Hope

There once lived a completely unremarkable man. He was not tall, but not short. He was not handsome, but not bad looking. He lived in a San Francisco complex of 207 apartments. He only barely knew his neighbors. If he could be summed up in a single word, it would be “average”. None of us aspires to average. In the beginning, we all anticipate and strive for more, but eventually we settle because, after all, average demands most of us.

He worked as an accountant in a large firm, at a desk hidden in the bowels of the 14th floor. He was competent. Not great and no one would ever call him “boss”, but he showed up every day and completed a reasonable amount of work with a minimal number of errors. He was dependable. Should he so desire, he could keep his job for another thirty years with a token, but sufficient, annual raise.

He was not without introspection. Of late he’d come to believe he was spending his life an hour at a time and receiving little in return. Tomorrow promised less than yesterday and this bothered him greatly, which is why the fortune cookie seemed so important.

Three days a week he ordered Chinese to-go from the restaurant on the corner. Without fail, sweet and sour pork, fried rice and egg rolls.

“Golden Dragon. May I help you?”

“This is Mike.”

“The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Dinner always included a single fortune cookie. More than one fortune only begged confusion.

Mike ate dinner as the fortune cookie obediently waited its turn. After twenty minutes, he carefully broke open dessert. As always, he first read the script on the strip of paper, but this time it seemed to offer more.

“Find Hope and You Will Find Happiness.”

Until that moment he hadn’t understood that what he was missing was hope.

Had he reached a level of desperation so low he would follow the instructions on a fortune cookie? The answer was simple. Yes. Tomorrow was Saturday. He silently vowed to start his search.

He awoke the next morning excited, anxious and faced with a quandary. Where to begin? Applying something approaching logic, he reasoned since the fortune cookie was Chinese, he should start in Chinatown.

He passed under the ornate entry arches, took the second right and came upon “Lucky Massage”. Hope and luck are inextricably intertwined. He entered the small shop to a series of chanted greetings he could not understand.

A row of five unoccupied recliners faced a wall of televisions all playing Chinese soap operas. Middle-aged ladies were stationed at each chair. An elderly woman approached Mike with a menu from which he selected the 50-minute foot massage for $40. Apparently, hope could be purchased rather cheaply.

Mike slid into a chair and immediately a masseuse brought out a large, wooden tub of steaming tea. She helped Mike remove his shoes and socks and placed his feet in the tub. He began to relax. After a few minutes, the lady started on his feet. At first it tickled, but then he was pervaded by a sense of well-being. His mind slowed, completely occupied by the comforting sensation. He could drift asleep, but believed if he was to find hope here, he needed to stay awake.

After precisely 50-minutes, she was done. He was instructed to take his time and relax, which he did. He finally rose feeling a pervasive calm. Maybe this was hope. He hadn’t felt this way in maybe forever. But as he took each step, he seemed to lose a little of the euphoria and as he focused on making payment and stepped out the door he realized he had rejoined the world unchanged. Hope was not in Lucky Massage.

Most of the day still remained; he pledged not to give up, but where to next? A homeless lady approached with an outstretched hand. A common sight in San Francisco. He simply shook his head in the negative but had a thought.

While the misfortune of others saddens us, it simultaneously leaves us grateful for what we have. Maybe hope could be garnered by comparison, but where to go for that experience. Certainly, someplace hopeless. His eyes wandered toward the San Francisco Bay only to come upon one of the most hopeless places in the world. Alcatraz.

The boat ride to the island of despair was short and brisk. Mike obediently followed at the back of the tour group led by a park ranger. He learned Alcatraz, originally constructed as a lighthouse, had served as a federal prison from 1934 to 1963. Sitting 1¼ miles off the coast and surrounded by frigid waters patrolled by sharks, the Feds used the island for prisoners too unruly for other penitentiaries. 

Small, damp, cold cells housed the worst of the worst. The place reeked of despair. Mike immediately knew this would not work. He felt no elation, only a blending of academic wonder and sadness for those who had inhabited Alcatraz. The day was winding down and his life was in no way more hopeful.

Back ashore, Mike wandered until he realized he’d missed lunch. Such is the lot of a man in search of meaning. He surveyed the landscape for food and spotted the FC Diner. Maybe the FC stood for Fog City, maybe not. It was fashioned after a railroad car and offered “Home Cooking”, even though that wasn’t possible from someplace not home. He walked in and followed the instructions to grab a menu and seat himself.

The place was packed. He chose a navy blue, faux leather booth which was seriously underpopulated by his party of one. He quickly browsed the menu and decided on a hamburger and fries. He scanned the diner for a server. He saw only one.

She was a waitress in the classical sense, if for no other reason than diners should have waitresses. She was about his age wearing an ice blue, neatly starched uniform with crisp lines and white piping. Her silver name tag bore an inscription he couldn’t make out across the diner.

She was not pretty, but cute. Not tall, but not short. She didn’t walk. She glided. There was no other way to describe her movement. Her smile was luminescent. She glowed leaving everything else in the diner shrouded and ordinary. As she approached each table she brought on joy and grins as if spreading pixie dust.

He watched her. Actually, much more than watching and each time she glanced his way it was as if she was looking into him rather than at him. At that place and time nothing else occupied his thoughts. He was consumed by infinite possibilities of aspiration and expectation.

She approached, her expression pleased, but also quizzical. He ogled.

She didn’t ask “Are you ready to order?”

Rather, “Don’t I know you?” More of a statement than a question.

His eyes shifted from hers down to the name tag. At that moment, he knew he had found happiness.

Never Forget

A short story based on the Life of Frances Gelbart

I survived the German concentration camps. A young girl in a shared hell. They invaded my Poland in 1939 when I was nine years old and very soon began herding us like sheep. Concentrating Jews so we could be controlled, dominated, exterminated. First, they pressed others away from us. Banned me from school, from my friends. Treating us as if we were carriers of a plague. We were tagged with armbands, isolated, pushed into a corner. Others were assured of our taint, made to shun and avoid us. We would become theirs without a whimper of protest from those who had been our friends and neighbors.

They moved us into the ghetto of Podgorze. My family of nine, with two other families, shoved into a two-bedroom, one-bath “apartment”. Fourteen people. But we were better off than those who could not find housing and lived on the street. My mother smuggled in produce, salami, cheese provided by our non-Jewish friends. But not without cost. They required payment for their kindness. With each step in the process, we feared the next. But we were all together.

