early on my daily long walk, doctor prescribed to stave off the emerging old man I am destined to become.  I was about halfway into my ten-thousand steps when, as I rounded a corner, I stumbled on a young couple in the midst of one of life's benchmark milestones.  A young guy was on his knee proposing marriage to an obviously smiling and happy young woman.  He had the ring out and she looked surprised.  I was embarrassed to have intruded on what was hopefully a once in a lifetime moment and hurriedly mumbled my apologies as I hastened on my walk.  No sooner had I moved on than I wanted to return to offer advice.  I longed to lob every trite cliche I'd ever heard at them.  Never take each other for granted, look out for each other, don't go to bed mad and all the rest of the essentials nobody young and in love ever really pays attention to before realizing the huge and serious commitment they've signed up for.  I reflected again on how the choice of a mate can make all the difference in life and decided that I was lucky indeed in that department.  Life is all about continuing education and, just about the time we start to get the important things figured out, we get our discharge papers.

It's afternoon now and time to work in another walk before dark and the storm so close I can now almost smell it.  I'll take an umbrella but I don't really care.  As someone once said, "Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning how to dance in the rain."

Do these glasses make my cataracts look fat?  What time is the  Ray Charles look-a-like contest?

Build The WALL!

No, not that wall.
 It's our northern border that's in need of plugging!
For years now we United States citizens have been forced to deal with our weirdo Canadian neighbors and frankly, it's time to get serious about the insidious invasion taking place at our sieve-like border.  I speak, of course, about the hideous and very unsanitary occupation of these United States by those web-footed crap machines the ubiquitous CANADIAN GEESE.

"Anything to declare?"

Am I right America??  Of course, I am!  Just as crows have fled rural America for the tasty and more readily available garbage of our urban enclaves, Canadian geese have decamped from the land of magical moose, talking beavers, and the always dependably delicious poutine to the home of Mickey Mouse, Ru Paul, and Krispy Kreme.  From Maine to Florida; Seattle to San Diego, they're everywhere EXCEPT Canada and the Canucks need to take them back!

Magic moose

Isn't it bad enough that we Americans must put up with those humor impaired mounties at the border who are always ready to foolishly ask us if we "have anything to declare" as we return home from a visit to sled dog driver land? (Apparently, "War" is not the preferred response.)

The goslings are automatically U.S. citizens.

Honking, hissing and pooping, it never ends!

Now, we are now expected to welcome these freeloading Canadian geese to our beautiful country where they devour our lawns, have multiple babies and poop every 16 minutes. (Look it up!)  It's an outrage and it must stop now!

Building a border wall is the only logical solution to this growing menace.  I've tried reasoning with these alien birdbrains who have planted themselves in my neighborhood and all I receive in response are clueless stares, hissing, and irritating and incessant honking sounding much like a Basset hound on the receiving end of an enema.


No, the largely empty country to our north must take these pests back!  They are CANADIAN geese after all and we are the sovereign United States of America.  No more mooching, munching waterfowl are required or needed.  Donald, Daisy, Hewey, Dewey, and Louie are quite enough for us, thank you very much.  (Sorry, Daffy, I didn't mean to forget you.)

I say build the wall, build it tall and build it now!

What?
Really?
They can fly?
How long have we known this??

Uh...never mind. Perhaps I need to re-think this plan.
If you need me, I'll be in the den watching a Nelson Eddy and Jeannette MacDonald movie.

See if the geese want some popcorn.

My Friend Sam

(My friend, Sam Jankovich, quietly slipped out the side door of life early Wednesday morning.  It was, I believe, an out of character passing for this man who never did anything small.  His was a big personality and he leaves a void in the many lives he touched.  I'm sure he's already shaking things up in the hereafter and giving a major goosing to all who need it.  God speed Sam.  I look forward to getting a loving browbeating from you when once again we meet.)

(The following is a re-post from March of 2018.)

Sam Jankovich

I have been fortunate in my life to have collected a fairly large and eclectic posse of characters I am privileged to call my friends.  The Skipper, Country Al, Tito, Johnny Boy, Tailspin Tommy, Battlin' Buzz, Nasty Ned, Big Fat Chrissy, Cool Rick, Bobby T., and my old buddy Willie the Moff to mention a few of the best.  Last year I was lucky enough to add another, Sam Jankovich.

