Nostalgia

I've been reading My Name Is Memory by Ann Brashares.  The main character, Daniel, is a man who has lived several lives but unlike most souls, Daniel remembers his past lives.  At one point he remarks that there are several "firsts" that he wishes he could experience for the first time all over again.

Remember the first time you ever ate a peach?  The soft sweetness crushed between your teeth, the delicious juice running down your chin?

Remember the first time you "discovered" the music of one of your favorite bands?  Hearing those magical notes for the first time, those lyrics that seemed to speak directly to you that made you feel like you weren't alone in your experiences, that other people understood and they'd even had the courtesy to put their feelings and YOURS to music?

As we grow older our opportunities for "first times" grow fewer and farther between.  What once was fresh, new, and exciting grows old, mundane.  But we take comfort in what we know and maybe mundane isn't the best word, as we age, what once was new becomes a personal "tradition" of sorts.  The "old" becomes a reminder of what it was like to experience something for the first time.

I once read that nostalgia is a sentimental yearning for the past.  At first that seems like an appropriate definition, but if you think about it a little deeper, is it really?  Isn't nostalgia more a yearning to be able to experience your favorite things for the first time all over again?  It's not that you want to go back to the way things used to be.  You want to experience the joy and euphoria of your "firsts" all over again because as good as they can be, your seconds, thirds, and fourths never really match your firsts.

I was reminded of this earlier today as an old favorite song of mine came up on one of my playlists.  It had been awhile since I'd heard it.  It reminded me of the joy I'd felt the first time I'd heard the song.  A smile crossed my face, but enjoyable as it was, the newness of it was gone.  It didn't make me want to go back to how things were when I had first heard the song, it just made me want to "feel" the song for the first time all over again.

Once upon a time, not even that long ago, I actually wished I could go back to the way things were.  However, with life experience comes wisdom and the passage of time has brought me the realization that I don't want to go back to the way things were.  I've learned so much and value the experiences I've had far too much to want to go back to "the way it was," that nostalgic tugging I often feel isn't a desire to go back and replay life's greatest hits, it's that longing to "re-feel" my firsts.

Smooth Criminal

The recent guilty verdict of Dr. Conrad Murray has given me reason to pause... Not so much the verdict itself (which was and is just), but the public reaction to it.

Seemingly getting lost in the mix is Jackson's own culpability in his untimely demise.  Yes Murray was a well-paid and willing accomplice, but Jackson knew what he was doing, he knew it was wrong, and despite paying a doctor to assist him in his rather posh drug habit, he did bring it upon himself.  Murray, while guilty, was an accomplice and not the murderer that many Jackson fans paint him to be.

What bothers me about the reaction is the perpetuation of the buck-passing, "it's always someone else's fault" mentality.  In the end no one "won" this case and the unfortunate biggest loser in this case was any semblance of personal accountability.

Jackson was largely martyred in his passing for the immense talent he showed in life.  The voices condemning his actions, his own hand in his demise were muted if not silenced by the voices that lifted his legend onto pedestals at the expense of any semblance of Jackson's accountability for the actions that led to his death.

And now those same voices are cheering his "murderer"... While it's good that Murray is being held accountable for his role Jackson's passing, referring to him as a "murderer" is an insult to personal accountability.  Jackson was his own murderer... Murray just provided the means and "supervision" that allowed MJ to commit his crime.

The Time Machine

I own a time machine.  It's small enough to fit in my pocket (although large enough to prompt people to ask me, "Is that a time machine in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?").  The time machine is in the form of a portable hard drive that has tens of thousands of songs on it, many of them have memories attached to them.

Today as I was busy at work wrapping up a project that fell on my lap yesterday afternoon that had a deadline of EOB today, I found myself thrust back to my freshman year of college.

I spent most of my formative early years in the eighties.  I watched all of my siblings get married in that decade, not to mention many of my nieces and nephews were also born in that decade.  Heck, I'm closer in age to most of them than I am to my own siblings.

I never bought into the whole grunge thing.  I mean I appreciated that that kind of music and its lyrics appealed and spoke to many of my peers but it fell rather flat with me.  For a little over half of the nineties, I was in denial that the eighties were over.  My freshman year of college I had reached such a state of denial that I was referring to the year as nineteen-eighty-sixteen (the denial came on much stronger my second semester than it had been my first semester).

I was a college radio DJ and much of the music I played had been popular in the eighties or it was more recent music of bands who had been far more popular in the eighties than they were in the nineties.

So today when Johnny Hates Jazz's Shattered Dreams started playing it was nineteen-eighty-sixteen all over again.  I could see myself dressing in 80s fashion, still listening to the music of that era, and yearning for reruns of Family Ties, The Cosby Show, Growing Pains, ALF, Amazing Stories, Cheers, and even some of the lesser known shows of that era: The Greatest American Hero and Voyagers (the latter of which was my favorite show when I was in first grade...  no wonder years later I ended up getting my BA in History).

Today's journey to the past kind of felt like a nested journey, I was taken back to an era when I felt a strong sense of nostalgia for an earlier era.  That being said I also felt a twinge of nostalgia for my brief spell in the late seventies, being a toddler watching Deney Terio on Dance Fever (I only have a few memories of my toddlerhood- being a fan of Dance Fever is one of them, and making my sister, Laurie, play her 8-track of Billy Joel's The Stranger whenever I wandered into her bedroom are probably the most vivid).

I don't know where this time machine will take me next, no matter "when" it takes me, it tends to leave a smile on my face.

The Adirondacks

As I prepare to make another pilgrimage out east to visit my family, I find myself reflecting on my ancestry.  I grew up in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains.  I also come from a family of outdoorsmen.  My maternal grandfather was an avid hunter and fisherman and one of my paternal great great grandfathers (via my paternal grandmother), Darius Merrill, settled and founded the village of Merrill near Chateaugay, NY and ran a resort, The Merrill House.  Darius son, Charles, chronicled the life and adventures of his father and family in serial form in The Malone Telegram in the 1930s.  My grandmother cut and saved her Uncle's clippings which my parents still have.  In 1974 an abridged version of The Old Guide's Story (as the compiler at the time was unable to locate all of the chapters of the story from when it was originally published in serial form) was compiled and published in hardcover book form.  A few years ago I was approached by a historian looking to re-publish The Old Guide's Story in its entirety (apparently from my parents clippings and from other sources the new compiler was able to find the whole story).  He'd found some of my Internet inquiries of my Merrill ancestors and asked if I had any old photos or documents he could borrow and scan to include in the re-printing.  I put him in touch with my parents who actually did/do have photos and documents.

from L to R: Watson (g grandfather), Darius (gg grandfather), Shep, Minnie (standing behind Shep) Sarah Wallbridge Merrill (gg grandmother), & Charles Merrill

While it's probably little surprise that I never knew my great great grandfather, Darius. I also never knew my great grandfather, Watson. My great-grandparents died within months of each other in 1918 (my great-grandmother, Frankie, in May of that year-- Watson in August). The story my grandmother (who was only 15 when her parents died) used to tell was that her father had died of a broken heart after losing the only woman he had ever loved a few months before. After his younger brother, Shep, had sold the Merrill House in 1908. Watson had taken to farming and ended his days as a guide and hotelier.

