Ron Eckberg

By age 16 Janis Ian was already a household name in the pop music world. Her social commentary anthem about inter-racial dating Society’s Child shattered the innocence of late 60s rock and roll and vaulted her to the forefront as a spokesman for her generation. She made the cover of countless magazines. Her music was everywhere. No less than classical music icon Leonard Bernstein was singing her praises.

She had fame, money, and freedom to explore all the excesses that came with both. She did so with enthusiasm.

Less than two decades later all that was lost. She owed over a million dollars to the IRS for taxes she thought she had paid but instead had gone into the pocket of an unscrupulous manager. She was penniless. She was relegated to the status of a music trivia question. Unable to find a stage to sing from, abandoned by the pop music audience, and reeling from incredibly poor choices of friends and lovers that left her physically beaten and battered, she was at the end of her rope.

“I have never been so depressed in my life,” she writes in her autobiography, Society’s Child, “Life was over. Why bother going on?”

With all hope seemingly lost, she turned one last time to the one thing she knew. She picked up her guitar and began plucking out a melody. Thoughts began to form.

She wrote one line, “On days like these, when the rain won’t fall”. Then she followed with another, “and the sky is so dry that even birds can’t call.”

As she wrote an even more important, more compelling thought than any song lyric she had written came to mind.

She recalled something a friend had told her years before, that no matter what happens in life “there is always a choice”.  Those words would galvanize her will and start her on the journey back.

“I was only thirty-seven,” Ian recalled, “My circumstances sucked, but maybe I was still young enough to rise above them…at the least, I could try to figure a way out.”

The fighting spirit within her rose in her consciousness. She determined not to give up. That song, Days Like These, marked her first step back. 

At that moment and with that choice she embraced a truth that is essential to anyone who yearns to live life with grace, purpose, and passion.

“I knew that until the day I died, my dreams and my talent would always be with me”, she writes, “No one could take them away. It was up to me to make the most of them, in whatever time remained.”

Like it or not, life is a delicate balance of ups and downs. It is mountaintops and valleys, joys and sorrows. We don’t get one without the other.

No matter how tough the going may get, this simple truth remains. The tough do get going. They make the choice. They fight for life.

That is the choice each of us faces. We can choose to fight or we can choose to surrender. We can pick ourselves up from life’s setbacks and bruises and move on or we can slump back in our recliner and whine the days away bemoaning what could have or should have been.

Janis Ian made the choice to fight. She discovered that regardless of what she had lost she still had the most important things in life. She still had her dreams and her talent. She still had songs in her heart.

How about you? Perhaps you are reeling from some of life’s toughest blows. You have lost money, health, or even a life-long companion. You are at the end of your rope.

There is always a choice and only you can make it. Only you can decide to move on and live your days – no matter how few or many they may be – to the fullest.

I won’t tell you it will be easy. Few good things come easily. But it is right. It is our God-given responsibility to live this life and live it well until we draw our last breath.

Even in “Days Like These”.

Near the climax of the movie, “Field of Dreams”, there is a wonderful scene between Kevin Costner’s character, Ray Kinsella, and a character named Terence Mann played exquisitely by the late great James Earl Jones.  This brief dialogue provides both a reality check and a challenge to every writer.

According to the story, Terrance Mann was once an influential writer, seen by many of his generation as a leading commentator and thinker concerning the social turbulence of the 60s.  Now, years later, he is found to be a man who has turned his back on that era and his calling, spending his days and talent instead writing children’s’ software. At this particular point in “Field of Dreams” he has been invited “out there”, out into the magical corn field from which ballplayers daily appear then disappear into.  His spirit and his love for his calling is revived.  He reacts to the invitation by telling Costner, “If I have the courage to go through with this what a story it will make…”

Costner and Jones then have this wonderful back-and-forth dialogue.

“So you’re going to write about it?” says Costner.

“Yes”, replies Jones.

“You’re going to write about it?” Costner asks again.

“That’s what I do”.  Jones answers.