My father, who spoke decent German, was placed on the Committee of Jewish Officials. As such, he had access to information. Jews were constantly trucked from Podgorze. Some returned. Most did not. My father was certain we would be moved. But other than attempting to hide small valuables in dental work or the soles of shoes, how much could one prepare? They came, as we inevitably knew they would. We were separated. But before they could take us, my father taught us a whistle. A very distinctive whistle. A signal we would use to be reunited.

I should have been playing in the streets, learning multiplication. I should have been burdened with the problems of being teased by a boy or suffering the gossiping of girls. Instead, my brother Fred and I were taken to the Plaszow concentration camp. My parents and the rest of my siblings were taken to Bialystok. I would not see my parents for five years. My three-year-old brother, Henry, would die at Bialystok.

The Nazis shifted us around as if we were pieces on a gameboard. They closed Bialystok, relocating those fit enough to be transported. The infirm, the uncooperative, were liquidated. Problems solved without a glimmer of humanity. I witnessed my mother being separated from my three younger sisters who were being placed in Plaszow with me. Mother would be sent elsewhere. She screamed and pleaded. Her choice was made clear as the SS man drew his weapon. She silently obeyed; I became the mother to my sisters.

Then one day they rousted us. We walked to a field near Plaszow. Loud, beautiful music played, but it offered no promise as it dominated our senses. We simply moved as instructed. Farther and farther away from the children’s barracks and towards waiting trucks. Military trucks painted that color which is not a color, just drab.

The trucks took us to Auschwitz, moving from horror to horror. Questions assaulted us, but we knew never to ask, never to resist, never to speak except to obediently answer. Had we fought to survive only to have it end here? We were ordered to undress. Boys and girls naked before SS officers. We were objects. Objects of despair. Objects of disdain. We were told to move towards the showers. We knew. All of us knew. We could only pray for water, not gas. Breathes of relief taken in unison when water spilled on us.

The men then inspected us as if grading a side of beef. A female SS officer stared at me. She would direct me, but I knew right would be to a work assignment. Life. Left would be death.

“Your name?”

I spoke the German word for “lucky”.

“You feel you are lucky?”

“I hope so.”

She hesitated. She pointed right.

Rumors abounded in the camp. By 1944, the Russians were advancing eastward to liberate Poland. The Germans would not relinquish control of us. We were evacuated, marching away from the freedom promised by a Russian victory. Marching through a frozen wasteland. You walked until you could walk no more. Then you were executed. Nothing would slow the German retreat.

My jaw was frozen. I could not move my mouth. My toes screamed of mistreatment over which I had no control. I had to keep moving. Failure to do so would be my end. I was nearly through when a woman approached me. Another prisoner. She noticed my limp. Gangrene was setting in and soon I would not be able to keep up. The SS would not hesitate. This woman handed me a cream, assuring me I would be alright. She was a doctor. She was my miracle.

We arrived at Mauthausen. I had survived to be liberated. They cleansed and disinfected us. They taught me about deodorant and make-up. We slowly became humans again. I trained to be a nurse caring for others. I didn’t believe I would survive, but somehow, I truly was lucky. We were placed on a train to Krakow where my family was reunited. All were accounted for except my brother Fred. Then one evening, my father suddenly stopped. He bowed and turned his head as if aiming his ear at a sound no one else heard.

“You hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen. You hear that?”

And then I did. It was our whistle. It was Fred.

Fred and I received student visas for study in the United States. I married. Sixty-four years with the man I loved. I had three sons, eight grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. I live for them.

My family never discussed the camps. We never shared. We vowed to only move forward. To not let them have one more minute of our lives. But we never forget so it might never be repeated.

A Singular Life

A Short Story

They’ll come. I need them. I left a light on as a beacon or maybe more like a flame. They can’t resist. It’s what they do. Inflict injury on the weak. Humiliate and take a life’s accumulation. They’ll come in numbers preceded by their stench and the spittle from their bikes. They’ll be loud, wearing leather in the night heat; unafraid of a single old man floating in the isolation of this desert shack. It’s taken me a lifetime to get here. A lifetime of violence. A lifetime of honor.

The Great Depression and I were born within hours of each other. I was raised, if that’s what you call it, in Alliance, Ohio. My dad, an immigrant from Eastern Europe, was twice as old as my 16-year-old mom when they married. He left six months after I was born. Mom waitressed to survive, leaving little time for mothering. We lived with my grandmother; the house language was Hungarian. I bathed every Saturday night in a large, galvanized tub. I can’t remember having toys, electricity or phones.

I began riding the rails when I was ten. Hop a moving train from here to there. The hobos were decent, the guards brutal if they caught you. At thirteen, I took the train to California. Slept in boxcars, ate when I could, usually at the kindness of the hobos. Kept a club and never, ever, let anyone see I was afraid. Stoic. I’d steal vegetables from gardens, shoplift groceries. Did some work when I could get it, sweeping floors, washing dishes. Never panhandled. I’d rather steal than beg. When I came back, I think my grandmother was glad to see me.

Sammy, Frankie and I were the worst kids in town. I carried a blackjack until the police took it away. They never did find the brass knuckles. I fought. A lot. So did everybody else. But I was never a bully, except maybe when we were rolling drunks.

I’m fifteen, driving with Sammy, we see a guy who turned us in to the police a week earlier. Maybe for stealing from the market, robbing drunks, fighting. I can’t remember. I tell Sammy to pull over, jump out and beat the crap out of the guy. Next day, Sammy, Frankie and I are picked up by the cops. They take us to court and the judge decides it’s Juvie or the army. I complain I’m only fifteen. Judge, pen in hand, allows as how he has my birth certificate in front of him and I’m eighteen.

Boot camp’s great. Bed, clean sheets, indoor plumbing and all the food I can eat. There’s nothing better than hiking, drilling, camping out with a can of sterno and K rations. Tough guys back from the war taught me discipline and respect. I learned to kill.

There’s this guy who keeps pushing me around. Foul-mouthed and stupid. I’m trying to make it here because I don’t know where else I can go. Eventually, it’s too much. I grab a 2x4 and wait on the barrack steps for him.

The 2x4 hidden behind my back, “You got a problem with me?”

Wrong answer and they’ll be burying him. He sees my eyes.

“No problem. Just having fun.”

He walks by; never bothers me again.

I did a tour in Guam, was discharged and went back to Alliance. I started to slip into the same destructive cycle. Not who I wanted to be so I re-upped. They sent me to Japan where I met my wife and the love of my life, karate.