This past weekend I set the cruise control at 90 and hauled Sam from his home in Hayden Lake, Idaho to Billings, Montana for his induction into the Montana Football Hall of Fame.  He's in his 80's now and recently gave up driving.  I was honored, and a little crazy, to be his chauffeur for a couple of days in order to be part of all the hoopla surrounding such an event.  This wasn't Sam's first hall induction; he's already enshrined in several as a result of an outstanding career as a player, coach, university athletic director and a memorable stint as the general manager of the New England Patriots, but, this one meant the most to him.

I was introduced to Sam by his longtime friend and neighbor, Melissa Moss, who, along with Sam's beloved Margaret, a true saint, made the Hall of Fame journey.  It was an unforgettable experience.  Sam is a man of strong opinions who wisely chooses not to keep them bottled up.  Lucky for me he also appreciates anyone who is inclined to lob a little rhubarb in his direction.

Sam: "You drive like crap!  I ought to push you out at the next gas station."

Me: "When you come out out of the men's' room old man there'll be a smoking patch of rubber where this vehicle used to be."

 

Leaving Muzzy's after Wop Chop stop

Then we laugh and move on to the next insult.  I love the guy!  On the way, Margaret, who'd heard it all before, Melissa, and I were treated to tales from his days as athletic director at Washington State during the late '70s and early '80s in addition to stories of his seven-year run as A.D. at the University of Miami where he won national titles in 1983, '87 and '89.  His two seasons as chief executive officer of the New England Patriots were anything but fun being fraught with tons of turmoil as the team transitioned for the ownership of Victor Kiam to Robert Kraft.  According to Sam, it was the least enjoyable time of his football life.  He later concluded his career as president and general manager of the Las Vegas Gladiators of the Arena Football League.  Also, it can't go unmentioned that, in spite of my threatening to quit in mid-journey, Sam insisted on entertaining us with multiple choruses of the football fight songs of every team he ever played for, coached or managed.  Oh, the humanity!!


Sam's hometown of Butte marked the halfway point in our 500-mile journey to Billings and the Hall induction.  For a couple of months, he had been reverently speaking of the wonders of something called the "Wop Chop" available only at the semi-legendary Muzzy's Freeway, a rustic joint just off the 90 freeway in Butte, run by an old pal of Sam's.  Admittedly this gut bomb consisting of a battered slab of deep-fried pork served on a bun with onion, pickle and yellow mustard lived up to Sam's superlatives.  I liked it well enough to buy one of Muzzy's extra-large T-shirts and am already contemplating a return for more greasy highway goodness.  I'll save the heart attack for later.

Margaret and Melissa at the Burger Dive

We arrived in Billings just in time for the Friday night reception and cocktail party featuring many former and current Hall of Fame inductees, including Kansas City Chiefs great, Jan Stenerud.  Most had been coached by Sam and were excited to see him.  Then on Saturday, it was off to check out the Burger Dive in downtown Billings which had been a recent winner of the Food Network's best burger contest featured on their "Man vs. Food" show.  The burgers, we all agreed, were most likely the best we'd ever had.  Bring on the crash cart and alert the by-pass team!


Saturday evening's awards ceremony was sold out with more than 500 people in attendance.  Sam was the first to be inducted; he gave a heartfelt and rousing acceptance speech which earned him a standing ovation.  His usual lighthearted bluster was gone.  It was a quietly emotional and humble friend who thanked all who had made it possible for him to have such a career.  This was a side of him I had never seen.

They all wanted to talk to Sam.

There were many media representatives, including a unit from ESPN, and all wanted to spend time with Sam.  It made for a long day for a man in his ninth decade but he powered through it all like a champ.


We began our return trip to Idaho on Sunday with another stop in Butte to see Sam's great-grandson baptized in the Serbian Orthodox church he has loved all his life.  On Monday, before heading out, we stopped at the Metals Sports Bar to have breakfast with Ray Ueland the bar's owner and another longtime friend of Sam's.  Ray had arranged a Sunday night gathering at the Butte Civic Center for Sam that was attended by many former players from his coaching days.  I snapped a picture of the plaque honoring Sam at that venue and remarked aloud how much he once looked like the late Danny Thomas in his prime and wondered why he now looked like Fred Mertz.

Sam:  "I wish you were still on the radio so I could turn you off!"

Me:  "Shut up and get in the car, Fred."

On the road home, we all agreed that the weekend had been a wonderful success, with Sam still marveling at all the kind words and accolades he had collected from so many he had mentored over his long career.

The greatest use of a life is to spend it on something that will outlast it.  Sam Jankovich accomplished all that with class and humility.  His is a life well lived.  I am proud and grateful to call him friend.

Sam:  "Shut your trap and drive radio boy!"