Though there is nothing too profound in the simple lines of this exchange, there is a deeply profound implication for every writer, whether established or aspiring.

“That’s what I do.”, Jones says.  We are either writers or we are not.  We either write or we don’t.  Writing is more than having the desire to write or the talent to write or even having a story to write.  Writing is writing.  It is sitting at the blank piece of paper and sometimes having the words flow from our minds to our fingers with such ease we almost feel as though we are not in control of the process.  Other times it is forcing ourselves to stay in our seats and grind out word upon word upon word.  It is sometimes writing when we feel so compelled that we can do nothing else and it is writing when there is nothing we would like less to do.  It is writing pages that in the end are twisted and torn and tossed into the wastebasket yet leave behind that one phrase or sentence or paragraph that is eloquent or profound or moving enough to bring us back to the pen the next day.

It is worrying over every word and every phrase.  It is akin to giving birth in that we bring this “child” forth, nurture and refine it, then at some point set it free upon others wherein we find its true power to inspire, educate, or entertain.

Writers of all kinds understand such truth.  

Singer / songwriter and true wordsmith Larry Gatlin once referred to his songs as his “other children”.  In the introduction of a book containing a collection of his songs Gatlin wrote:

“Just as Kristin and Josh (Gatlin’s daughter and son) are the end result of a very special love between their mother and me, my other children, my songs, are the result of a love between me and the world I live in. Kristin and Josh are not always model children.  Sometimes they are bad and they need to be corrected.  So it is with my songs.  All of them are not good, but they are all mine.  I have no one with whom I share the feeling of pride if they are good, and no one to share the feeling of frustration when they are bad.  They are mine.”

In the end we and we alone bear the responsibility for our words.

So, why do we write?  Do we write with the dream of being the next Stephen King, of signing seven figure advances, of making the circuit of book signings and morning talk shows?  Do we write for the applause and accolades of others? If so, we will probably be sorely disappointed for writing will become nothing more than a job, a daily grind.

Writing must be our passion.  It must be our compelling, driving force.  We write because we must, not because we have to out of economic necessity or selfish pride.  We write because to not write leaves us empty and unfulfilled.  We write because there is something in us – a story, a philosophy, and ideas – that must fight and claw their way out of us to the page.

It must be our passion because writing with conviction and purpose is as hard a work as we will ever undertake.  We love the task, to be sure, but it is hard work nonetheless.  Putting pen to a blank sheet of paper is a daunting task.  If we are serious about the task it means worrying over every word so that what is in our minds and hearts will emerge through the efforts of our hands.  It means writing and rewriting and rewriting again.  It means moments of absolute joy and exhilaration when the perfect words, phrases, and sentences find their way to the paper.  It can mean moments of pure frustration and even sheer terror as we stare at the paper and the paper stares back, still blank and somehow even more barren than before leaving us wondering if we are really writers, were ever writers, or can ever be writers.

“That’s what I do,” says Jones.  What an eloquent statement of our calling.  If we are writers then we will write.  Not for fame or fortune or any external motivation.  Not because we think it will be easy.  It won’t be.  We will write because we are writers and writing is what writers do.

Don’t be ashamed of the work.  When asked what we do, we will proclaim in quiet, reverent voices, “I am a writer.”  It is a high and divine calling.

So if we are writers, and we write because we are writers and writing is what writers do, what do we write about?

The answer to that is, of course, as varied as the number of writers who have every graced the planet.  Therein lays its beauty.

Writers write, as James Earl Jones’ character said simply, about “it”, “it” being that nagging voice within that beckons us to explore a topic or develop an idea or extrapolate on a philosophy or to relate a story for posterity.

“It” is of course different for every one of us.  We have to find our “it” although I think most of us already know.  We know because it daily invites us to a journey of exploration and revelation.  We know because we lie awake at night, our minds mulling over the pages of the day, questioning what we have written and wondering if we have told the story and told it well. 