I courted my Japanese wife floating on the canals of Tokyo. We couldn’t be seen together on the streets, so our romance was limited to the low-tide stench of the waterways or a well-hidden small café. Surprisingly, her family mostly accepted me. Maybe she’d have been better off if they hadn’t.

I’m at Camp Zama in the Criminal Investigation Division, CID. A military cop with a mandate to “Do what has to be done”. It’s a violent job for which I’m perfectly suited. Just another extension of a life of fighting.

One night I’m roaming the black market and I’m jumped by three or four Japanese. They’ve got me on the ground. They can’t punch worth shit, but man, they can kick. Two Airmen walk up, see me on the bottom.

The big guy asks, “What’re you doing down there?”

Ragged breath, “Getting beat up.”

The little guy wants to leave.

Big guy, “We gotta help.”

They pull the bad guys off me. Good thing they didn’t know I was CID. No one liked CID.

I managed to spend some time learning judo. I’m paying for my lessons by selling my GI cigarette allotment on the black market. I will eventually have black belts in karate, judo, aikido and kendo.

I studied judo at the Kodokan, a large gray building which had evaded the American bombing. Wide steps led to an always open double door, behind which as many as a hundred students could be found training. Beginning students would show up early practicing falls to warm up the frozen straw tatami mats for senior students. Training would last 2 or 3 hours.

I’ve spent my life fighting, dominating. It’s who I am. I hear about this karate dojo. I grab an interpreter from the Provost Marshall’s office and tell him what I want. He’s so busy shaking his head in the negative, he doesn’t even notice we’re on our way.

Off the train at Ueno, through the underground where entire families live in stench and poverty. We emerge to the smell of charcoal hibachi fires and lean-to living. Through the destruction to what seems like the uninhabited bones of a bombed-out building. Yes, he’s certain this is the place. I move towards the basement and sounds of men screaming. I follow the smell of sweat into the dojo of Gogen Yamaguchi Sensei, the Cat.

There stands a short, but massive man. Shoulder length black hair, commanding in a deep guttural voice. Gi clad students matched off in pairs down the length of the room. Each strike, each block emphasized with a shout concentrating the energy of the blow. I stopped halfway down the stairs, sat and watched. Yamaguchi Sensei approached. We communicated through gestures. If I wished to train, I was to leave and return with my uniform.

I come back the next day, gi in hand. Training was brutal, especially for a gaijin. A senior student took me to the back and taught basics. But soon, I did much more. Other dojo’s practiced kata and staged sparring. Yamaguchi Sensei introduced free fighting. Manners were observed, control required, but blood flowed. Blocks hurt as much or more than strikes. The injured, the truly injured, could lean against a wall to recover.

My wife and I returned to the States. The Army sent me to learn Japanese at the language school at the Presidio, Monterey. After my discharge, I begin establishing dojos. At one point I’ve got eight of them. I bring instructors from Japan. I start the Japan Karate-do Federation. I’m the American Director of the first World Karate Championships. I’m elected to the Black Belt Magazine Hall of Fame. I write a book, invest in real estate, get involved in movies and Las Vegas productions. I travel and teach. In Japan, they award me eighth dan in karate for a lifetime of achievement. I receive it from a Zen monk who is a descendant of Ieyasu Tokugawa, a 17th-century shogun.

I’m hurting. The VA docs tell me it’s cancer. Not much they can do. Eventually, it’ll eat me up. I’ve got this isolated, little place in Whitewater, California, population 892. A shack painted loud pastels. Maybe 500 or 600 square feet that never saw a building permit. Concrete ramps between small rooms with mud walls. And this is where I sit. A bird on a perch waiting for vultures. For one last fight. The coda of a lifetime of violence, achievement and honor. A singular life.

In memory of Dan Ivan Sensei

A Christmas Adoption

A Short Story

I hated Christmas. Inside the foster home it was okay because we were all the same. Ted and Carol would get a few toys for each of us from a local church. They tried but couldn’t compete with the lights and laughter surrounding us on the outside. I’m thirty now and still consider pizza the traditional Christmas dinner.

It was Christmas Eve seventeen years ago and I fully anticipated another holiday of low expectations barely met. I didn’t know how to react when Ted and Carol handed me a large trash bag and told me to pack up. I was being adopted.

My guess is I received no notice because they didn’t want an argument. Thirteen-year-old boys don’t get adopted. No one wants them and they’re just marking off the days till 18 and emancipation. Changing foster homes is bad enough, but after years of at best, benign neglect, the prospect of the white-hot spotlight of adoption held no appeal.

My parents died in a car crash five years earlier. I had no brothers or sisters and the rest of my “family” disowned me. They blamed my dad for the accident, insurance wasn’t enough and as they told me my meager inheritance had evaporated. My never close relatives disappeared.

Prior to the accident, my life had been wonderfully mundane. I did quite well in school. I oozed potential and bathed in the attention of an only child. Adjusting to foster homes had not been seamless.

I was removed from my first foster home because the “parents” had over-disciplined. Seven of us crammed into two-bedrooms. Survival and perceived advantage crushed manners, sharing and cooperation. A precarious disregard prevailed between the parents and the kids – don’t cause me trouble and I won’t bother you. Violate the precept and punishment was swift and certain.

My second foster home with Ted and Carol was much better. They were 60’s hippies retired from government work supplementing their income with foster parent payments. Every dollar coming from a government they swore they never trusted.

Ted and Carol weren’t attentive, but they weren’t oblivious. They wanted us to do well in school because that meant less problems. For them parenting was like monotonous highway driving. They were aware only when they had to be.

My one friend, Joey, co-survived with me at Ted and Carol’s. He was two years younger, but much more adept, having been orphaned at three. This was his fourth foster home and like a great boxer, he sensed, bobbed and weaved effortlessly. Joey was my three-dimensional shadow and both of us wanted and needed it that way. Joey was my family.

When Ted and Carol told me of the adoption, I ran to the room Joey and I shared, shoving the door closed only to hear it thump against Ted’s foot.

“Where’s Joey?” I demanded through the partially closed door.

“We sent him to the store for groceries. You have to be gone before he comes back.”

More conflict avoidance.

Ted continued, “This will hurt Joey more if he has to say goodbye. Think of Joey. One way or the other you’re going. As far as the State’s concerned, your already gone. You’re off our books. No more payments.”

I didn’t know if Ted was right about Joey but definitely believed the State would move me out of the system without a nod in my direction. Absent State dollars, I was not staying with Ted and Carol.

