More Service Anyone?

What is "service?" I read a sign on a monument yesterday, it said "To All Who Serve." Of course it made me think of the Minor coincidence, not more than a few hours earlier, I mailed a donation to a firefighters' association I know. I had been on the receiving end of a solicitation call on a day I had been thinking of my father, who was a firefighter for thirty years, another coincidence.

Anyway, I asked myself if I might ever fit into that category--one who serves. I volunteer a tiny bit right now but it doesn't seem to amount to enough to fit any definition I could see for one who serves. There is another organization I volunteered for, but my work schedule must interfere with their calling me so far. I think I will have to remind the director I am still around and would like to serve. But, it strikes me that unless she needs a very active board member and/or part-time manager of the organization, I won't feel involved enough to be one who serves there for very long. I suspect that organization doesn't have a plan to carry itself beyond status as a kind of neighborhood clique anyway. While I will aim for more involvement, I will have my doubts until it grows some. Sounds kind of like sour grapes as I re-read it now, but that's just how I feel.

But I want to serve and don't know just how. I live in an area where there are many who volunteer, so volunteering often turns into a crowded field. I have this urge (as I always have had) to do something no one else is doing. I may not find it soon, but I am on the lookout.

I've noticed some people in government service who think they might be public servants, but their approach strikes me as self-serving--which is sort of the opposite of "All Those Who Serve" in the monument I saw. Maybe we would have some true public servants if it didn't take so much fund-raising to enter public service, or maybe if it weren't possible to make a career for life out of it. I have a friend who told me he truly believed that term limits would leave the country in the hands of the special interests, since they would be the only ones who knew the ropes in Washington or (pick one: city hall or the statehouse or the state capital, etc.) I think we could overcome that--the senior senator could be tasked to get the junior senator acclimated, or the congresspersons from any given state could make it the business of their caucus to orient the newly-elected. Egad, I am talking about politics--I apologize, really.

Another consideration about being one who serves is that I might just want to supplement my income during this second half of life. That complicates things, I know, but I think service that is really valued is not always free and that "voluntary" service should be valued. Talk about making the search difficult, now he wants pay at a not-for-profit (or is it a non-profit?). So, Dear God, if you're listening up there, give me a few hints. I'm sorta lost here.

Never Be Listless

(I was thinking of doing a rant on the joys of traveling, but nobody likes a whiner, and what I do would be a lot worse if I had to drive all that way, so I am ok with travel even when it's not timely.)

I have been thinking about the value of lists, especially to-do lists and lists of accomplishments--they are the same thing most of the time. The exception is one of those days where all you got done was making the list in the first place. I make lists each week, and, of late, for any trip I take. Now you might think my attachment to lists is related to a weakening memory, but I just get too much satisfaction out of checking off the completed items to believe that. It's that positive feeling that keeps me coming back, not just to keep from forgetting.

I also spend less time deciding what to do next. I usually put some priority on the list--A means "do it today if there's time." B is "do this tomorrow or the next day, just not today," and C is "some day, maybe." Initial listing of the C's doesn't include the "maybe, but after transferring a C from one old list to a new one a couple of times, the maybe just shows up in my head. A lot of my C's turn into "never going to do's," but they would haunt me if I didn't use the power of the list to reach that conclusion. Turning into a "some day, maybe" is the first step. Sometimes I will promote a C to a B to try to get it done. If I move it back to C, that is usually the second stage of preparing to drop it altogether. So lists can help me decide what not to do, too.

I usually put a sheet nearby to capture the fleeting urge that is incipient motivation, if it occurs to me I need to do something AND I put it on my list, then I am motivated enough to do something. For example, there's .... Oops, now I have to dig my to do list out of my briefcase--I have something to add to this week's edition.

Dancing in the Dark

Learning to dance seems so important to the amateurs on "Dancing with the Stars." I am starting to worry about one of those distant promises I may have made--I think I may have said I would take dancing lessons in my second half of life. It seemed like a long way into the distant mists of time--out there somewhere. But I just had another birthday, and there's a "6" in my number somewhere. It means that a certain person will be reminding me of a conversation (maybe more than one, I really don't recall) we once had about ballroom or shag or something-or-another lessons. I have never been described as graceful, but I can ice skate, and I did it well enough to play hockey for five or six years. In fact, I think on my first date I took a girl ice-skating. It didn't last, I was a way better skater than she was.