It is true; each of us has a story within us waiting to be told.  It may be a story of events, circumstances, and people that have graced our time on earth.  It may the telling of other people’s stories.  It may be the telling of a story that springs from deep within our imagination.  It may be an idea or philosophy that is a synthesis of the many ideas and philosophies we have absorbed in our years of reading others’ writings.

What ever the story, it must be told.  Each of us must follow our own passion.  We must that passion be our guide to that story waiting to be told.  We must go bravely and without hesitation.  We must go in utter awe and anticipation of where it will lead.

“If I have the courage,” our character reminds us.   Writing is not for the weak willed.  There is disappointment and frustration lurking at every turn and every writing session that can easily sideline the undetermined, the undisciplined, and the unmotivated.  We must be ready for the potholes in the road.  We must be prepared for the assault on our conviction to write that is sure to come in your weakest moment.  We must be determined to stay at the task no matter what.

In our “Field of Dreams” scene, Jones puts the punctuation mark on our discussion by declaring the outcome of his adventure as well as ours.

“What a story it will make!” he says. That is the end reward. The story.  It’s about releasing it from our imagination and setting it free to do its work.

It is now time to stop reading, put this down and do what we are called to do. Write.  If you will do so, if you have the courage to see it through, there is no doubt a wondrous story waiting to emerge on the other side of the struggle.

To the true writer, there is no greater joy.  

As a writer my greatest friend is also my most dire enemy.  It is the blank piece of paper.  Each and every time I write we come face to face.  I stare at it and it stares back at me.  At that awkward moment, as I move my hand to pick up my pen or position my fingers over the computer keyboard, I find myself filled with both fear and wonder.

The fear is the possibility that nothing will emerge from our confrontation, that my reservoir of thoughts, ideas, and stories has been depleted and my career as a writer at an end.  On the other hand, the wonder lies in the knowledge that, if I am patient and persistent, I will be joyfully surprised by the words that flow from my mind to the paper.  I have confidence that I will experience what Robert Frost called the “wonder of the unexpected supply”, and will again be reminded of the power, the promise, and the possibilities of the blank paper.

Just think with me for a moment of those possibilities. 

In the hand of a passionate thinker a blank piece of paper becomes a Declaration of Independence, “War and Peace”, the Gettysburg Address, or a life changing sermon.

In the hands of a sensitive musician that blank piece of paper becomes Beethoven’s 5^th Symphony, or Handel’s Messiah, or even Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday”.

In the hands of an imaginative architect that paper becomes the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, or Disney World.

In the hands of a visionary it can become the next great invention that shapes our world, or a formula for explaining the mysteries of our universe, or the blueprint for a cure for one of mankind’s deadly diseases.

In other hands it becomes a love letter read over and over again by a hopelessly romantic lover, a crayon filled picture hung with pride on a grandparent’s refrigerator, or a diary holding one’s deepest thoughts and secrets.

In the same way a writer faces daily the blank piece of paper, each one of us face another kind of blank page.  It is the 24 hours, the 1440 minutes, the 86,400 seconds that God has given you today.  

While you may not be a writer or musician or architect or inventor your blank paper is no less important. It holds just as much power, promise, and possibility as the greatest of people in human history. In each and every case their greatness began there.

If you desire to live with grace, purpose, and passion, you must understand that the blank piece of paper is both a gift and a responsibility.  It is a gift because it is given you for your use and enjoyment.  It is a responsibility because only you can create something from it. It will be what you make of it, no more and no less.

What will you do with your blank paper today?  Will you fill it with words and deeds that will inspire, encourage, and comfort those around you?  Will you fill it with a life that in some way makes your world, your community, and your neighborhood a better place to live?

Pick up that blank piece of paper and write your life well, knowing that you can make a difference in this world.

“Cheer up sleepy Jean, what does it mean, to daydream believer…?”

“Hope lies in dreams, in imagination, and in the courage of those who dare to make dreams into reality.” (Jonas Salk)

In the past 45 years or so I have written hundreds upon hundreds of pages of content, page after page of stories, commentaries, wisdom and pieces of advice, as well as a hundred or more songs, worship choruses, and other bits and pieces of musical content.