Watson Merrill

Sadly in more recent research I've learned that my great grandmother, Frankie Davis, lost her own mother when she was only 9 years old. My great great grandmother, Adeline Kent Davis, died in February 1874 at age 29 from what I'm assuming were complications in childbirth.  My great grandmother, Frankie, had a younger brother, Ada, who was born on January 27, 1874.  Ada died in infancy at 13 days old-- the same day as his mother, Adeline.  Adeline's own parents Silas & Naomi (Lewis) Kent were some of the original settlers of Ellenburg, NY.

Frankie & Watson

Switching over to my mother's side of the family.  My grandparents bought a home on a decent sized plot of land within the Adirondack State Park prior to starting a family.  In the early years of Prohibition my grandfather would make his own hooch (see also "courage lubricant", moonshine, etc.) deep in the woods of their property.  He also kept a sugar shack for making Maple syrup from the Maple trees on his property.  My grandfather died when I was only about 7.  I do remember sitting in his lap as a young boy.  I remember every morning for breakfast he'd have eggs & bacon before heading into the woods for the day.  But oddly enough what I remember most about him was his smell.  He smelled of the great outdoors (in a good way) and I still remember that his chair retained that "great outdoors" fragrance of his years after he passed away.  My grandmother used to tell me that she didn't mind him making his hooch in the woods during Prohibition for his own personal consumption.  She was however adamantly against him selling his "Adirondack Ale" to others as she didn't feel that it was worth the risk or threat of possible incarceration.  My mother was born a couple years after Prohibition ended, her younger sister Marilyn a couple of years after her, and then her youngest sister about 5 years after Marilyn.  Sadly Marilyn died of Cancer at age 2 when my mom was only 4 years old.  My grandmother taught in a one room schoolhouse in the mountains.  In one room she taught children in grades 1-8.  After completing 8 years of matriculation in the mountains the students then had to venture into town for their final 4 years at Franklin Academy.  By the time I was in school a new high school had been built and the building that had housed the high school had been converted to a Middle School (grades 6-8).

I left that area for college when I was 18.  I did move back for a few months here & there in the first few years since then but I left the area for good in March 2000.  Since then my return trips have been limited to a few visits.  But on those visits I feel that outdoorsman in me start to creep out again.  From the moment I breathe in the mountain air and drink in the beautiful scenery it's as if a switch flips.  They say you can't go home again, and they're right... But I'd counter that even long after you've moved away "home" stays with you.  It may lie dormant much of the time, but it's always "there."  And while "home" never fully comes back to me on these visits, enough of it comes to the surface to remind me of how much of me my background is still there and how much of "the 'dacks" is still in my blood.

Parenthood

Back in early May the writer's group I'm involved with met at Ballydoyle's Irish Pub in downtown Aurora.  Somehow the conversation shifted to the topic of parenthood.  All of us in attendance are/were married.  What I found interesting was that of the 6 of us-- 3 of us had opted to have children and the other 3 had not.

One of the things that came up were people who let their children's lives consume them.  We all know people like this.  They are our bright, energetic, interesting friends.  As soon as they have children, our friends disappear.  They cease to exist on their own terms and become extensions of their children.

There's nothing wrong with parents being active in the lives of their children.  They should be, but not at the expense of their identity and sense of self.  Admittedly some aspects of this conversation made me uncomfortable.  From the moment I became an uncle, just shy of 5 years old I knew I wanted to someday be a parent.  I've grown up with my nieces and nephews.  I babysat some of them, changed a few diapers, fed a few of them... all long before I was ever married, let alone before my own daughter was born.

While I don't want to lose my sense of self and don't believe I have, the moment my daughter was born all of the other aspects of what make me who I am faded into the background a bit.  That moment I'd been waiting for since I'd become an uncle for the first time all those years before was there and it exceded all of my wildest expectations.

I've attempted writing about parenthood in the past, I'm generally reluctant to do so though.  It's not that I don't like discussing that aspect of who I am it's more that I feel no matter how hard I try no words can do justice to what I feel and what I'm trying to describe.  It's almost ironic-- the one facet of my personality I feel is most important is the one that often leaves me at a loss for words. 

I also tend to consider myself a somewhat private person.  Yes I do share a considerable amount of information, opinions, tastes and what not-- but I inevitably have control over what I do and don't share and I know that I rarely break down that wall when I write.  There's a distance that I try to keep between myself and what I write whether it's on here, in my short stories, or in any of my other writing.  I sometimes wonder if the barriers, the degrees of seperation between myself and my writing keep my writing from being as good as it might otherwise be.  On a larger scale I wonder if those degrees of seperation keep me from being as good a "me" as I can be as I've come to realize I don't keep those barriers up merely in my writing I keep them up in my life. 

If asked why, I guess I do this because I believe we all have to keep a piece of us that is ours and ours alone it's that piece of us that keeps us from completely losing that sense of self.  Is it right or realistic to believe that the moment I open up that last bit of myself-- putting EVERYTHING on the table that I run the risk of someday losing that sense of self, that which makes me a unique individual?  Is it selfish to keep a small piece of my identity to myself?

"Woodswoman" Anne LaBastille has died

Several years ago when I flew home to my parents in NY state for Christmas I was looking over some of my grandmother's old books.  She had passed away the previous year.  One of the books jumped out at me, Woodswoman by Anne LaBastille.  While I wouldn't consider myself an environmentalist-- even within the loosest definition of the word-- there was something about the book that really spoke to me.  It might have been her self-imposed isolation.  Or perhaps it was that she was an Adirondack guide just as my great grandfather-- Watson Merrill, his brother Charles, and their father before them-- Darius had all been.  And on my mom's side-- my grandparents had lived within the wilderness of the Adirondack Park and my mother and her younger 2 sisters had been born there (not to mention I was born at a hospital located within the boundaries of the park as well).  At any rate Ms. LaBastille helped me better understand and appreciate my recent ancestors and their ties to and love of the beautiful Adirondack Mountains.