But I digress--I never made a varsity team in any sport but football, and, trust me, football in 8th grade required little grace of a lineman or even a linebacker. So, how do I learn to dance? On the above-mentioned TV show, it looks like a full-time job. How do I make any progress taking a few lessons? Is it really that hard? If it is as hard as yoga, I am going to need a lot of encouragement.

The first obstacle will be within me. I know I am self-conscious when I try to learn dance steps. Dancing in my teen years was sort of formless anyway, so doing it wrong would be hard for anyone to tell. But these lessons imply that there really is a right way to do a dance. That also means people will quickly notice I don't know what I am doing.

Another issue will be my tendency to think too much. Whilst my partner is on to the next move I will be thinking--"OK, now i take 2 steps back with my left and one forward...OK..let's go.." At that point my dance partner will be stopped, waiting for me to move, etc., etc. I am over-thinking it right now, aren't I?

Then, there's the left from right thing. She swears I always want to go left when everyone else goes right, probably because I am partly left-handed. I write left-handed, throw right-handed, and kick right-footed. I also eat left-handed and play ping-pong left-handed.

But, maybe what I need is protection. The eyes I worried about seeing my awkward steps, what if.... I know what to do, take lessons and practice in the dark--no one will see the missteps, except herself, but I have her number anyway. So--it will be dancing in the dark.

Music and Learning New Things

Not starting with a title makes this easier at times. Just start by putting some words in play and the rest will happen. I am returning to something I used to do on a much more regular basis--listening to music.

I wonder about today's most popular mode of listening, though. I was in downtown Chicago about five years ago on a weekday morning and everybody was wearing ipod earbuds (could have been iphone earbuds, too, I guess). But the point that strikes me is that it is a solitary experience. Each person is in his/her solitary world, listening to music.

Now, I am sure my wife prefers not to listen to the music I enjoy, but I am just as sure she doesn't want me to shut her out and move around with earbuds on all day. I haven't resolved that just yet, but I have a new gadget that will allow me to listen to what I want to in one of the final places where I can control what I listen to--my car. Now mine is old enough that there is no place to plug in an mp3 player--heck, it has no CD player, cassette player, etc. But, you can't plug in your earbuds and drive. You're likely to run someone off the road singing along to "Under the Boardwalk" or "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." So, I bought a little gadget for myself for my birthday. It plugs into the lighter (yes, my car is old enough to have a cigarette lighter, not a power source) and into your ipod--my apologies to all you competitors to Apple, I just have an ipod--and set the radio frequency for an empty spot and turn on your music. Cool.

I don't spend a lot of time in my car, but I do spend lots of time on planes--another place I can control what I hear. Putting in the earbuds can work there, but I need something wireless. I have adjusted to the bluetooth for my phone, can I get one to function with an ipod? I am going on the prowl for such a device. Hope I don't get tired of music... It looks like I am going to have a bagful of gadgets and chargers to make music happen that is bigger than a suitcase.

Learning new things, just one more--spell check says "earbud" is a misspelling, preferring "ear bud." I prefer "earbud" and Merriam-Webster is on my side.

A Year Of Writing

If I am to discover my voice, it will happen here, this year. I will write something each day, some days more than others, and some times editing a work in progress. I will write about what I see, hear, think about and feel on a variety of topics. This should be a challenge, since I haven't written anything here since February, but...

Today is my birthday, and I don't feel much like waxing philosophical. But I did look at the obits today and spotted a 69 year old who passed away. Don't get the wrong idea, I don't spend time looking there every day, I just landed there with my eyes open and that entry caught my eye. I never really think about whether there is a limit to the time I might have left. Instead I usually think of how much I have left to do. Among those things, is an unfulfilled wish to write--essays, speeches, fiction, anything at all. So here I go.