I was going and didn’t want to be the one to tell Joey. I threw everything I owned into the single black trash bag and slung it over my shoulder like a junk-yard Santa. Ted walked me out to a clean, black Chevy SUV. A man and a woman stood leaning against the car, talking, but not deep in conversation. Something light to pass anxious time.

“This is Bob and Diane, your new parents.”

Bob knelt to one knee and extended his hand, “Erik, we’ve heard and read all about you. We’re extremely excited to welcome you to our family.”

I just stared, “No thank you.”

Ted quickly interceded, “Erik, you’ve no choice. This is happening.”

Diane rushed in, “Please give us a chance. You’re important to all of us. We know this isn’t easy, but it will work, I promise.”

How she knew or could promise, I had no idea. But she seemed sincere and as Ted had already disappeared back in the house, I didn’t appear to have much choice. I nodded ascent and Diane insisted I take shotgun next to Bob. We travelled in silence. Not that Bob and Diane didn’t try to make conversation; I would have none of it. Bob offered he was an engineer and Diane a homemaker, whatever that was. They met at Berkeley and grew up in Southern California. There was some other meaningless stuff, but I wasn’t listening, just staring out the window, thinking of Joey.

After thirty minutes we pulled into the driveway of a suburban house completely consistent with their middle-aged SUV. One-story ranch, not big, not small, but well kept. Nice enough. Bob asked if I was hungry. I wasn’t. Bob asked if I wanted a tour. I didn’t.

Bob led me down the hall to a bedroom he said was mine. The room was decorated, but wrong. Sports and music stuff everywhere. Blue and white Dallas Cowboys bedspread, pillows and bean-bag chair. The posters of Emmitt Smith, Troy Aikman, Green Day, Pearl Jam and the Rolling Stones were old, faded and as far as I was concerned, irrelevant. I couldn’t understand the room.

Bob said he’d leave me to unpack and rest while they made dinner. I nodded and he left.

Nearly instantly I heard loudly hushed arguing.

Diane insisted, “This isn’t going to work. We can’t do this.”

“Just give it time. He’ll realize it’s better than where he’s been. This will be good for him. He’s a smart kid he’ll figure it out.”

“He’s not Tommy.”

And there it was. I was some kind of replacement part. A puzzle piece forced into an empty space. No way.

I stopped unpacking and threw everything back in the trash bag and marched out to Bob and Diane.

“I’m not doing this. It’s creepy. That room was his room. I’m not replacing some lost kid. Take me back. Now!”

Bob’s head swiveled between Diane and I, but his eyes spoke volumes of resolve.

“Both of you sit down.” He motioned to the couch. His voice was firm, but surprisingly calm and in control. It demanded compliance but without engendering fear. Diane and I sat at opposite ends of the sofa.

Bob began, “Erik, so you understand, yes, we lost a son ten years ago. For a decade we’ve wondered what we’ve missed. We desperately wanted to be parents and like all parents more for what we could give than what we would get.

“We couldn’t have children after Tommy’s birth. We want to do this because we know we have so much more to give; we just couldn’t hold onto that feeling any longer without becoming bitter. We need to do this.

“You need to try. We have six months before this is final. We don’t know what a 13-year old boy likes these days, but the old posters, the whole room was a huge mistake. We weren’t thinking, but we also weren’t trying to hide anything. We’ll always be honest with you. One of the posters in your bedroom, the Rolling Stones, you’ve heard of them?”

I nodded yes.

“They have a line in one of their songs, ‘You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes… you might find you get what you need.’

“We all need this.”

Bob was right. The stories I could tell. To say the beginning was easy would be like describing Mt. Everest as a day hike. So many stories, crazy, sad, wonderful stories, but I don’t have time right now. My kids are waiting; we’ve got a Christmas tree to trim.

City of Schemes

First Chapter of a Novel in the Works

First Place League of Utah Writers New Writer First Chapter Contest

Megan Garrity couldn’t push back the premonition this would end badly. How could she feel otherwise? She sat in a blow-up boat in the near complete darkness of San Francisco Bay, flying at 30 mph through 50-degree water. If this big toy went under, she might last 30 minutes, maybe more, but it wouldn’t matter. No one knew they were there. No one would look for them. 

She sat in silence as the whisper-quiet electric engine pushed the 19-foot zodiac past Alcatraz, a monument to mistakes just like the one she was in the process of making. It was zero dark thirty and eight of the ten black-clothed occupants, four a side, sat hunched inward. Each, except her son Nick, wearing ski masks. Nick refused to cover his face, but everyone else understood the importance of anonymity. 

They leaned in seeking refuge from the frigid water robbed of color by the reflecting dark of the evening sky. A spray of chilled ocean filled the air each time the bow dropped.  The night was quiet, the wind so light Megan and Nick didn’t so much get hit by the mist as run into it while it hung suspended waiting for the speedy zodiac.

Megan fixated on Alcatraz. Not that she would be sentenced to the “Rock”, just some facility like it might well become her home if this didn’t turn out right. And worst of all, she would lose Nick. She would lose everything. She’d entrusted their safety to the Yellow Brick Road human smugglers. All she could do now was sit quietly, her arm firmly looped around the shivering Nick and pretend this was a game.  Her ten-year-old son really had no clue, he just knew he wasn’t happy.

 Nick cried when they injected the counterfeit Norcal R chip into his arm. He had no idea what they were doing and didn’t much like being touched. Or talked to. Or being crowded in the small boat. Nick was the reason they were on the zodiac. To find a place where he would be comfortable and get the attention he needed and deserved. Nick wasn’t what you’d call perceptive, but it didn’t take much to pick up on the fear of the six other passengers.  Only the crew of two mercenary types seemed at ease. Nick sensed they were breaking rules and he didn’t like that.   

But Megan Garrity was not a criminal.  Not even prone in that direction. There was however, an excellent reason for her early morning cruise. Being a mother, Megan came to believe there were two sets of rules. One governed most everything, most every day. The other required you to do whatever you have to for your child, which was why she was about to break into Norcal, a place of infinite opportunity.

Ostrich & Donkey

A Kid’s Short Story

A donkey once lived with a farmer on a big, mostly empty lot in the small town of Ortizville. Farmer had a little house and Donkey a three-sided barn where he slept and was protected from rain and wind. Two large, old, white bathtubs sat next to the barn which Farmer filled with food and water.