So I read Woodswoman and a few years later I even got around to reading the sequels (II, III, & IIII.  Shouldn't that have been "IV"- I digress).  I was sad to learn, shortly after completing the series that Ms. LaBastille had been forced to forfeit her lifestyle with the onset of Alzheimer's.  And today when reading the online edition of The Plattsburgh Press-Republican I learned that Ms. LaBastille had succumbed at age 75.

I was a bit annoyed by the write-up as it described a Woodswoman as being a "fictionalized account" of Ms. LaBastille's life @ "Black Bear Lake."  The only thing she "fictionalized" was the name of the lake that her camp was on and that was only done to preserve and protect the location of her camp and prevent unwanted visitors and/or interlopers.  She valued her privacy and that's something I understand and respect.  Ms. LaBastille will be missed and I only hope that her camp has ended up in kind and capable hands that will value and treasure the camp and Ms. LaBastille's contributions to the Adirondack Park with the respect they truly deserve.

Ginger 1998-2011

When I was a little boy, my grandparents had a Beagle.  Her name was Ginger.  Sadly, one day Ginger ran away and was never seen or heard from again.  My grandparents lived in the Adirondack State Park with plenty of wild terrain in which to get lost.  My grandmother maintained that she did see Ginger once in the back of a truck at a gas station.  My grandfather dismissed her claims that the Beagle was Ginger and he may or may not have been right.  Given their location, there were several possible explanations for why Ginger never returned.

A few years after Ginger's disappearance my grandfather passed away and my grandmother moved in with my parents and I.  We did get an Airedale puppy when I was about ten or eleven but it turned out I was allergic to her so she was given away to a cousin.

Fast forward to 1998... My siblings and I pooled our resources and gave my grandmother a Beagle puppy for her 90th birthday.  After my grandmother's passing in 2001, my parents kept Ginger as their own.

When they went to Florida for their winters, Ginger stayed with either my aunt or my brother and was picked up upon their return.  This past November due to my brother getting a new puppy last spring that Ginger didn't get along with, my parents left Ginger with a nice lady who took her in as one of her own.

This past weekend my parents received the sad news that Ginger passed away.  When my dad gave me the news on Monday night, it hit me harder than I thought it would.  I was in college when Ginger entered my grandmother's life and while I did return home briefly after college my contact with her was limited.  Perhaps it hit me so hard because she had been my grandmother's dog and had been a living connection to her.

It won't be the same visiting my parents and not hearing her claws gently tapping against the kitchen floor, howling to be let out, and still be a playful pup at heart even as her energy to do so dwindled with age.

Ginger with my daughter, Sami, summer 2010

Train wreck but will there be any survivors?

It's been suggested that there's a general lack of sympathy for the women that Charlie Sheen leaves in his wake, that they're viewed as "disposable women" or gold-diggers, etc. because of their backgrounds or professions.

There is truth there.  I believe the public that has been so enraptured by the circus of Charlie Sheen's life does show a general lack of sympathy for the women that Charlie Sheen has "used" and "discarded."  And evidence would indicate he certainly views those women as "disposable."

I do believe that many people likely do view the women as "disposable."  Where I part ways with the above logic, I don't believe for a second that the women in Mr. Sheen's life are viewed the way they are because of their backgrounds...  Of course the women in his life have those backgrounds-- those are the kind of women he goes out of his way to attract. 

I believe these women are viewed as disposable not because they're struggling actresses who appear to have latched on to a "bigger star" to help propel their own careers or porn stars, or anything of the like... These women are being viewed as disposable because they got involved with Charlie Sheen.  I believe the public would be just as unsympathetic to them if they were college professors, rocket scientists, or corporate executives. 

Given Charlie Sheen's history as an actor-- his reputation with the ladies is not new and his reputation is also well known.  That is to say any woman who chooses to get involved with him in the first place-- there's a bit of caveat emptor.  If you don't want to be burned, keep yourself out of the bonfire!  The lack of sympathy for these women is rooted in their not only avoiding the bonfire that lays waste to most of the women he has involved himself with but running into it headlong and staying in it long after they discover that "Hey, this fire's pretty hot!  Why is my skin bubbling?!"

I guess what it comes down to-- people tend to understand their own genders better than the opposite gender.  This is a phenomenon that happens with both genders: 

To any guys who are reading this how many of you have either ignored the warnings of your moms, sisters, female cousins, and/or friends and ended up getting burned by a girl/woman you were warned about by at least one of the women in your life or know of someone who has? 

And ladies, how many of you have ever been hurt by a guy whom your father, brother, grandfather, or some other male friend or relative has warned you about or know of someone who has?

What sets Charlie Sheen a bit a part in this regard is that not only do us guys realize the type of guy he is...  I'd argue most women do too... and I'd even go so far as to argue many of the women who might otherwise be duped by his charms were he not so well known understand what type of guy he is! 

"But I can change him!"

Ladies-- he's what?  48?  You can't teach an old dog, new tricks.  Your chance passed long ago.  You didn't get to him soon enough.  That window closed decades ago.

In the end I understand the media spectacle that is Sheen's life right now.  I understand the public fascination with it.  But I'm sick of the gaper delays already.  C'mon people, move along there's really nothing more to see here!

Fashion Plate laced with Salmonella (or Marriage, Maturity & Fashion Pt. II)

I've noticed a change as I've grown older.  I'm not sure if I wear my clothes "harder" than I used to or that it's a vast conspiracy of clothing manufacturers to make clothes of declining quality to ensure that we, the consumers, will need to replace them much more frequently.

Maybe age has clouded my perspective, but I seem to recall my clothes lasting longer than they do now.  Jeans that I could get 2 or 3 years out of before they'd need replacement due to holes wearing in the knees, I now consider myself lucky if I manage 8 to 10 months on a pair before I need to replace them.

So today I made my semi-regular Jeans pilgrimage to the nearest mall.  By the time I got to JC Penney it appeared they'd been picked clean of jeans in my size.  It might have been that my family & I were merely late to the DoorBuster sale and most of the jeans in my size had been picked clean or it may be that 32 x 32 jeans are a bit less common than I thought.

As I was looking through the piles and piles of jeans in various sizes I tried to picture the type of men who would be wearing them: the 36 x 29 -- the slight but loud extrovert with the Napoleon complex that makes himself the life of the party all the time (whether or not there actually is a party to be the life of).  Or the reverse, the Stan Laurel to our Napoleon's Oliver Hardy, the 29 x 36, a thin wiry Michael Richards meets Lyle Lovett looking gent with a similar hairdo to both of them.