Today I thought about how much yoga is teaching me. The importance of remembering to breathe; to rest between periods of effort; humility, as I find myself unable to successfully complete a pose or stance (my teacher would scold me for that one--attempting is success, never making the attempt is failure); the fascinating process of muscle and brain "memory" that allows improvement with each day's effort. There's more, but I just realized I need to go tackle "Jim's daily dose" of yoga, as my teacher has dubbed it. See ya.

What A Pain

My friend John spent New Year’s Eve this year in the cardiac unit at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Atlanta, while I was on a road trip. In light of the privacy issues involved I will call him “John Smith” for two reasons—to save him any embarrassment about the personal details I will be sharing, and because that is his name, John Smith. When I made it home and heard about his hospital stay, I called to see what had happened.

It all began when John ate a little too much and may have drunk a bit too much at a party the night after Christmas. He woke up at 3 AM with chest pains. He lay there for a while, he said to me later, “I was just laying there thinking that all this pain—just to let me know I had overdone it—is serving no purpose at all. I knew when I went to bed I had overdone it.”

John finally got up and spent the next 14 hours at a nearby hospital. The staff there found nothing wrong. When he left, they suggested he might want to follow up with a cardiologist. “I still see nothing for certain,” the cardiologist said after yet another battery of tests, “but just to make sure, why don’t I do a heart catheterization? Can you be at the hospital at 4:30 AM tomorrow?” Now, John’s a skeptic and his first thought was that this guy seemed in a hurry to make some money. He considered not doing it at all, but in the end he went ahead with the procedure.

I knew where this was going, and I was sure I’d be more than a little uncomfortable if I didn’t crack a joke or change the subject. Discussing events that remind me of my own mortality gives me the willies, it’s probably my age.

But a joke was out of the question, so I decided to share the story of my friend Adam, who works these days in Naples, Italy. He and John both knew a lot about two New Years things—being hospitalized this New Year’s Eve and fireworks. You see, John, when he’s not hospitalized on New Year’s Eve, by midnight has had a few too many and is happily shooting off fireworks out in front of his house. Adam knows about New Years fireworks from a different perspective.

In Naples, Adam decided to make some lasagna two days before New Year’s and cut off the end of his thumb. He was slicing onions, and he left a lot of his thumb on the cutting board in the kitchen as he ran for his phone. The paramedics took him and his thumb to the hospital. In the ER, they did what they usually do when you cut off that much of your thumb—they threw away the piece of thumb and told him he’d need skin graft surgery. Although they couldn’t perform the surgery until New Year’s Day, they admitted him right away. Adam said, “They told me at this time of year, you take the bed when you can get it and await your turn in surgery. If you don’t take the bed, by New Year’s Eve all the beds in the Hand Surgery Ward are filled up with young people who celebrated the New Year shooting off illegal fireworks.” The chief of surgery morbidly observed, “Dozens of them will blow their hands off at midnight.” Sure enough, Adam met some of them before he could get his turn in surgery.

Now that was a masterful job of brightening the mood, wasn’t it? John said, “Thanks for telling me about Adam. Now I know how it could have been worse, I could have blown off my hand shooting off fireworks, then had this problem. Now, will you let me finish my story?”

It gets worse. It seems that cardiac catheterizations are done with the patient fully conscious and following the process on TV monitors along with the doctor. What fun! Fifteen minutes into John’s session, the cardiologist has matter-of-factly showed John two blocked arteries, a nearly ruptured blood vessel, and indications of a problem with John’s right carotid artery. He wrapped things up early by saying, “I can’t finish this, I need to get you to surgery.” But he needed to look at those carotid arteries first, again with John conscious and observing the process. Less than 24 hours later, John had a new stent in his carotid artery, two new heart bypasses, a foot-long incision in his chest and piano wire wrapped around his sternum to hold him together.

OK, he’s gotten to me now—I am starting to feel pain in my chest, and I am standing stock still, petrified. “I could have died,” John told me, “but it was really odd, I wasn’t the least bit afraid—in fact I was fascinated with all of it.” My friend John Smith is now what they used to call “a little touched in the head.” The world is suddenly “fascinating” to him. He has had a guided tour of the inside of his chest, followed by an up close and personal look at the arteries supplying blood to his brain, and double bypass surgery. Fascinating, my foot.

