HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

THE HICK FROM THE STICKS TURNS 50 SOMETHING

Okay, I didn't grow up in a trailer park (though I did grow up on an acre lot with new sewer hook up and our neighbor to the east was a farm with cows, hogs and stinky manure).

And I didn't grow up in New Orleans (though I wish I had been raised in such a culturally-rich and diverse city, rather than the homogeneous berg I grew up in, where there were only two African American children that I ever knew K-12, there were zero Hispanic Children and we were so WASPish that the Italian kids seemed as exotic as Martians).

I'd like to think I did okay for growing up in exurban isolation in far exurban Cleveland, Ohio.

I met my wonderful wife of three decades at Kent State (I was first in my family to go to college, she was third generation).

Worked at the newspaper in Columbus, Ohio and had so many great mentors and close friends, that I'm not going to single any out by name...for fear of leaving out someone who deserves mention.

In 2000, my wife Heidi and I went crazy.  We decided to leave the cold (and the bitter winters certainly had something to do with our madness) comfort of Upper Arlington and super stable jobs.

We landed in Miami. Bought a tumbled down, now nearly 100-year-old house in the heart of Little Havana.  Inherited thousands of abuelas, which great, save for the fact that I was to dumb to take my high school Spanish seriously, so when I landed in espanol-speaking Miami, I could only remember about 10 words to share with all those grandmas that adopted us.

My wife took advanced Spanish and was chatting with our neighbors like she grew up in Spain. (notice a pattern here, that my much more refined bride had a leg up on me in the worldliness department from the day we met?)

Slowly, but surely, going on two decades in Miami, with Little Havana house paid off next year, I have graduated to the proud station of speaking Spanish like a poorly-schooled five year old.

Verb tense, comes and goes. Accent...quite often not a part of my speech pattern. Espanol de la calle...instead of refined words -- yep, that's me.  Begging folks at the grocery to slow down so I can grasp the context, then struggle to understand -- that's old Esteban of Casa Gringo.

But I've had some fabulous mentors here too, especially when I worked for a big hearted Miami Commissioner who took a chance on hiring me.

Now I'm with a great Urban Design firm.  I'll leave the name out, since I've purposely not dropped any person or business names here -- again, for fear I'll leave a very deserving person off the list an unintentionally hurt their feelings.

Made some lifelong friends here in the subtropics, where we all take acting crazy to a high platform.

Even got converted from a dog person to a crazy cat lover, when a homeless Siamese adopted us.  Her name is Honey Bear and she sleeps on my bed. (Please, all you other cats who visit daily to eat and drink at our doorstep, please don't take offense when you read this and see Honey Bear's name, but not your own.

Got to travel to about half the Spanish speaking places on earth (feeling oh so slightly sophisticated, because I kinda have a tentative toe hold on the language, vs. every other place on the planet that doesn't speak English, where I am dumbfounded by Turkish, Portuguese and all of the above).

Through it all, my best friend on earth, Heidi, has grown with me and polished herself into one of the leading advocates for Universal Design, the Americans with Disabilities Act, Inclusive Mobility and everything else that makes live more livable for people with disabilities.

I could ramble on forever, but it's probably time to stop. I think I've already exceeded the typical length of a blog post.

So now, I've walked the globe for more than half a century. Hopefully, I can squeeze out at least another quarter century before they plant me six feet under.

Then again, it's been an adventure every day.  If I fate delivered me to the Big Sleep tomorrow, I could not argue that I have not led a very full, entertaining life,

A THANKSGIVING TALE: IN A TIME WHEN WE NEED LOVE AND PEACE TO TRUMP BIGOTRY AND HATE

ESSAY OF HOPE PARTS 1 & 2 PUT TOGETHER FOR SHARING

(in response to popular demand)

What I am thankful for this year:

Friendship, kindness, understanding, compassion, making amends.

I have thought about sharing this story for ages.

But the time seems right.

Bear with me.

More than a quarter century ago, I made the leap from obscure editorial assistant, fresh out of journalism school kid, to full-time pop music critic at a major newspaper.

I replaced the friend of the paper's TV & radio critic.

I was talented, but was very young, not very confident, not from the city I was working in and maybe overly sensitive.

The TV-radio guy was very talented, darn near as young as me, very confident, from the city the major newspaper was located in and very brash at the time.

He threw me more than a few digs, even though I barely knew him...and ironically, had a working friendship with his new bride -- because we both toiled in the same suburban bureau for the big paper.