I kept looking and while I did find some in my size they were not in a style that I would be caught dead in or they were in a style I liked, but it was a style that would lead to my death were my wife to catch me wearing them.  Either way, I felt my life was too steep a price to pay for them so I continued looking.  I found a pair of boot cut jeans that I liked and my wife found a pair she wanted me to try on.

I took my leave to the fitting room, my daughter calling out to me as I was trying on the jeans.  The pair I found, fit well and looked satisfactory on me-- as satisfactory as jeans purchased at JC Penney could be expected to look.  Then I tried on the pair my wife had found.  They were 32 x 32 and I noticed they were labelled as "Skinny Jeans."  I'd never tried a pair of these on before, let alone owned a pair.  As I inched them up my legs I wondered if my wife had forgotten to give me the jar of Crisco that would have allowed me to slide the jeans on with much greater ease.  I thought to myself, "32 x 32, my ass!"  I threw in the towel and pulled the jeans back off before they were even all the way on.  In addition to being entirely too tight to be comfortable, they made my legs look like a pair of dainty little twigs-- a look I was most certainly NOT going for.  If the muted laughter through of the studio audience on the other side of the 2 way mirror didn't tip me off, my wife's giggling upon my emergence from the fitting room certainly did.  She had never expected me to seriously consider the skinny jeans, she just wanted the good laugh that would result from seeing me in them.

Traditionally, I try clothes on and wear them out of the fitting room to get the thumbs up or thumbs down from my wife.  If the thumb is pointed down, I'm dispatched back into the fitting room where I'm met by a Siberian Tiger that has not eaten in 3 weeks.  If the thumb is pointed up the Tiger is on the other side of a glass partition happily eating the total combined contents of all the food from all the restaurants in the mall's food court.  This allows me to put my regular clothes back on without incident.

My wife was somewhat dismayed when I came out of the fitting room without having modeled any of the clothes for her.  I had somewhat foiled her little fashion joke but as I provided the details of the ordeal the skinny jeans had presented me I did get some giggles out of her and my daughter looked up at me from her stroller giggling and smiling as if she'd been in on the joke with my wife.

I also tried on a few swimsuits.  I had just purchased a new one last year and somehow it magically disappeared (likely to the same abyss where the mates to all my mismatched socks end up) on a trip out east to visit my family last summer.  This was rather tricky considering I had only worn the swimsuit once that whole week and it had been one of my first days there.

So, on my quest for a new swimsuit I settled on trying 3 different pairs.  An orange and white floral print, a blue/black/white floral print, and a plaid pair in light pastel colors.  The orange didn't work for me and the plaid pair gave me flashbacks to my days of "Florida Practice."  As I looked in the mirror I had the sudden urge to sign up for AARP membership and to request the senior discount on my purchase (but of course that discount only applies if I also get the matching polo shirt, knee socks and sandals that pull the whole outfit together).  It was a look that I could tell would work for me....  in about 30-40 years.  I needed a look that worked for me now, so I settled on the black/blue/white floral print board shorts.

As we were leaving the store my wife & I were both commenting that the quality of clothes sold at that particular establishment seems to have deteriorated over the last several years... either that or we'd become a bit more discerning in our taste than we had been in our youth.

Marriage, Maturity, and Fashion (Or How Marriage Saves Men from Themselves)

I once saw a quiz asking about fashion sense. One of the choices was, "fashion follows me." But I dare say, Fashion ran away from me screaming or perhaps it had cowered under its covers and was trembling in terror at the mere thought of me.


My wife & I were watching Modern Family this past Wednesday night.  There was a scene where Phil Dunphy (played by Ty Burrell) shows his wife, Claire (played by Julie Bowen) some embarrassing photos of his youth-- prior to meeting her and thanks her for saving him from himself.

The scene made me laugh, largely because of all the characters in any sitcoms I've ever seen, I can relate to Phil Dunphy better than any of them (my wife has said Phil Dunphy scares her because of how much he reminds her of me).  The scene also made me recall a similar sentiment expressed by John Birmingham and Dirk Flinthart in their humorous yet useful tome, How To Be a Man.

In fact, there's a theory that suggests that were it not for marriage most men would front up at the office in some variation of cum-stained, thread-worn tracky dacks* and an 'I'm with Stupid' T-shirt. -- How To Be a Man (Birmingham, Flinthart, p. 7)

One of my coworkers once suggested it might not be the best idea to let others know that I actually own such a book... on purpose (that is to say as opposed to receiving it as a gift or purchasing it ironically).  I'd counter that, unfortunately, in my generation there is a segment of our demographic that may be men biologically but maturity wise many are of my peers are in a prolonged adolescence. 

Truth be told, I extended my own adolescence into my mid-twenties.  But, in all fairness, I was a bit of a late bloomer and didn't really start to sow my wild oats until college.  So extending my adolescence into my mid-twenties, while not necessarily excusable, I would argue is somewhat understandable.   At the time I purchased the book I was still in my early to mid-twenties.  I'd highlighted the passages I had found to be either useful, humorous, or both.  The chapters on fashion and cooking/nutrition are actually quite interesting and informative but I doubt I'll ever need to put to use the knowledge of how to properly land a Jumbo Jet or execute a bootlegger turn (although stranger things have happened... knowing my luck I might someday have to execute a bootlegger turn with a Jumbo Jet). 

At the time I purchased the book I was involved in what I consider to have been my final "adolescent" relationship.  That is to say, I was seriously involved with a girl, but we were in that tricky and awkard stage of life where we hadn't quite shaken off the vestiges of our youth nor had we fully become acclimated to our relatively new "adult" status.  There was still that youthful innocence present but with that bubbling undercurrent of possibility that the relationship could evolve into something that might make us both more closely resemble the adults we were in the eyes of the law and of Mother Nature.

When the relationship ended after eight months I felt a bit knocked off my moorings and stuck in a bit of a rut and I was suddenly in a place where the book was useful to me.  Little did I know at the time how much the little nugget on marriage from the opening pages would ring true for me.

My fashion sense was non-existent.  While I never did "front up at the office" in "cum-stained, thread-worn tracky dacks and an 'I'm with Stupid' T-shirt" I did once show up for work at a retail job wearing an ensemble that prompted one of my coworkers to ask, "Florida practice?" (knee-socks & sandals with shorts and a polo... all I was missing to pull off the septugenarian Floridian snowbird motif was a pair of Blueblockers).  I did also willingly accept some of my then manager's hand-me-down clothes that he was passing along largely because he'd acquired some fashion sense and was in the process of shedding off the vestiges of his youth.  Luckily I was rescued from the indignity of mustard-yellow button fly jeans by the woman who later became my wife long before I ever actually wore them in public.  Somewhere out there is probably a homeless person wearing one of the cast-off puffy shirts from Seinfeld with my old mustard yellow button-flys  and he's probably pulling off the look far better than I ever could have hoped to.