But you say you haven’t read any of my stuff? You say you haven’t heard of me before? Well, that is very likely. And I can give you one very good reason for my obscurity.

It’s because I haven’t published anything. Or at least I have published a very precious little percentage of what I have written.

In a writing session a while back I found myself being reflective about my life and in a moment of brutal honesty I described myself as a singer who rarely sings, a speaker who rarely speaks, and a writer who rarely writes.  I think subconsciously I was looking for someone to blame. I didn’t have to look far.

The fault lies not with the world around me, or the fact that my adoring public doesn’t adore me. The simple fact of the matter is this; I know the enemy well and it is me. Like most of us I have dreams. Some are big and some are small. The size of the dream doesn’t matter. They are all dreams nonetheless, as are yours. All of us have things we would like to do. It may be simply to carve more time out of our schedules to play with our children or grandchildren. It may be to carve time out of our schedule to have a date night with our wife or husband. It may be to write a book or to record that song you have written on the back of an envelope and buried in the bottom of your sock drawer.  

I would guess your problem is the same as mine. You are your own worst enemy. Oh sure, you can blame it on everybody and everything else, but none of your excuses—none of my excuses—hold water in the end.

The great T. E. Lawrence once wrote, “All men dream; but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.”

As I read those words it was like a dagger in my heart and spirit because it describes me so well. I look back on 74 years of life and I have to confess I have been more the “dreamer by night” then the “dreamer by day” who actually gets things done.

Let me ask you one simple question; Which dreamer will you be, the dreamer by night or the dreamer by day? Will you be the dreamer who dreams fabulous lofty dreams at 3 o’clock in the morning but lets the reality of life squeeze it out of you with your morning coffee? Or will you be the dreamer by day that puts on your work clothes and gets down to the hard work of making your dreams a reality?

I have to ask myself that same question. I can only hope that I will have diligence, the discipline, and the passion to be that daytime dreamer.

I hope you will do the same.

In the cafeteria of a hotel in Bayeux, France, over a typical French breakfast of bread, bread, and more bread, my new found friend pointed his finger at me.

“You Americans,” he said in his wonderful English accent, “You think you know everything there is to know about World War II because you watched Saving Private Ryan.” 

“You don’t”, he added with a smile. 

His name was Clifford Coates and if anyone had the right to lecture me about what I knew or didn’t know about World War II I was Clifford. He had lived that remarkable, terrible time of history. Now, he was back in France to revisit the hallowed ground he had walked as a 19 year old soldier 74 years earlier. 

He had made this journey from his native England many times before, driving several hours south to Southhampton before catching a ferry for the trip across the English Channel to Cherbourg. From there it was a short drive down the French coastline to Normandy, the place that shaped his life perhaps more than he ever realized. 

I had come to know him by an accident of timing. I had traveled to Bayeux in June 2018 to revisit the D-Day beaches that had so captured my attention. A year earlier, my son and I had been there with a tour group. This time I had come alone to explore the more out-of-the-way places the tours don’t frequent.

I arrived on Sunday and on this Monday morning I ventured out to pick up my rental car then  returned to my hotel. Near the front door there sat a wheelchair inhabited by an elderly man in a uniform. A blanket was wrapped around his legs for warmth and a beret sat upon his head. He was very obviously British.

As has become my habit, I paused to thank him for his service but found it impossible to do so without asking at least a couple of introductory questions. My inquisition was cut short by the arrival of his ride, old French friends whom he would spend the day with. We agreed, however, to met up at breakfast the next day. 

The next morning, and every other morning until our departure, I would hunt Clifford down, announce that his “American pest” had arrived, then sit and listen to his amazing stories of D-Day. I was completely awed by the man and the experiences he shared. 

By June 6, 1944, Clifford was already a seasoned combat veteran having fought his way around the Mediterranean. With his mates from the 41st Royal Marine Commandos, he trudged ashore on Sword Beach at Ouistreham, on the eastern most extreme of the Operation Overlord map. Their mission was simple; to free France from the tyrannical grip of Adolf Hitler and has Nazi regime. They secured Ouistreham, then proceeded up the 10 mile corridor to relieve the embattled garrison at what is now known as Pegasus Bridge.