It stayed that way, until one bright summer day when Farmer pulled up with a large trailer and out walked an ostrich. Donkey watched the nine-foot tall, long-legged bird stand completely still while his head turned in almost a full circle slowly examining his new home. Donkey thought “What is it and when is it leaving?”  Donkey liked being alone. 

“What are you?” asked Donkey as he slowly approached.

 “You mean ‘Who am I?’” replied Ostrich a little offended, but trying to be helpful.

“No.  I don’t care who you are.  I want to know what you are?”

“I’m an ostrich.  A bird,” he patiently explained.

“If you’re a bird why not fly away?  Go someplace someplace away from me.”

“I can’t fly,” said Ostrich looking down on Donkey.

“You said you’re a bird.”

“I’m a bird but can’t fly.”

“Well then, you’re not a bird,” snorted Donkey.

Ostrich could tell Donkey was not interested in a new friendship.  He walked to the far corner of the lot and that’s how they remained for a long time. But then, everything changed.

There came a thundering noise from the lot next door.  A twelve-foot stack of wood sliding off a huge green truck.  Construction workers in bright yellow vests putting up a giant sign with a picture of an apartment building. Ostrich and Donkey, from the opposite sides of the lot, began slowly approaching the commotion.

“What’s that?” asked Ostrich.

“A sign.”

Ostrich was always amazed at how uncooperative Donkey could be, “I know it’s a sign.  What’s it say?  What’s happening? Is this a problem? Are they going to make us leave? What can we do?”

“Stop!” yelled Donkey.

“Let’s see … First, I don’t know.  Second, I don’t know and in answer to your third, fourth and fifth questions … I… don’t… know!”

“Well boys, it looks like we’re in trouble.”  Farmer stood behind them holding his straw hat and scratching his head. “They warned me I was going to have to get rid of you guys, but I didn’t believe them.” 

Turning to leave, Farmer said, “Sorry, but I’ve got to find somebody to take you fellas.”

“This is your fault!” said Donkey moving closer to Ostrich

The next sound stunned both Ostrich and Donkey.

“Why are you arguing?”

Ostrich and Donkey, who were eyeball to eyeball, turned to find a girl on the other side of the fence.

“Wha…?” said Ostrich.

“You understand us?” asked Donkey.

“No.  You’re talking too fast and yelling too loud. But if you slow down, maybe I can help.”

“That would be wonderful!” cried Ostrich.

Then he remembered his manners, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Emma.  What are your names?”

“We don’t have names.  We haven’t needed names.  Until now we only talked to each other,” explained Ostrich.

“He’s Ostrich and I’m Donkey.  How can you help? You’re just one little girl.”

“I don’t know yet,”

Donkey snorted, turned and began to walk away.

Ostrich explained, “He’s okay, just a little grouchy some of the time.  Well, actually a lot grouchy all the time, but he doesn’t dislike you any more than he dislikes everyone.”

Emma truly wanted to help.  She thought a little then exclaimed, “I have a great idea!”

Donkey stopped and turned his head to listen to the “great idea”.

“You’re endangered species!”

Ostrich and Donkey didn’t know what “species” meant, but they certainly understood “danger”.

“You mean we’re in even more trouble?” asked Donkey.

Emma smiled, “No.  An endangered species is an animal who needs to be protected.  There are so few left, if we aren’t careful, they’ll disappear forever.”

“I’m the last ostrich and he’s the last donkey?”

“No.  There are plenty of ostriches and donkeys, but you’re the only ones in Ortizville.  For our world, you’re endangered.”

 “So what?” Donkey couldn’t grasp how this was going to help.

“We need to convince the Ortizville City Council you’re important to the City.  We’re going to have a demonstration.”

“What’s a demonstration?” Ostrich asked.

“The kids from school and their parents will come out with signs, march around and talk to people about how you belong in our community.  They’ll tell the City Council to vote to let you stay.  If enough people come out, the City will have to listen.”  And with that, Emma went home to spread the word.

On a crisp morning, three days later, Ostrich and Donkey saw car after car parking along the street.  From them emptied more people than they’d ever seen.  Someone blew up a big, bright, castle bounce house. Adults put up tables with signs.  Some sold t-shirts with pictures of animals looking a lot like Donkey and Ostrich. Other tables loaded with cakes and cookies smelled like bakeries.  A DJ wearing big red headphones, played loud, vibrating music. People walked around with megaphones screaming “Save Ostrich and Donkey!”, “Endangered Species!”, “Animals are people too!”. 

The crowd got larger, the music louder and as food trucks pulled in, the smells stronger.  The scent of cookies and cakes mixed with whiffs of burgers and tacos.

Police directing traffic let kids sit in their black and white cars.  Sirens blared and blue and red lights spun and glowed.

A man and a woman approached Ostrich and Donkey.  The mayor and apartment developer stood at the fence with sour faces.

“This is what it’s all about?  I’m the mayor of a city, not some farm,” the woman grunted.

Donkey could not have been more offended.  Screaming loudly (which sounded like braying to the two people) he kicked with both back legs sending clouds of dust coating the man and woman.

Disgusted, brushing herself off and spitting out dirt, the Mayor grumbled, “I promise we’ll get rid of them.”

“That’s not good,” said Ostrich quietly. 

“No! That’s not good!” yelled Donkey, his nose pointing towards the  lumber pile.

A little boy had crawled to the top.  He was waving his arms and screaming, but no one noticed.  There was just too much noise and excitement.  The boy tried to climb down, but his feet just dangled in air.

“Follow me!” yelled Donkey.

Donkey took off running.  He glanced back expecting to see Ostrich far behind, but the speedy Ostrich had pulled alongside. Donkey led Ostrich through an opening and to the stack of lumber.

“It’s too high.  We can’t reach him!” moaned Ostrich.

Donkey knelt and instructed, “Get on my back!”

“I’ll hurt you.”

“I’m a donkey.  Why do you think we’re built this way?”

Ostrich stepped onto Donkey’s back, carefully placing his huge, three toed feet one at a time.

Donkey squeaked, “Ouch! Don’t you ever cut your toenails?”

“No hands!” Ostrich laughed.

Donkey slowly raised off his knees.  Ostrich struggling to stay balanced, swayed slightly, opened his massive wings and hoped no sudden wind came up or he truly would become a flying bird. Ostrich’s head came even with the small child, who began to scream louder and backed away. 

“We’re just scaring him!” Ostrich yelled.

Suddenly, Ostrich heard a familiar voice.

“That’s my little brother. Andy, jump onto Ostrich’s neck!” yelled Emma. 