I ended up moving on from the pop music critic life and stuck with the paper in beats more suited for my ability and married life as a caregiver to a wonderful wife who uses a wheelchair for mobility.

The more polished TV-Radio critic moved to another City awhile after a very public and ugly incident involving crude radio personalities and out of bounds comments they made about his wife.

Fast forward 25 years and I'm in a blue period, getting over the death of my father - a 40-year newspaperman in the Ohio town I grew up in -- and feeling down over a bout of pain my wife was going through long after a major surgery.

I thought about my old paper and the grudge I held against the brash critic that threw his muttered digs at me in the newsroom hallways.

I found his contact info online and vented....and vented...and vented.

I told him how unkind his cuts were....and really went so far off the deep end that I said nasty things about him (only I was now around age 50 and should have been able to maturely share without stooping to that low level.)

I pushed the send button and felt there was a 99% chance that I had written the note only for my own therapeutic reasons. The person I emailed to would either never reply or zap back a terse "get over it, whiny jackass" email.

A couple days passed...I re-immersed in life and....and the phone rang while I was at a client’s office.

I almost ignored it, since it was an unfamiliar number on my cell -- most likely a telemarketer ignoring the do not call list.

Despite my trepidation, I answered the phone.

And it was my youthful big city journalism era nemesis -- the TV-radio critic.

And he wasn't snotty at all.

He was warm, kind, like a long lost brother...or college roommate to reconnect with.

We never were close at all, obviously.

But suddenly, two men in their 50s, still married to their wonderful wives, were bonded like we had been best friends for ages.

The critic was certainly apologetic, but the call wasn't about that at all.

It was about men, learning to care, learning to prioritize, learning to grow beyond youthful pettiness.

We ended up talking about wars and peace. Betrayals and redemption. Of triumphs and tragedies experienced by mutual friends from the newspaper we crossed paths at -- the Columbus Dispatch.

We are both busy people. He's a leading sports columnist, a brilliant and passionate writer.

I work in marketing communications for urban design and town planning -- an outgrowth of the beat I settled into after leaving the late night and work in a fishbowl life of an arts critic back.

But we talked for nearly an hour. I didn't want to hang up the phone.

Movies have been based on less heartwarming events, adapted from stories less ironic and amazing than the long and winding road that led to our mobile phone bonding session.

We became Facebook friends.  Maybe that's corny, but it is the format of modern communication.

I took great joy when he liked or commented on some aspect of my life.

I shared some of his insightful posts -- on sports and life -- with my friends.

We both weathered the 2016 presidential election (and were not happy with the results).

We shared stories of diversity, what both of us still believe is the backbone of America.

Now, bigotry, misogyny, race baiting, hatred, prejudice, anti-Semitism, outright attacks on peaceful practitioners of the Muslim faith and mockery dehumanizing people with disabilities is embraced by the elected leader of the free world.

It seems, in the same month as the election, very appropriate to give thanks for the opportunity to get to know...to really know...the true big heart and essence of my new friend.

I thought long and hard about keeping his identity anonymous in this essay.....at least to all but fellow alums of the Dispatch newspaper or those obsessed enough to look up who was the TV-Radio critic in the late 1980s there.

But I'm going to share the name, because I have great admiration, respect and yes, I'll say it, even love for the person who was big enough to read my email, take stock in what I said and reach out to me with a warmth and kindness that seems so rare in these days of anger, bile and bellicose online posts.

My "new" friend is David Jones.

He’s an acclaimed columnist for PennLive.com

He's married to the former Ana Al-Khouri.

They have a family.

David is one of the good guys.

Big hearted.

Honest and open.

For the bond we created about a year ago -- and the darn near Hollywood feel good story forged from the bizarre and initially rocky road that brought us together -- I am thankful for.

This is my Thanksgiving story.

Thank you David.

May you and your family feel the same warmth, love and joy that I am feeling as I share this story.

Happy Thanskgiving

Celebrate the feeling by following this link to Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen (RIP)

A TRUE THANKSGIVING STORY -- CONCLUSION

David

PART 2:

Despite my trepidation, I answered the phone.

And it was my youthful big city journalism era nemesis -- the TV-radio critic.

And he wasn't snotty at all.

He was warm, kind, like a long lost brother...or college roommate to reconnect with.

We never were close at all, obviously.

But suddenly, two men in their 50s, still married to their wonderful wives, were bonded like we had been best friends for ages.