Our third morning in Bayeux was the day, June 6th, the 74th anniversary of D’Day. As was my habit I searched Clifford out in the breakfast area to once again harangue him with my countless questions. He seemed a bit more subdued than during our previous meetings. 

“How are you this morning, Clifford,” I asked.

“Well,” he replied quietly, “I’m better now than I was last night.”

“Too much activity?”, I asked.

“No”, he replied quietly, “It was just so emotional seeing my old friends.”

The day before, Clifford had been at an annual observance outside the small village of Ranville, at that bridge, the one known as Pegasus. He had indeed remembered. He remembered the place, the terrible noise and carnage of battle, and most of all his fellow soldiers, his mates, the friends he lost there who, like him, had risked everything for the cause of freedom. 

After 74 years the pain of those losses was still very, very real for my friend. It is a loss those of us who have never experienced such a cataclysmic event can never fully appreciate. I am most certain Clifford had shed a few tears.

“I lost friends, yes”, Clifford would recall in a 2019 interview with the British Veterans’ Foundation, “Nobody is sacrosanct. When that shell explodes, when that bomb drops, or that gun fires, somebody’s going to die. And it doesn’t matter who you are. If you’re in line it’s you.”

Clifford, of course, was not “in line”. He survived the war and lived a full life after the fighting finally came to close a little more than a year after D-Day. Like so many other World War II veterans from all nations, he invested in his family and his community, even serving a stint at his towns mayor.

The courage displayed, the terrible losses, the horrible memories all had a transcendent purpose in Clifford’s mind. 

In the before mentioned video interview Clifford explained.

“If you were say to anybody there, ‘What did you do it for? What was your aim? We would say to make it safe … for the kids, to give them a decent life because they had no life.”

———-

“No war is really over,” stated one World War II soldier, “until the last veteran is dead.” If that is so, World War II just took one more step toward closure when Clifford Coates passed away quietly few days ago at the age of 96. 

May men like him–and their extraordinary deeds–never be forgotten. And may we never cease to be grateful. 

Rest in peace, Clifford Coates. You–and all the others like you–deserve it.  

On November 11, 1918 at precisely 11:00 a.m., across the battlegrounds of Europe, the air was suddenly filled with an unusual sound; the sound of silence.

After four years of death on a scale the world had never before seen, an uneasy armistice was beginning. On both sides of the lines, hope started to stir in the hearts of those who, just moments before, been committed only to the task of killing. It was a hope that somehow they might just have a future after all.

World War I was a gruesome global event fought on nearly every continent and on every ocean. 70 nations participated. 65 million soldiers put on the uniform of their respective countries. Nearly 10,000,000 died in the four years of fighting. Another 21 million were scarred and mutilated, some being sentenced to spend the rest of their lives in nursing homes and hospitals.

Mankind had “come of age”. New technologies were emerging that made warfare more deadly and more horrible than any conflict prior. Gas was used by both sides with indiscriminate effect. Germany alone would release 68,000 tons of gas during the war. In total 1,200,000 soldiers fell victim to gas attacks with 91,000 dying excruciating deaths. One of those who fell victim to such an attack in the final days of the war was a young German soldier named Adolf Hitler.

Of the horror and carnage of the war, a young Frenchman, Second Lieutenant Alfred Joubaire, wrote in his diary ; “Humanity is mad! It must be mad to do what it is doing. What a massacre. What scenes of horror and carnage! I cannot find words to translate my impressions. Hell cannot be so terrible! Men are mad!” A short time later Jobaire became a statistic of the carnage he wrote of.

The Armistice of November 11, 1918 would hold. What was touted as, “the war to end all wars”, was now history. But there was still a matter of an official treaty. After much debate and bickering among the victorious countries the verdict was pronounced and the treaty signed on June 28,1919. Known as the Treaty of Versailles, it placed the blame for World War I squarely on the shoulders of Germany. A world stunned by the cost of the war in lives and resources coldly demanded retribution. 