Oh, and that pain he was bemoaning on the night after Christmas? It turns out the cardiologist calls John’s kind of problem “a widow-maker.” It often blows up with fatal consequences and no warning. That pain without a purpose? It saved his life.

Transmogrification in Chicago

Transmogrification noun: the act of changing or altering greatly, often with grotesque or humorous effect.

I grew up in Chicago, a while ago. I spent a little more than half my life so far there. That experience has given me a special perspective on transmogrification and it's time I shared it with you.

Not everyone knows this, but the Chicago Bears were among the founding members of the NFL and today they remain the only franchise in history to accumulate 700 wins. But my years in Chicago coincided with perhaps the lowest point in their storied history. Sure, they won the championship in 1963, but just my luck, that was the year before my parents allowed a TV into our house. After that, the Bears spent 13 long years without reaching the playoffs, and only twice had a winning record. Why? Well, I think it was a growing scourge I call QB transmogrification, visible to the naked eye only during playoff games.

The Bears finally made it to the playoffs again in 1977, and the first in a series of strange events took place. After leading the Bears to the playoffs, their quarterback, Bob Avellini, threw four interceptions against the Dallas Cowboys, setting a team record for interceptions in a playoff game--in a word, he was transmogrified. In 1979, the Bears were once again in the playoffs. This time, QB Mike Phipps was driving the team for the winning touchdown, only to throw his 2nd interception of the game in the end zone--transmogrified.

In 1982, the Bears drafted another quarterback, this one from Brigham Young University, Jim McMahon. McMahon had a knack for playing the game and was soon succeeding like few others had before him. He quickly established himself as the starter.

But the transmogrifications continued. In the playoffs following the 1984 season, with starter McMahon out for the season, backup QB Steve Fuller was sacked 9 times and threw an interception. The Bears were shut out, Fuller transmogrified. But why am I calling all of these events "transmogrifications?" What would you call it when a Bear suddenly and grotesquely turns into a goat?

I moved away to Atlanta the following Spring. What do you think happened next? Along came the 1985 Bears, led by Hall of Famers Dan Hampton, Mike Singletary and Walter Payton, with colorful QB Jim McMahon and track star-turned wide receiver, Willie Gault. They finished the season 15 and 1, and went on to win their first Super Bowl. My punishment.

It took 21 years, with numerous quarterbacks undergoing transmogrification along the way, but the Bears once again reached the Super Bowl in 2006 on the strength of their defense and a marvelous rookie kick returner by the name of Devin Hester. There the Bears' QB, Rex Grossman, coming off a breakout season in which he threw for more than 3,000 yards and 23 touchdowns, transmogrified just the same. He fumbled twice and threw two interceptions, one for a touchdown. The Bears lost.

Then, in 2009, the Bears made a blockbuster trade for a new quarterback, Jay Cutler. The following year, they hired a new offensive coordinator, Mike Martz, and signed three free agents, including Julius Peppers, committing $100MM to the task. The investments paid off. The Bears were crowned champs of the NFC North, and last Sunday, they played for the conference championship and the right to return to the Super Bowl. You probably already guessed this, but that quarterback, Cutler? He transmogrified--this time into a pussycat, leaving at the half with an injured knee. Their 3rd string guy, Caleb Hanie, came in and took over the goat--I mean quarterback--position, throwing an interception to a 400 lb. nose tackle he "didn't see" standing in front of his intended receiver. The 400 lb. guy ran it back for the winning touchdown.

Transmogrification is all over the entertainment sector these days, with the Twilight series and a new TV show "Being Human" about a ghost, a vampire and a werewolf sharing an apartment.

But there's one more grotesque change that takes place now and again, you can guess what it is. It's me, I change from an ordinary human to a Bear (fan, that is) and I sing--

Bear down, Chicago Bears, make every play clear the
way for victory.

Bear down, Chicago Bears, put up a fight with a might so
fearlessly.

We'll never forget the way you thrilled
the nation, with your T-formation.

Bear down, Chicago Bears and let them
know why you're wearing the crown.

You're the pride and joy of
Illinois. Chicago Bears, bear down.