When you add to that my theory on hairstyling was "economical/low-maintenance" causing me to go from the extreme of short spiked hair to a long thick head of hair (at times even resembling a mullet) before I'd get it trimmed back to the spartan almost military length I'd been at four to five months earlier... at the time of my last haircut.  The short 'do-- it works for a lot of guys.  Unfortunately, it did me no favors and served only to accentuate my ears giving me a look that suggested I'd had an ear transpant from a Ferengi.

While my fashion sense has improved substantially I still from time to time commit the ocassional fashion faux pas or sacrelige-- white after Labor Day, brown socks with black shoes (or vice versa), striped shirts with argyle sweaters, and outfits exhibiting colors insulting to nature, or silk shirts with leather vests parachute pants and aviator style sunglasses.  I could go on but I'm pretty sure you've got the idea.

But the days when I actually look good.  When I manage to put together a rather tasteful outfit please don't compliment me.  It's my wife.  It's her blood, sweat, tears, toil, and frustration that lifted me from my fashion abyss and magically made all the offensive clothing in my closet disappear only to reappear on racks at the nearest Goodwill store.  It's her I have to thank for saving me from myself.

*Tracky Dacks - (Aus. Slang) Tracksuit Pants

Looking back and looking forward too much can give you whiplash.

This time of year many bloggers, myself included, have in the past released detailed lists-- the best albums, movies, books, whatever of the year, the most defining moments etc. etc. 

For some reason I just haven't felt as compelled to do that this year as I have in years past.  There are albums that were released this year that I found to be enjoyable and worthy of mention on such a list were I to write one (oh okay, stop twisting!). 

5.  Yoso Elements: featuring former members of Yes, Toto, and even a Yes covers band.  Their music is more prog-rock than Asia or Toto but more accessible and pop-friendly than Yes. 
4.  Black Country Communion Black Country featuring Glenn Hughes (ex-Deep Purple), Joe Bonamassa, Derek Sherinian (ex-Dream Theater), and Jason Bonham.  While all of the songs are enjoyable they're all very similar.  Individually each song is thoroughly enjoyable, but trying to listen to the album as a whole can feel a bit repetitive.
3.  The Cat Empire Cinema Great Aussie party band with a horn section jazz/ska/pop.  Thoroughly enjoyable album but it still doesn't match up to the brilliance of their debut nor 2005's Two Shoes.
2.  Steve Lukather Alls Well That Ends Well:  Toto guitarist's most personal album since 1997's Luke.  It picks up right where 2008's Ever Changing Times leaves off.
1.  Steve Hackett Out of the Tunnel's Mouth: The first "perfect" album I've heard in a LONG time.  Easily Hackett's best solo album of his career thus far.  That's saying a lot as he's had some real beauties over the past few decades.

I did read books this year that I thoroughly enjoyed at the time I read them... but the one that stuck with me most (This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper) I've already written about. ("and that's all I have to say about that"- in my best Forrest Gump voice).


I know this is the time of year when people tend to take stock of their lives... but as Minnie Driver said in Grosse Point Blank, "Leave your livestock alone!"  People also tend to both reflect on the year that's passed and make plans/resolutions/promises to be broken about the year to come.  If you're a regular reader, you know I've already reflected on last year. 

For some reason this year I'm a bit more noncommital on any further of my traditional reflections of the past.  A few years ago the future was so bright I was wearing shades-- recently married, secure job, new home, the economy was looking good.  Then someone turned out the lights and I was stuck in my sunglasses at night.  When the lights came back on what I saw no longer resembled what I'd been seeing before.    This has left me with some reticence about going forward in life with my eyes holding a steady gaze in the rearview mirror, cell phone in one hand, razor in the other, while I steer with my knee and read the newspaper going 70 mph in bumper to bumper traffic. (phew... have to stop and catch my breath after so many metaphors, not to mention 80s song references in such a short span of time). 

As one who has traditionally been overly nostalgic I'm finding the luster of nostalgia wearing off.  Not sure whether it's from generally world weariness or if perhaps I've reached the top of my hill that so many of us get teased about being over after a certain age.  If it's the latter, I'm here a bit early.  I think I'll stick around and enjoy the view for a few years let others my age catch up so we can all go down the other side together.

Music is a warm blanket

This past weekend I was driving down the road, Chicago 17 blasting out of my car stereo. Next thing I knew I was eleven years old and "discovering" Chicago for the first time all over again. My life has changed substantially since then-- friends have come and gone, relatives have passed away, I've relocated nearly 900 miles away from where I grew up, been in love a few times, had my heart broken nearly as many, even managed to break a heart myself, gotten married, and now the latest turn on my life's journey-- fatherhood.


But in all that mileage of the twenty plus years of life since I initially "discovered" Chicago (back when my allowance started taking a sharp shift away from toys and towards music) they have been my beacon, my compass, and my warm blanket. It's that music from those early formative years of my life starting in my late "tweens" that has been my constant.

It's little wonder than when the chips are down and things aren't going well that I find tremendous comfort in their music-- especially those albums from the eighties that came out during those still innocent days of my youth.

This past weekend was no different. Without going into detail I've hit a bit of a rough patch and there are some days when it gets me down a bit more than others. So I popped in a CD that is much more an old friend to me than it is a mere piece of music. And, for a few minutes at least, I was a young carefree eleven year old and I was falling in love with that music for the first time all over again. And in spite of my troubles of late, I was able to find my smile again. My smile is also a friend, but one that has visited far less frequently of late. It was good to see him again.

The Fringes legitimize the middle

During the rather bitter 2004 Presidential election I recall reading what I considered to be a rather wise and somewhat non-partisan article.  Unfortunately, I forgot who wrote it and where it appeared (I believe it may have been The Wall St. Journal, which admittedly leans a bit to the right) but the writer stated that the acrimony that exists between those on the right and those on the left is largely due to those on the right-- whether they realize it or not-- having an air of moral superiority and those on the left having an air of intellectual superiority.

To put it a bit more bluntly it comes down to whatever those on the left say, the people on the right hear, "If you don't agree with me you're a stupid boorish cad.  I feel sorry for you, but it's okay I know what's best for you."  And no matter what people on the right say, many on the left just hear, "You are immoral heathen scum but we can help you save your soul."

I'd have to agree with the author of the article in that until we can get past our conceits and really admit we have those conceits about our own beliefs we won't be able to actually discuss WHY we believe what we believe.  We'll just keep getting stuck fighting over why our beliefs are right and those of the opposition are wrong. 