As punishment Germany was stripped of large portions of its lands and resources, as well as its military, both present and future. Left humiliated and impoverished Germany was ripe soil for a leader such as Adolf Hitler to ascend to power by offering the German people hope that their beloved country could rise from the ashes and regain its former glory. 

We, of course, know the rest of the story. The “war to end all wars”, only planted the seeds for another war, a war that would dwarf World War I in every category. Furthermore,  it would take but one generation, a mere 20 years, for the world to be back on the same battlegrounds in addition to new ones in remote places on every corner of the planet.

One year after the Armistice took effect that ended the hostilities of World War I, President Woodrow Wilson will issued a proclamation to make November 11th each year a day to remember the end of that war and to honor those who fought it. “Armistice Day” as it was originally designated, would eventually become a legal American holiday as well as a time each year to honor American veterans of all wars.

On this Veterans Day we need to be reminded of the cost of the freedoms we enjoy and the sacrifice and service of those who fought to preserve them. Today we honor those Americans, each and every one who has served in our armed forces and have stood on the wall for freedom.

We would do well to pause to reflect and remember these men and women who have donned the uniforms and taken up arms, placing their lives in harm’s way for the sake of freedom, both ours and our neighbors who cannot defend themselves.

We must never forget the sacrifice and service of these Americans.  To do so is to set us on a dangerous path of neglect and indifference sure to seal a terrible fate for the freedoms we enjoy as well as endangering the very independence and sovereignty of our great nation.

Rick Riscorla found himself facing one of those life challenges that sooner or later find us all. He had been diagnosed with cancer. Still a young and energetic man of 60, Riscorla didn’t like the prospects of losing his life in a gradual battle of attrition to the disease. This was not the way he wanted to go. 

Riscorla was a “man’s man”. Born in England he had been a record setting shot-putter in high school as well as an avid boxer. He served in the Parachute Regiment of the British army, then as an officer on the London police force.  He had grown up idolizing the United States military, so left London for the U.S. where he ultimately enlisted in the Army. As a platoon leader in the newly formed airborne Cavalry, Riscorla saw action and distinguished himself in the famous battle of the Ia Drang Valley in the early stages of the Vietnam War. 

Known to his men as “Hard Core” and to his commander, Lieutenant General Hal Moore as “the best platoon leader I ever saw”, Riscorla garnered a Silver Star, Bronze Star, Oak Leaf Cluster, Purple Heart, and Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry.

Now, as the new millenium began, he found himself facing a prospect almost unimaginable for a man of his intense passion and adventure. He didn’t fear the cancer. He only feared that the cancer would dictate his exit from life in a way so foreign to the way he had lived. 

“Look at us”, he wrote a friend, “We should have died performing some great deed—go out in a blaze of glory, not end up with someone spoon-feeding us and changing our (diapers).”

He fought the cancer into remission after being told in 1998 that he had but six months to live. He continued his work as the head of security for Dean Witter and Morgan Stanley, headquartered in the World Trade Center. Everyone who worked there knew Rick Riscorla. Following the terrorist attack of 1993, he told anyone who listened that “they” (the terrorists) would be back. He planned for it. He developed a procedure for getting all the employees he was responsible for out of the building as quickly and as orderly as possible. He ran drill after drill after drill to make sure they understood the routine. 

On September 11, 2001, all the planning and training and drilling paid off. As the Twin Towers burned in the aftermath of the devastating terrorist attacks, Riscorla provided guidance, inspiration, and quiet, steady leadership in getting his people to safety. Confident he had everyone out, Riscorla returned to the burning building and was last seen on the 10th floor still leading, still comforting, still inspiring. Almost prophetically, he died as he had wished; performing a great deed. In all, over 3000 people died in the attacks of that day, yet only 6 of the 2700 in Rick Riscorla’s care perished. 