The critic was certainly apologetic, but the call wasn't about that at all.

It was about men, learning to care, learning to prioritize, learning to grow beyond youthful pettiness.

We ended up talking about wars and peace. Betrayals and redemption. Of triumphs and tragedies experienced by mutual friends from the newspaper we crossed paths at -- the Columbus Dispatch.

We are both busy people. He's a leading sports columnist, a brilliant and passionate writer.

I work in marketing communications for urban design and town planning -- an outgrowth of the beat I settled into after leaving the late night and work in a fishbowl life of an arts critic back.

But we talked for nearly an hour. I didn't want to hang up the phone.

Movies have been based on less heartwarming events, adapted from stories less ironic and amazing than the long and winding road that led to our mobile phone bonding session.

We became Facebook friends.  Maybe that's corny, but it is the format of modern communication.

I took great joy when he liked or commented on some aspect of my life.

I shared some of his insightful posts -- on sports and life -- with my friends.

We both weathered the 2016 presidential election (and were not happy with the results).

We shared stories of diversity, what both of us still believe is the backbone of America.

Now, bigotry, misogyny, race baiting, hatred, prejudice, anti-Semitism, outright attacks on peaceful practitioners of the Muslim faith and mockery dehumanizing people with disabilities is embraced by the elected leader of the free world.

It seems, in the same month as the election, very appropriate to give thanks for the opportunity to get to know...to really know...the true big heart and essence of my new friend.

I thought long and hard about keeping his identity anonymous in this essay.....at least to all but fellow alums of the Dispatch newspaper or those obsessed enough to look up who was the TV-Radio critic in the late 1980s there.

But I'm going to share the name, because I have great admiration, respect and yes, I'll say it, even love for the person who was big enough to read my email, take stock in what I said and reach out to me with a warmth and kindness that seems so rare in these days of anger, bile and bellicose online posts.

My "new" friend is David Jones.

He’s an acclaimed columnist for PennLive.com

He's married to the former Ana Al-Khouri.

They have a family.

David is one of the good guys.

Big hearted.

Honest and open.

For the bond we created about a year ago -- and the darn near Hollywood feel good story forged from the bizarre and initially rocky road that brought us together -- I am thankful for.

This is my Thanksgiving story.

Thank you David.

May you and your family feel the same warmth, love and joy that I am feeling as I share this story.

Happy Thanskgiving

 me

 

A TRUE THANKSGIVING STORY

PART 1

What I am thankful for this year:

Friendship, kindness, understanding, compassion, making amends.

I have thought about sharing this story for ages.

But the time seems right.

Bear with me.

More than a quarter century ago, I made the leap from obscure editorial assistant, fresh out of journalism school kid, to full-time pop music critic at a major newspaper.

I replaced the friend of the paper's TV & radio critic.

I was talented, but was very young, not very confident, not from the city I was working in and maybe overly sensitive.

The TV-radio guy was very talented, darn near as young as me, very confident, from the city the major newspaper was located in and very brash at the time.

He threw me more than a few digs, even though I barely knew him...and ironically, had a working friendship with his new bride -- because we both toiled in the same suburban bureau for the big paper.

I ended up moving on from the pop music critic life and stuck with the paper in beats more suited for my ability and married life as a caregiver to a wonderful wife who uses a wheelchair for mobility.

The more polished TV-Radio critic moved to another City awhile after a very public and ugly incident involving crude radio personalities and out of bounds comments they made about his wife.

Fast forward 25 years and I'm in a blue period, getting over the death of my father - a 40-year newspaperman in the Ohio town I grew up in -- and feeling down over a bout of pain my wife was going through long after a major surgery.

I thought about my old paper and the grudge I held against the brash critic that threw his muttered digs at me in the newsroom hallways.

I found his contact info online and vented....and vented...and vented.

I told him how unkind his cuts were....and really went so far off the deep end that I said nasty things about him (only I was now around age 50 and should have been able to maturely share without stooping to that low level.)

I pushed the send button and felt there was a 99% chance that I had written the note only for my own therapeutic reasons. The person I emailed to would either never reply or zap back a terse "get over it, whiny jackass" email.

A couple days passed...I re-immersed in life and....and the phone rang while I was at a client’s office.

I almost ignored it, since it was an unfamiliar number on my cell -- most likely a telemarketer ignoring the do not call list.

(PART 2 TOMORROW, ON THANKSGIVING DAY)