Andy creeped towards Ostrich.  He looked at Emma, closed his eyes and sprung off the lumber.  He hit Ostrich’s neck, wrapped his arms around and slid down to Ostrich’s back.  And there he sat.  Donkey dropped to his knees; Ostrich hopped off, but no one would be able persuade Andy to leave his comfortable seat hugging Ostrich.

Then Ostrich and Donkey noticed the silence.  No music, no sirens, no people laughing.  Everyone staring at Andy, Ostrich and Donkey which   lasted for what seemed like forever.

All at once everyone began to chant, “Ostrich and Donkey stay! Ostrich and Donkey stay! Ostrich and Donkey Stay!”

The Mayor raised her hands and after a while the people quieted.  The Mayor declared, “Ostrich and Donkey will stay!” 

Emma hugged Ostrich and Donkey.  “We did it! You don’t have to leave!”

“Thank you so much.  Will you keep visiting us?” asked Ostrich.

“You’re my friends.  I’ll be here all the time!”

“I’ve never had a friend,” smiled Donkey.

Ostrich looked at Donkey in amazement, “I’ve been your friend since the day I arrived.  Do you think anyone other than a friend would have put up with you?”

Once again, Donkey smiled.  They said good-bye to Emma and the two friends wandered back to the shed for a quiet lunch together.

You’re Beautiful

A Short Story

I first saw her from a distance in a coffee shop, but that’s not where the story begins. This story begins with an ending. I can’t tell you how long I’d been with Marie. She would, to the day. I knew it was a matter of months, but I couldn’t and didn’t want to be more specific. Which is probably why I’d been surprised, empty handed, more than once with an “anniversary”. My first clue should have been the amount of guilt I didn’t feel when so ambushed. I would shrug, offer a stout apology and a promise I knew I wouldn’t keep.

Marie is probably a wonderful person; I was never certain. She is magnificently beautiful and clearly deserving of better than I gave her. Dark haired, dark eyed and demanding of male attention wherever she trod; the physical was never the issue. We’re both in our mid-30s. Clearly, I am a work in process. At least hopefully so. I believe Marie viewed herself as a sculptor. She idolized her father. He, in turn, doted, spoiled, consoled and supported without question. While Marie thought me to be clay, in reality I was more granite-like. Marie would have continued to slowly chisel, but I tired of issuing insincere apologies and Marie’s beauty seemed to fade a bit with each edict.

Marie made the critical error of having me move into her apartment; leaving was easy. I packed while she was away. Upon her return, we had a short conversation centering on my ungratefulness, relationship sloth and general uncaring. Agreeing seemed the quickest course out the front door.

It had been several weeks since the end of my Marie Period and I had relaxed into a predictable routine. Morning coffee at Java Me, work, an early evening run and dinner with a “B” movie at home. I wasn’t unhappy. On the occasions I missed Marie, I reminded myself of the severe trouncing I’d received on our parting and all was well again. I developed a mantra in times of need: “What’s next will be brilliant.” Of that I became certain.

The crowd at Java Me on any given morning included ten or twelve regulars and about half as many irregulars. I had over-studied the regulars. They became a part of the coffee shop, much like the artwork on the walls, which I now barely noticed. The irregulars offered something else.

I’m a believer in generalization. That guy’s in his mid-forties, mildly over-weight, completely connected to his phone. From there I can easily slip him into a useful category. College educated, self-absorbed, but not truly important. Indulgent and unduly proud. A mid-level guy in every way. Even if I met him, I’d keep the generalization until he proved differently.

Then she walked in and suddenly I was lost. I’d never seen anything like her. To put it bluntly, she was beautiful. I couldn’t generalize because she had no peers. Straw colored, disheveled curls framed arrogant cheek bones. Her skin was so vivid as to be bright. Her lips seemed in a perpetual pout. Heads turned paying tribute to her complete beauty. Sandals, tight jeans and an understated blouse served her “I care, but not that much” attitude.

After ordering she stood off to the side casually leaning against the wall, but nothing she did seemed casual. Instead, calculated, carefully considered to fortify an image. The guy behind the counter called out “Angie” and she glided to him, hand extended. Her hand missed the coffee cup because he was preoccupied with her beauty. They both laughed. His uncomfortable, as if caught doing something embarrassing, hers practiced as if this kind of thing happened often. She corrected him, “Angelique.” He could only nod assent.

She sat alone at one of the small round tables. For a moment I contemplated moving to join her but couldn’t imagine what I’d say. It would have to be original and funny. Something amazingly unique because there would be no redo. I only realized I was staring when she locked in on me. Nothing seemed to embarrass her. She maintained contact far longer than I found possible. I looked away; all thoughts of my epic intro turned to ashes. She finished her coffee and rose tossing her cup into the trash with an athletic flourish. I watched her leave and was certain she glanced back, renewing my resolution to make Angelique mine.

But Angelique was not a regular. Several days passed and I began to fret our only shared moments would all be in the past. I continued showing up, a less promising strategy with each passing day. She appeared a week later. I had saved an image. She did not disappoint. Even the coffee guy remembered. He called out “Angelique” with a voice straining as if trying to reach an unassailable note.

She thanked him and carried her coffee to the same table as last time. I was prepared. I’d had a week to practice my patter. I rose but before I could take even a single step, he strode to her table and as she looked up, he kissed her lightly and said something I could not hear.  I quickly sat. Stunned, I watched as she laughed (Angelique would never giggle). He moved to the counter to order and I was left staring.

The next moment will forever be embroidered into my memory. Angelique too was staring, but not at him. Her gaze was on me. Her eyes looked directly into and through mine. A penetrating moment. Her expression could only be described as knowing. A secret shared. The moment was broken on his return. He sat opposite Angelique, such that all I saw was his back.

Their conversation was active, engaged and mutual. He slid his hand over hers and they remained in an informal embrace until he looked at the clock and excused himself. I hoped Angelique would at least glance my way. But she did not. Instead she pulled a pen and small blue sticky note pad from her purse and jotted about something which must have been important because she wrote a letter or two, hesitated and repeated several times.

He returned to the table and she began to rise. As they turned to leave my desire met a new resolve. I’d had my last cup of coffee at Java Me. This would be torture. It was time to face the truth, I would never be with Angelique. For me, our shared moment would endure, but it was all we would ever have. All I would ever have.