The life and philosophy of men like Rick Riscorla could best be described in a poem by Jack London; 

“I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

As I am often reminded, there are things worse than death. Living with no grace, no purpose, and no passion is one of them. Rick Riscorla knew that. So he lived life with grace. He lived life with passion. He lived life with purpose.

And he died the same way. 

I love baseball.  I played the game almost every single day of every single summer when I was a kid.  When I wasn’t playing baseball I was watching it.  Every Saturday I sat transfixed in front of our black and white TV set watching the NBC Game of the Week with Pee Wee Reese and Dizzy Dean.  On weeknights I would sit with my ear to our big upright console radio and listen to the games, especially when my beloved New York Yankees played the Chicago White Sox.  With paper and pencil in hand I would keep score, taking in every word of every second of the broadcast. 

Winters, though filled with some other childhood pursuits, were long and grew longer with each passing day in the anticipation of the coming baseball season. 

I understood what baseball legend Rogers Hornsby meant when he said, “People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball.  I'll tell you what I do.  I stare out the window and wait for spring.” 

Did I mention the New York Yankees?  I was a fan of the Yankees, the real Yankees.  The Yankees of the late 50s and early 60s.  The Yankees of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.  The Yankees of Bobby Richardson and Tony Kubek.  The Yankees of Yogi Berra and Whitey Ford.  The Yankees of Elston Howard and Clete Boyer.  Man, I loved those Yankees. 

My grandfather took me to Chicago’s Comiskey Park on a hot, sunny, Saturday afternoon in 1961 to see the Yankees and White Sox battle it out.  Mantle and Maris were in the midst of that amazing home run derby season when Maris would ultimately smack 61 round trippers to break the “unbreakable” record that Babe Ruth had held. Seeing my heroes in person in old Comiskey is a magical memory I will cherish all the way to my grave. 

Yes, I love baseball.  I love it because it has something most other sports lack.  It sets its own pace.  There is no clock to rush the game along.  It can be short or it can be long.  The game determines its own length. 

I love baseball because it has grace.  In my opinion there is nothing as beautiful and intricate as a ground ball up the middle with the bases loaded and everyone – I mean everyone – moving to their designated spot to take a relay throw or back up a base or home plate.  It is ballet on a stage of dirt and grass. 

There is elegance in the cat-and-mouse game that gets played between pitchers and hitters, and pitchers and base runners.  There is strategy in play on every pitch, to every batter, in every inning. 

Mostly, I love baseball because it is still the same game I watched as a kid some 50 years ago.  Sure, the parks and the names have changed.  Today there is the ever present talk of drugs and trades and contract disputes, but in the end all those things are discussions for the newspapers and locker rooms and the nightly ESPN broadcast. 

Between the lines baseball remains the same graceful, elegant game of my youth.  Between the lines lies a true “field of dreams” for many young boys today just as it was for me so many years ago.  Every dusty playground diamond is Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium and every pick-up game is the seventh game of the World Series. 

I love baseball because when it is played as it should be played it is a microcosm of how life should be lived.  It is a game of grace, purpose, and passion,  and every pitch, every movement and every moment demands and is deserving of our utmost devotion. 

Baseball and life go together like the ballpark and a hot dog.  There is one huge difference between the two, however.  Baseball is played for a season, a few brief but shining months of the year, and a few fleeting hours of the day. 

On the other hand, life is something we are given to live each and every day.  We wake up each morning and choose our path, our attitude, our purpose for that day.  We can waste it or we can delight in it.  We can simply endure it or we can live it with grace, purpose and passion. 

Life is an everyday pick-up game.   In the end, it’s even better than baseball.

Have you ever had a dream die? Most all of us have at some time or another. Perhaps it was the dream of being a professional athlete and that dream crumbled under a college knee injury or more likely from a sudden realization that you simply were not—and would never be—good enough.

Perhaps it was the dream of a life to be spent with that perfect someone that you had finally just met, only to see that dream shattered when you find that your perfect mate doesn’t see you in the same light.

Perhaps it was the dream of building that business you always saw yourself owning , that business that was destined to set the world on its ear and sit up and take notice. Only that dream died, like the others, for any number of possible reasons.