If people actually sat down and discussed respectfully and civilly the reasons and motivations behind their beliefs and why they have the beliefs they do we may be surprised to find a bit more common ground than we might otherwise have thought. 

One of the best teachers I ever had, a high school history teacher once said that the fringes legitimize the middle.  The trouble is that both parties have allowed the fringes to become the mouthpieces of their respective parties and thus created further division and acrimony.  I'd argue that most Americans are moderates.  Yes we lean a bit to the left here and a bit to the right there but for the most part our beliefs and ideas aren't too divergent from each other. 

The Articles of Confederation which predated our Constitution were rigid and in order to effect change the unanimous vote of representatives of all 13 states was required.  Our Constitution was born out of the failure of that rigidity.  It was born out of compromise. 

But now, guided largely by the rigid and unflinching voices of the extreme left and right our elected officials have largely forgotten the lost art of compromise.  In letting our own worst elements and most divisive voices guide us a general air of acrimony has festered and grown.  Yes, it is largely a product of the Internet which has allowed those on the fringes to gather and organize and thus amplify their voices.  But the fringes have to amplify their voices because they're in the minority.  Unfortunately this creates the false perception that they aren't the minority but the majority-- that these people hold the prevailing opinions of our two respective parties. And this false perception only feeds that acrimony and creates an ever growing ever more vicious cycle.

Story of a Life

One of my favorite songs is Harry Chapin's Story of a Life:

I can see myself it's a golden sunrise
Young boy open up your eyes
It's supposed to be your day.
Now off you go horizon bound
And you won't stop until you've found
Your own kind of way.

And the wind will whip your tousled hair,
The sun, the rain, the sweet despair,
Great tales of love and strife.
And somewhere on your path to glory
You will write your story of a life.

The first verses are a beautifully succinct summation of childhood and adolescence. We can relate because we've been "there." There's a youthful idealism and optimism to these opening verses.

And all the towns that you walk through
And all the people that you talk to
Sing you their songs.
And there are times you change your stride,
There are times you can't decide
Still you go on.

People pass in and out of our lives. Many friendships that in our youth and adolescence that we believe will last forever fade-- or as was said in the film St. Elmo's Fire: "Forever got a lot shorter somehow."

And then the young girls dance their gypsy tunes
And share the secrets of the moon
So soon you find a wife.
And though she sees your dreams go poorly
Still she joins your story of a life.

There's a bittersweetness to this verse. The loyalty of the one we choose to spend our life with even after our dreams have come and gone and the reality of adulthood sets in. Companionship ends up trumping our dreams, after all what good are our dreams if we don't have anyone to share them with? What good are life's success if we don't have anyone to celebrate them with? And while life's challenges can be tackled alone, it's always nice to have someone in our corner to cheer us on even when things aren't going the best.

So you settle down and the children come
And you find a place that you come from.
Your wandering is done.
And all your dreams of open spaces
You find in your children's faces
One by one.

Being a father now, this verse hits me harder than it ever had before. The dreams I once had for myself I now have for my daughter. Not that I want to live vicariously through her-- more that my focus has shifted from achieving my own dreams from helping her someday achieve hers.

And all the trips you know you missed
And all the lips you never kissed
Cut through you like a knife.
And now you see stretched out before thee
Just another story of a life.

Admittedly, I'm not quite "here" in my life yet. There are the trips I missed and wonder about and I do sometimes wonder how my life would be different had I ended up with someone else. But inevitably it's a mere curiosity and nothing more. I'm happy with the lips I still get to kiss that I don't need to kiss any more to make sure I've found the right set, I already know.

So what do you do now?
When she looks at you now?
You know those same old jokes all the jesters tell
You tell them to her now.
And all the same old songs all the minstrels sang
You sing 'em to her now.
But it don't matter anyhow
'Cause she knows by now.

As time passes and you spend your life with that special someone she comes to know your quirks, your jokes, your dreams and in some cases she comes to know you better than yourself.  And one of the miracles is when you realize that you love one another because of, not in spite of those quirks and flaws.

So every chance you take don't mean a thing.
What variations can you bring
To this shopworn melody.
And every year goes by like a tollin' bell.
It's battered merchandise you sell.
Not well, she can see.
And though she's heard it all a thousand times
Couched in your attempted rhymes
She'll march to your drum and fife.
But the question echoes up before me
Where's the magic story of a life?

These are the verses of my life not yet written for me. There's a bit of cynicism that I hope I'm able to escape when the verses for that stage of my life get written.

Now sometimes words can serve me well
Sometimes words can go to hell
For all that they do.
And for every dream that took me high
There's been a dream that's passed me by.
I know it's so true

Very few of us accomplish all of our dreams and I hope that when the time comes and I start taking stock of my life that there will be more "dreams that took me high" than "dreams that passed me by."

And I can see it clear out to the end
And I'll whisper to her now again
Because she shared my life.
For more than all the ghosts of glory
She makes up the story,
She's the only story
Of my life.

The song closes and puts a smile on my face. There was an episode of Family Ties where the parents, Steven and Elise are talking about how they planned to grow old and when it came to the end they'd just count off "1-2-3-Die" and go simultaneously. Rarely does it pan out this way but it's a sentiment my wife & I have shared since our relationship was still young, fresh, and new.

Consistent Rule Enforcement

As some (many?!) of you know I'm a big hockey fan. There's been a spell of dirty hits of late-- some which have resulted in punishment others which have not.

I have an almost zero tolerance for this kind of violence. Hockey is already a violent sport but even many of the more violent players at least confront one another by dropping their gloves and facing each other. Taking out players from behind is cowardly and shows a complete lack of discipline and class. I feel so strongly about this that the Detroit Red Wings are now one of my FORMER favorite teams. Why? Because they signed Todd Bertuzzi. Bertuzzi should not be in the NHL. A few years ago with the Vancouver Canucks he leveled Steve Moore from behind, paralyzing him and ending his career. Bertuzzi was suspended for the remainder of that season. The Red Wings signed Bertuzzi at one point and let him go only to resign him this past summer. He has no place in hockey as far as I'm concerned and it thoroughly annoys me that the Red Wings are overlooking his blatant and cowardly attack on Steve Moore.

I'm a Penguins fan-- so I'm especially peeved by the hit on the Boston Bruins Marc Savard by the Penguins Matt Cooke. I'm hoping that at the end of the season Cooke gets his walking papers.


This past Sunday Alexander Ovechkin, one of the most talented players in the NHL blindsided the Blackhawks Brian Campbell breaking his collarbone and a few of his ribs. He received a 5 minute major and a game misconduct (resulting in automatic ejection from the game) and a 2 game suspension (with forfeiture of pay).