I pushed back my chair, flipped my cup into a nearby trash can and made what would be my last exit from Java Me. I was so preoccupied with regret, I nearly missed the folded blue sticky note lying near the door. I picked it up, carefully separated the glued ends to find not a single word. All that was written were ten numbers. 

Bob

A Short Story

Time, distance, and life’s evolutions corrupt friendships. Few relationships survive a lifetime of tidal movement. Bob and I were an exception.

Bob came into my life when I was seven years old living in a remote suburb of the San Fernando Valley.  We moved during the hot thick of summer (the other seasons only make cameo appearances). Our house was the first built in a subdivision. My neighbors on all sides for almost a mile were dirt pads, slightly tiered, fully graded; the desolation broken at distant, irregular intervals by the bleached bones of abandoned framing. I didn’t know it then, but we bought and built at the precise beginning of the crash.

Bob lived two subdivisions over in what had to be a photocopy of our project. He too was neighborless. When I first found Bob, he was a little shorter than I, not quite as agile, but far more adventurous. He was appalled by the training wheels on my bike. Bob demanded a change. I will always remember the conversation with my dad.

“I’m ready to take the training wheels off my bike.”

This took dad by surprise, “I asked you last week and you said, ‘not yet’”.

“But I’m ready now. Bob isn’t using training wheels and he said I should have gotten rid of them a long time ago.”

“You’re sure?”

“Come on dad; Bob says I gotta do it!”

Bob was right. A breeze. We celebrated that night by having Bob over for dinner. Spaghetti. Bob and my favorite.

We played together everyday that summer. I would walk out the door after breakfast, return for a quick grilled cheese sandwich at lunch and be out barefoot on the hot asphalt until dinner. At first my mom complained. She didn’t want me to wander, so I had a five-lot limit. Fortunately, Bob’s parents weren’t as strict. He always came to me. We made dirt slopes for our bikes and skateboard ramps out of scavengered wood from the deserted houses.  At first, Bob was much more aggressive, but I kept up. Then, I more than kept up. We became mobile and mom relented a little on the radius of my confinement.

House sales revived and kids moved into the neighborhood. I made new friends and I think Bob became a little jealous. I only saw him sporadically for the longest time. He never played with the other kids. I had a rough time in junior high and Bob must have sensed as much. He was around a lot more. We talked and he helped me through what was mostly feelings of not belonging.

Of course, I always sort of knew Bob was imaginary. But by junior high, certainty had overcome a coursing desire that Bob be real. Bob’s dedication put him in good stead through high school and college. Early on I’d done my research. Turns out most kids have imaginary friends. They help through times of isolation, clumsiness or quite simply the pains of youth. I loved the way Bob challenged me as much as his consistency and devotion.

Maybe Bob would have left me had junior high not been so challenging. I was chubby and clumsy enough to be a target. Staying away from most everyone seemed to work, especially since Bob agreed the others weren’t worth the worry.

High school was better. I grew five inches one summer and discovered enough hand-eye coordination to earn a spot on the football team. Academically, a switch flipped. I could never explain it, but my grades went from B’s to A’s sending my confidence out the roof. Turns out girls like guys who are confident. I had no idea.

Bob stuck with me and I with him. Most people talk to themselves. Some more than others. I didn’t have to because I had Bob and he knew me like no one else. And Bob was no roll-over. We’d argue. He’d push, always reminding me that he’d known me almost as long as I’d known myself. It took a long time, well after graduation from college before I realized Bob was the guy I wanted to be. Everybody has an opinion on everything. I know that to be true. Some opinions are weaker, some less well thought out, but they’re all there. Bob was no different and he freely shared with me.

Jenny was where the whole thing came to a collision. Girl friends in high school didn’t last much more than a month or two. I never spent enough time with anyone for them to discover Bob. He was careful and I was grateful. Imaginary friends in high school might not be so common. But I could find no reason to dismiss Bob. He was perfect. Both challenging and comforting.

Jenny was senior year of college. Neither of us contemplated grad school. Her parents lived in Florida. If we didn’t do something soon a long-distance relationship loomed and neither of us believed that would work well.

I was in my room, studying for my last set of finals. College would end in a week. I was massively confused and not at all surprised when Bob walked in and sat on the bed. On reflection, talking to Bob with my back to the door might have intentionally invited catastrophe.

Bob and I debated for twenty minutes. One might have guessed he was trying to persuade me to let Jenny go back to Florida. Bob and I would have some good times after graduation. But it was the opposite. Bob felt Jenny was the “one”.

“I’m just not sure. This is a huge decision. I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You remember getting rid of the training wheels?”

“Yeah.”

“You weren’t ready for that either.”

“But how do I know Jenny’s the one. Maybe I should wait.”

From behind me I heard, “Maybe you should.”

Jenny stood there, starring at me with a mix of anger and confusion.

“Who are you talking to?”

I hesitated, “Myself?”

“No. No you’re not. I’m not an idiot. You’re having a conversation. I can tell what a conversation sounds like. Don’t lie to me.”

This was not going to be easy or comfortable.

“I have this friend. Bob. He’s kind of, you know, not there.”

She helped, “You mean imaginary.”

“To you maybe, but real to me. He’s been with me since I was seven.”

“Still imaginary.”

“Okay, imaginary. But still important and definitely a fan of yours.”

Jenny stood rock solid still, I could see in her eyes she was parsing every word she would utter.

Slowly, she began, “I’m ready to commit to you, but only to you. I can’t be part of an ethereal threesome. I appreciate Bob’s support, but he’s got to be gone. You’re old enough to make your own calls. I’ve got to know before graduation.”

She spun and left. I sat there quietly.

Not Bob’s strength, “She’s right partner; I think this is it.”

Even though outvoted two to one, it took several days for me to decide.

As we were driving away from campus, the real world and all it’s challenges ahead, I knew I’d decided well, but the weight of the future pressed on the silence in the car.

I needed support, “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“Have I ever?”

“No Bob, never.”

Alone Together

A Short Story

“We’re all alone in this together!” or so Alexa proclaimed. She called it a public service announcement. The thing about oxymorons is they’re never accurate, rarely helpful, just clearly confusing. It had only been two weeks since social isolation had been “suggested”. Read “mandated”. But it felt like a 1,000 days. My girlfriend, Julie, and I decided to ride it out together. We’d been cohabitating for a whole week when the edict came down. It’s my 650 square foot San Francisco apartment; what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t kick her out. Where would she go? We’d been dating for 9 months; this would work out fine. A test run for marriage. Or so she kept telling me.