Dreams come in a million different colors and variations and they die in an equally staggering number of different ways.

That a dream we possess struggles and dies a terrible death is not necessarily a tragedy. If we dare to dream we face the likely reality of the death of that dream. The tragedy, however, is to live the rest of our life in mourning that dream, a mourning which robs us of any possibility of dreaming other dreams. And sometimes those dreams will be even greater, even grander, evern more profoundly impacting, than any dream we have previously dreamed. 

There are several things us prospective dreamers need to remember. 

First, if you are afraid of pain, don’t dream. If you can’t face the possibility of seeing your dream die, don’t dream in the first place. The more you dream, the more likely you are to see your dreams die. That is the reality. Face it. Deal with it.

Second, if and when you experience the death of a dream, don’t let the pain of the moment rob you of the invaluable lessons that can be learned in those moments. Stay alert. Keep a clear eye. 

Third, mourn, but only for a set period of time. The loss of a dream, like the loss of any person or possession that we love and value, must be mourned. We must go through the process of letting go. Allow yourself that time. Mourn. Cry. Scream in anger, if necessary. Shout at God a bit. (he understand, by the way).

Then, get up. Pick up the pieces. Clean up. Put a smile on your face. Move on.

Finally, dream the next dream. Songwriter Larry Gatlin penned a wonderful song titled “One Dream Per Customer” in which he asked the question; “Is life a simple matter of one dream per customer, or are we allowed all we dare to dream”. When we are in the midst of dreaming and planning our big dream—THE dream—it is hard for us to imagine and believe that there are more dreams where that came from. There are. Dream again. Yes, you might face another death if you do, but that’s ok. Dream anyway. Never let the death of one dream cause you to abort other dreams that are growing within you.

Dream on, dreamer.   

I’ve been through proceedures that placed five stents around my heart. I’ve had back surgery to repair damage done during my carpenter days. I possess a lifetime’s worth of arthritis. I’ve been poked, prodded, and invaded during all those tests my doctor suggested for a “man my age”. Still, nothing—and I mean nothing—has made me feel as old as I’m feeling right now.

I’m using a walker.  A WALKER for pity’s sake!

Granted, it is temporary (hopefully). Nonetheless, I feel every bit of my 69 years plus 20 or so more. 

To be honest, I’ve been pushing a walker for a number of years. You know them as shopping carts. Whether cruising the aisles at Walmart, K-Mart, Kohl’s, Menards, or Lowes, or any store that offers those little four wheel beauties, I grab one when I go in the door.  Somehow I always manage to get the one that has one front wheel aimed 45 degrees off center so I get a bit of extra exercise fighting it through the various departments of the store. Most of the time I actually don’t need the cart for shopping so I simply look as though I have great intentions of buying all sorts of goodies. Sure, I feel a little embarrassed when I approach the check-out stand with my cart and its contents consisting of just a greeting card, but I’m 69. I have no pride. 

Using a walker is just another of those reality checks that come with aging. If you haven’t experienced one yet, just sit tight. Your day is coming. When it does be thankful if the reality check is nothing more than using a walker. There are far, far worse realities. 

So, I’m thankful for my little four wheeled friend. It has been a great help in getting from point A to point B and to points beyond, even if it is a huge pain in the butt (and back) on stairs. Nontheless, I am going to use it to fullest advantage. 

You’re certainly familiar with the old adage, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”.  As I said, I’m hopeful my need for the walker is just temporary. That could change. Should the walker become my constant companion, I’m going to make lemonade. I’m going to have fun with it. Mine will be the coolest, most hopped-up, souped-up, snazzy, hip, cool, groovy walker yet to be seen. I envision headlights, tail lights, running lights, a crazy loud eight track player (They’ve gone out of style? Really?). Oh, yes, and turn signals. Not that us old folks ever use them. 

Why not?  It’s just aging. If you can’t fight it, make the best of it. Laugh a lot (when you’re not crying) and make the most of it. 

It’s here to stay.