For a first offense, I think 2 games is almost fair, but Ovechkin is a repeat offender-- this is NOT the first time he's blindsided a player-- heck he did it to Jaromir Jagr (of the Czech Republic) during the Olympics and actually got away with it because Jagr wasn't injured (or at least not seriously so).


And last night James Wisniewski leveled Brent Seabrook of the Chicago Blackhawks... Seabrook didn't even have the puck at the time of the hit. Wisniewski, like Ovechkin, is a repeat offender. His last infraction was last November.


The NHL needs to be stricter and more consistent in their enforcement of the rules and in the punishments handed down for infractions of those rules-- especially when the intent to injure is blatant and obvious. The lack of consistency is leading to a "wild west" style of on ice justice where there are retaliatory strikes ON the ice often because of players going unpunished off the ice for previous infractions. What makes this even more self-perpetuating is that many of these retaliatory strikes are against OTHER players on the team of the offending player-- players that had nothing to do with the dirty hit in the first place. It's even seeped down to sportswriters calling for retaliatory strikes. For example-- for tonight's Boston/Pittsburgh game many sportswriters in Boston are calling for the Bruins to attack Penguins star and captain, Sidney Crosby in retaliation for his teammate, Matt Cooke's hit on Marc Savard that went unpunished by the league... How does that make any sense? Attacking Crosby will only serve to perpetuate this chain of unnecessary violence.

*edit in* Cooke dropped his gloves and took a beating in tonight's game. Penguins won 3-0.

Also Wisniewski was suspended for 8 games for his hit on Brent Seabrook. The reason for the stiff penalty given by the league was that Seabrook did not have the puck at the time of the hit, Wisniewski left his feet (leaping for more/force weight on the hit), and Wisniewski is a repeat offender. This still leaves me scratching my head though-- Alexander Ovechkin also showed intent to injure, also left his feet, and also is a repeat offender but he only received 2 games suspension. Was/is this due to Ovie's "hardware" (a Hart trophy or two for being the league MVP?) If Wisniewski were a better star/bigger name would he have received a lesser suspension? If Ovechkin were less of a star/less of a marquee player would he have received a greater suspension?

Great Southern Land

I once had a discussion with a friend about having a "spiritual home"-- it's not necessarily the place where you were born or raised, nor is it necessarily anywhere that you've passed through on your life's journey. Personally, I'm not sure where my "spiritual home" is. For much of my life I thought it was Chicago-- but here I am living in the Chicago 'burbs and the sense of "home" I once felt for this area I find fading as time passes. The lustre has faded and I'm starting to feel a draw elsewhere...

Those who know me well know of my fascination with Australia-- their culture, their history, their music, their literature.

I'm not entirely sure where this fascination comes from, but I'd venture a guess that it's somehow tied to spending my most formative years in the eighties-- a time when there was a general interest and fascination in Australian culture and music. It was an era when Aussie bands like AC/DC, Little River Band, the Bee Gees, Men at Work, Crowded House, and INXS were starting to get airplay. Former Australian rules footballer, Mark "Jacko" Jackson, became a spokesman for Energizer batteries, the Crocodile Dundee films were big hits and even US sitcoms like The Facts of Life did a run of episodes about taking a trip to Australia.

I was still in diapers when Little River Band and the Bee Gees were starting to make a splash in the US. I was in kindergarten when Men at Work became popular. I remember the youngest of my older brothers-- the only of my siblings still living at home in the early eighties owned both Men at Work albums on cassette and I recall they were played frequently. My parents subscribed to the Disney Channel around 1984. One of my favorite shows was Five Mile Creek about an American woman who followed her husband to Australia in the 19th century and moves in with an Aussie woman running a small stagecoach stop in the Australian bush. I remember Michael Caton as Paddy Malone wearing his trademark derby. There was something about that show that spoke to me even at a young age. Incidentally the show also introduced a young Nicole Kidman to the world.

I believe I was in third or fourth grade when Crocodile Dundee came out and I was in fifth or sixth grade when Crocodile Dundee II was released. I was likely in the minority as, of the two of those films, I preferred the second over the first. Much more of it was set and filmed in Australia than the first. I preferred seeing people out of their element in Australia over seeing an Australian out of his element in Manhattan. When I was about 11 or 12 years old, INXS was starting to make a huge splash with their Kick album featuring their hits Need You Tonight and Never Tear Us Apart. My first celebrity crush was Aussie singer, Kylie Minogue with her hit cover of the classic The Locomotion.

My interest in Australia has carried over into adulthood. I've gone out of my way to get to know other Australian music-- stuff like The Cruel Sea, Dragon, Hunters & Collectors, Australian Crawl, James Reyne, Jimmy Barnes, Cold Chisel, Jo Jo Zep and the Falcons, Icehouse, Sherbet, Skyhooks, Redgum, Paul Kelly, Mondo Rock, and Goanna (to name but a small handful). I've sought out Australian films like Two Hands, He Died With a Felafel In His Hand (mediocre movie based on an excellent book of the same name by John Birmingham), Walkabout, Chopper, Strictly Ballroom, The Castle, Rabbit-Proof Fence, Ned Kelly (the most recent version with Heath Ledger) and Romulus My Father to name but a handful. And heck I've even watched every single episode of Kath & Kim (we Americans attempted to remake that one, it was an unmitigated disaster without the comic sensibilities and timing of Gina Riley & Jane Turner).

I've even read a decent chunk of Robert Hughes The Fatal Shore: The Epic of Australia's Founding, all of John Birmingham's He Died With a Felafel In His Hand, and the late A.B. Facey's A Fortunate Life.

But I don't think this fascination with Australia can solely be attributed to a period of my life when there was a swell in Australiana here in the United States. There's something in me that tells me this runs much deeper--an unseen but rather consuming force drawing me to the Great Southern Land. And at the same time there's something telling me that once I go there, I won't want to return.

Crazy Old Uncle Pat...

As many of you know, I'm a self-confessed conservative. And one of my fellow conservatives-- a very visible and vocal conservative no less said some rather abhorrent things the other day:

“They (Haitians) were under the heel of the French…and they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said ‘We will serve you’…and so, the devil said ‘Okay, it’s a deal’ and kicked the French out”, “They need to have…a great turning to God,”

I just want to turn this on its head a bit. Lets look at liberals and conservatives as two families. Pat Robertson is that crazy old uncle that spouts off all manner of nonsense but most of us in his family either humor him or just roll our eyes and ignore him. He doesn't shock the rest of us in the family any more as we've come to expect his kookiness. Some of us even understand his kooky logic (but keep in mind "understanding" and "agreeing with" are two VERY different creatures entirely-- as in "Uncle Pat, I understand where you're coming from but I still consider what you're saying to be bat guano craziness!")