At first it was great. Then good. Then okay. I kept telling myself it was better than being alone.  In the beginning, there was the novelty. We knew this would be a short internment. We were massively cautious. Always soliciting the other’s input.

“Alright if I watch TV?”

“Sure.”

“Volume okay?”

“Sure.”

“Want to join me?”

“HGTV. No I’ll just go read.”

Then we seemed to become a little less concerned. A little edgy. The news didn’t help. Famous faces locked up in their 10,000 square foot mansions with pools and fancy kitchens. Sports personalities sharing their opinions and our anxieties. Just after they’d worked out in their private gyms, assuring us they’d be ready when their seasons began.

“I’m going to watch TV.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you go read?”

“Sure.”

Then every red, Southern state set its people free. Not California. We had a ten-step program developed by eggheads working out of sanitized labs in undisclosed locations. By the Summer of 2021 we’d be able to do most everything we wanted. Wearing masks and keeping six feet between us and the next guy.

“Can you please leave me alone so I can watch TV?”

“Sure.”

It had become rather dicey. We realized the quality of our communications was approaching zero at a logarithmic rate. We needed a solution other than homicide/suicide. I searched, at first just mentally, but drawing a huge zero, I began pacing all 650 square feet until I stepped on the answer. I’d been “Zooming” with my niece using hand puppets purchased on Amazon. The red, green, and yellow toucan and the gray and white rabbit were my favorites. I swept them from the floor and cautiously approached Julie.

Reaching out, a little afraid of being bit, I offered her the rabbit.

“What’s this?”

“A hand puppet.”

“Really?” Sarcasm, I think.

“I thought maybe we could use them to talk to each other. Just a little. Something fun. A change of pace.”

She gave me the “Are you an idiot?” look, which she had practiced to near perfection.

“Please.”

Julie slipped her hand inside the rabbit, assumed a falsetto and asked, “What now? But she was actually smiling. Puppets are fun. And surprisingly liberating.

She continued, “There’s some things I’ve been wanting to tell you. You’re sloppy. You play the TV too loud. You snore. You can’t cook. Wow, that felt good.” The rabbit, now Rabbit, bounced on her hand.

I shoved on the toucan. “You’re not exactly perfect. The bathroom, oh my god. You move your lips when you read. Maybe a little less perfume in 650 square feet.”

We looked at each other and laughed. We felt good. Rabbit and Toucan allowed us a much-needed release. We vowed to pull them out whenever needed. We didn’t need them much. At first.

A few days later, I was sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal only to find Rabbit grab the bowl and slide it away. Spoon in hand, I faced what I assumed was an angry Rabbit, even if her expression had not changed in the slightest.

“You do know the toilet seat can be put down after use?” Phrased as a question, but much more rhetorical.

How could I argue with Rabbit? I simply nodded.

Then it began. Rabbit and Toucan became more vocal and forceful, Julie and I slipped into the background. I didn’t realize how far things had gotten until dinner about 2 weeks after R & T first emerged.

Eating with her left hand, Julie sported Rabbit on her right. I expected a good and true reaming but was surprised.

“How was your day?”

“You don’t know? You were with me all day.”

“I need you to talk to me. How was your day?”

“Okay.”

“Maybe Toucan has more to say.”

I considered arguing, thought better of it, and got up to bring Toucan to the table. I sat there fork in my left hand, Toucan on the other. After 20 minutes I was appalled and surprised to discover Julie was spot on. The conversation was sterling. Rabbit and Toucan could hit any topic, express any opinion, argue, debate, consol. They spoke with authority, listened carefully, and adapted flawlessly. However, the more Rabbit and Toucan conversed, the less Julie and I talked. Rabbit and Toucan became more assertive.

“Toucan, when somethings going well you don’t just toss it away. You use it more, not less.”

“I agree Rabbit, but we’ve got to give them some space of their own.”

“I’m not invested in the bedroom. How about you?”

“Look at me. What do you think?”

“Sarcasm again. Not necessary.”

“I know, it’s just sometimes … I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, and I agree. We give them the bedroom.”

“And the bathroom. I don’t want the bathroom.”

“Absolutely.”

And that’s the way it stayed. I don’t know how long this will last, but Julie, Toucan, Rabbit, and I are doing quite well. Time for bed. As we did each night, we propped up Toucan and Rabbit next to each other with a little cushion at their backs. I turned out the lights and hopped into bed. Julie was already asleep, and I was only seconds behind.

“Good night Toucan.”

“And a good night to you Rabbit.”

Of Trump, Sanders, Participation Awards and Montgomery Gentry

Just an Opinion

There exists today a fairly recent trend slamming the “Participation Award”.  This is the trophy given for showing up.  Customarily, it’s a chunk of wood or a piece of rock with a brass plaque proclaiming the recipient to be a “Participant”.  Most will feature a golden plastic action figure depicting the participant’s sport.

The standard pabulum being spooned out by the “exceptional” is the Participation Award recognizes nothing.  No grand achievement, no records, no championship.  The participant is told she’s great for just being there.  These complaints almost universally come from someone who has already enjoyed their 15 minutes of fame (or much more).  Movie producers, actors, journalists, pundits.  They are annoyed the Participation Award dilutes and deludes.   The “real” trophies somehow become less important and the recipients of the PA somehow believe they are better than their reality.

The band Montgomery Gentry has a song titled “That’s Something to be Proud Of”. These are some of the lyrics:

You don't need to make a million
Just be thankful to be workin'
If you're doing what you're able
And putting food there on the table
And providing for the family that you love
That's something to be proud of
And if all you ever really do is the best you can
Well, you did it man

I wonder how many of us would disagree?  I love Country Music.  So many complicated things said so simply.  There should be a huge pat on the back for every person that works hard, takes care of her family and raises kids that will do the same.  That’s a Participation Award and something to be proud of.

I have coached over 400 kids.  Not all were champions, not many won individual awards.  Only one went on to professional sports.  But, with less than a half-dozen exceptions, every one showed up, worked hard, played hard and respected their teammates and the game.  I will argue that’s life training.  I will argue we are making a mistake not respecting and recognizing this as an achievement.

Which brings me to Trump and Sanders.  You know all those people who received Participation Awards and are now being told they didn’t deserve a trophy?  The people we shuffle off into the corner while we pat the backs of actors, athletes and pundits?  Who do you think is standing up lifting their Participation Awards in the air with their left hand while voting with their right?  Maybe it’s time for a little recognition for hard work and taking care of business.  Or maybe it’s too late.