On the other hand, those outside the family, those Liberals over on the left side of the street aren't used to Crazy Old Uncle Pat like those of us in his family are. And because he's in such a high profile position some of our neighbors over on the left side of the street might get the idea that crazy old Uncle Pat is speaking for the whole family when he utters his nonsense.

The moral of the story is... consider the source.

Could pistachios be considered "health nuts" or does that only refer to fitness junkies?

Every year my company does this Body Overhaul Challenge to try to help people who are trying to lose weight. People either choose teams or are put on teams with similar weight loss goals. Last year about this time I was about 10 lbs. overweight so I decided to participate. By the end of the program I'd thrown in the towel. Somehow, I'd not only managed to not lose any weight... I'd actually somehow GAINED weight. By the time the program ended I was almost 20 lbs. overweight... about 5-7 lbs. HEAVIER than when I started. ACK!

Since the program ended (last April or so), I have buckled down and started eating smarter (reducing portion sizes, snacking less frequently, etc.) and this year I'm actually only about 2-4 lbs. from my target weight (the ideal weight for a person of my height). So between April and January I not only managed to lose the 5-7 lbs. I'd gained on the program last year, I also lost most of the weight I was trying to lose in the first place.

Go figure!

That being said I do still want to maintain my healthy weight and diet and I'd like to build some strength. My triglycerides are traditionally high and my good cholesterol is too low. Since my diet is much closer to how it should be that leaves exercise as the best solution to get my triglycerides and good cholesterol back where they need to be.

(PS: A serious note regarding the title of this post... some nuts actually do contain a chemical that act as an appetite suppresant... Technically almonds could be considered "health nuts" as I've read that they carry traditionally higher amounts of that chemical than other nuts. That being said eating too many nuts isn't good for you either. So if you want to use nuts as an appetite supressant, stick to the recommended serving sizes listed on the packages)

Attack of the Killer Bran Muffin

Yesterday before I left for work, I snarfed down a bran muffin from my wife's most recent batch. Before I even left for work there was something rotten in Denmark (if my stomach can be described as Denmark in any way shape or form). Initially, I ignored it. I figured I could soldier through the day and whatever it was would pass. As time passed I grew increasingly less comfortable with the proposition of "toughing it out."

That slight discomfort grew, my skin developed a rather ghostly and sickly pallor and I decided to throw in the towel and head home early.

My boss took one look at me and asked if I was okay to drive home. I replied that thankfully with such a short commute, that shouldn't be an issue.

Unfortunately, the traffic Gods were conspiring against me. It seemed every traffic light I came to had just turned red, forcing me to wait through the entire light cycle before being able to continue my journey home. Meanwhile my stomach was protesting more and more. The pain was near excrutiating, I was lightheaded and the nausea was laying seige to me.

Finally, I made it home. I literally staggered in the door. My wife took one look at me and her face fell. The pain was so intense I had trouble describing to my wife what exactly was going on. After removing my coat and shoes I literally staggered to the upstairs bathroom to re-enact a scene from The Exorcist.

Feeling quite drained from the ordeal I laid down for a nap. And luckily that allowed my body to fight off what was left off the demons that had plagued me all morning.

The Loss of a Generation

As some of you may know, I have a rather strong fascination with World War I. Due to technological changes, WWII was much better covered than WWI was. But the thing that was absolutely staggering about WWI was the death toll and the outcome. Compared to WWI the wars in Iraq & Afghanistan are quiet afternoons. There were some battles in WWI where 20,000 to 30,000 men died on the first day of the battle and over a million over the course of the entire battle. Some of the more deadly encounters in WWI include the Battle of Gallipoli and the Battle of the Somme.

The sad thing about WWI was that it was entirely needless and accomplished absolutely nothing other than the end of the German and Russian monarchies. With WWII we at least toppled a genocidal regime.

WWI quite literally wiped out an entire generation. As such I've taken quite an interest in reading about some of those who lost their lives during the "War to End All Wars." A couple of figures from WWI that I've taken an interest in are Oswald Chambers and Alan Seeger.

One of the top selling daily devotionals is Oswald Chambers' My Utmost For His Highest. I know not all of my readers are religious, or are as religious as I am, but don't worry I'm going in a different direction than that.

Chambers life was a short but remarkable one. Feeling the call, he applied to the war effort and was accepted as a YMCA Chaplain and was assigned to the ANZAC forces stationed in Egypt during WWI.


Most of the books attributed to him were never written. His wife was an exceptional stenographer who could take dictation at a rate of 150 words per minute. As a result many of his "books" are actually taken directly from his sermons. His spoken word.

Chambers was as remarkable in death as he was in life. Suffering excrutiating pain for three days he refused to seek medical attention because he felt it was more important that the doctors attend to wounded soldiers first. By the time he finally reluctantly relented and sought medical attention it was too late and he died of a ruptured appendix. He was only 43 years old. His widow, Gertrude "Biddy" Hobbs, spent the next 30 years compiling his lessons for publication.

From the published materials that exist of Chambers' lessons he comes across as very articulate. He strikes me as a man who not only talked the talk, but also walked the walk. I have a deep and abiding respect for people who back up their words and thoughts with actions (even those with whom I don't necessarily agree with).

There's an interesting biography of Chambers, Abandoned to God by David McCasland for those who would like to learn more about this intriguing individual.

Alan Seeger was a poet who enlisted with the French Foreign Legion during World War I. He was killed in battle in 1916 cheering on his fellow soldiers even after repeatedly being hit by machine gun fire. He was only 28. His most famous poem, I Have a Rendezvous With Death was published posthumously in 1917 (as were many of his other poems). A recurring theme in many of Seeger's poems was a desire to die young and gloriously. Interestingly poetry must have run in his family. His nephew is famous folk musician, Pete Seeger.

These are just two of, I'm guessing, countless examples of talented strong individuals who never lived long enough to have their talents fully realized. They left behind glimpses of legacies that only our imaginations can fully extrapolate. What songs and poems were we deprived of? What world leaders that might have been able to prevent other wars and further bloodshed?

All in all WWI marked a loss of innocence for the world. I'd argue the world left in the wake of the Great War has been a bit darker, more cynical, and worse for wear. But, of course, we'll never truly know. So we're left wondering what we missed out on. The cost was far beyond the millions of lives lost, it also included the contributions those millions of lives might have made to the world had they lived to have the opportunity.