Stadium Memories

 So we've had a fun first part of Pesach -- avoiding any actual seders the first night and having a VERY fun non seder, seder on night 2. The Ds, boys, Paul, Patricia and I all met at Casa D2, and Jonathan and I had a few Stoli Elit martinis -- Patricia had some  Harvester wine. No one else was drinking -- Paul's been teetotaling it for FAR too long, the Ds and Wifey....ugh.

Anyway, D2 read from her IPhone, we ate delicious Turkish take in, and had a terrific time -- even though Betsy kept shark-like appearing and stealing food from Baby Man, not to his happiness...

Last night, D1 dropped off Little Man on her way home from a Palmetto Bay dinner, and he spent the night. It was already late and he crashed -- I re-homed him early, and then  D2 came by, I drove her back to her place, and we had coffee with Jonathan -- deconstructing the holiday, of course.

And tonight is the grand opening of Freedom Park, the new soccer stadium butt next to MIA, and all I can thing of is its absurdity. First, I'd rather watch paint dry (my favorite metaphor for boring) than soccer, and the fact that the Mas family and Beckham built this thing exactly where you have to enter already too traffic choked MIA shows the power and corruption in our town. A neighbor was just complaining how it's taking months to get permits for an outdoor kitchen -- they slapped this 27K thing up in no time.

Whatever -- so long as I don't have to leave MIA around game times...

But I AM going to a sporting event tonight -- Kenny got some free tix to see the Canes baseball team play, on account of he's a retired Navy man and vets get free crap all the time. He DID retire as a captain, but it's not like he got shot at while he was on the Saratoga during Desert Storm...

He's bringing a few friends -- I haven't been to Mark Light Stadium in a few years, and always love it -- especially the memories of watching games with Eric and Barry in the early 80s. The Canes were always great but never won a ring until '82, sadly the year my Dad died, and so I missed the excitement. They won 3 more, and typically make the World Series, though lately they've struggled.

But on a typical Spring night, Barry would be studying Chemistry of some such, and I would say "Hey - Neil Heaton's pitching -- let's go." He would protest, but even before law school I was a convincing guy, and we would go -- what, I asked, would he remember more in decades -- Organic or P Chem -- or Canes games. I was right -- and he got into med school nonetheless.

Back in the day, the Orioles would Spring train in Miami, and they would play at least one game at Mark Light. I recall standing next to Ken Singleton and being shocked what a giant he was -- baseball is a game we less than stellar athletes think we can somehow play -- like Charlie Hough, with a beer belly and a multi pack cigarette habit. Maybe not so much...

So I'm off soon to meet Kenny and his dudes at Titanic -- a favorite place. It was KC Cagney's in college -- before that it was The Flick Coffeehouse, where the house comedian was  Gabe Kaplan, and Fred Neill, who wrote "Everybody's Talkin" used to play. A fellow named David Crosby played there, too, and one night met a shy blonde singer from Canada there -- they went back to Crosby's sailboat in Coconut Grove and worked on their tunes, and decided the coming scene was in Laurel Canyon in LA -- the blonde was Joni Mitchell. She probably doesn't remember anymore -- poor thing looks like she belongs in a nursing home.

Or maybe she has her memories still. I have mine -- and will create a few tonight.

Elder Abuse And Triggering a Memory

 So the Herald today began what will clearly be a series of articles about how DCF "kidnaps" elderly folks and places them in crappy ALFs and steals their money. One tale was about a retired accountant living alone and a hoarder, who went for an evaluation and ended up in a place in Hialeah that he called "Devil's Island." His niece in California was apparently the only Power of Attorney -- the article doesn't say why he didn't have competent local help -- and he spent a few years in poor care before he was placed in an apparently acceptable ALF in North Miami that he likes.

The article brought back a bad memory from about 15 years ago, when I was a Guardian ad Litem for a teenaged girl. Paul, he of more bleeding heart than I, got heavily involved with the program -- he was GAL for several kids and became friends with the Chief Judge at the time, Cindy Lederman. Paul convinced me to take the certification class, which was over several weekends in some dated facility in Allapatah, as I recall, and I became a GAL, too.

My first ward was an unusual teen. She came from a terrible background -- coke addict Mom with a series of boyfriends who beat up Mom and C, the girl, and when I met her, she was living in a group home for teen girls over by ZooMiami -- actually a very nice house on a nice street. We got to know each other a bit -- but here was the thing -- she was tested with a genius IQ. I saw reports from her teachers, and she was a talented writer. She was pretty, and I watched as she switched her demeanor -- speaking "white" to me and changing to ghetto when one of the other inner city girls spoke to her.

I met her over several months -- explaining that with her talents -- she could probably got to Harvard on a full scholarship -- just keep on the path she was on, having escaped a hellish childhood -- and she could be a female Obama. I even brought D2 with me on a visit -- home from UF -- to share happy tales of college life -- in hopes that would inspire C.

It was not to be. She got pregnant with her boyfriend, a convicted felon, and decided to keep her baby since "I will finally have someone who loves and needs me." Turns out, that's what's behind many teen pregnancies...

This led to a case management conference, which I attended by telephone. There were, no kidding, SEVEN paid DCF and fellow traveler people on the line -- psychologists, case managers, social workers, and their aides. All I could think of was my growing property tax bill and now knowing why it was growing. 

It was decided that the trailer C planned to move into when the baby came, with felon baby daddy, needed to be inspected. It was in DEEP Florida City. The 7 DCFers said to me "As GAL, you need to go check it out." 

I lost it -- reminding them of the group on the call, I was the only volunteer! Could one of them, paid nice government salaries, maybe make the visit? One of the bosses, a cool Black fellow I later met (he was flattered when I told him he resembled one of my childhood heroes, Walt Frazier) agreed, and asked one of the flunkies to make the visit. Lord.

Then C gave birth, and another conference. They told me they wished me to be GAL for the baby, too. I pointed out there could be no clearer conflict -- what if I decided the baby needed to be removed, but my existing client, C, wanted to keep the baby. The baby clearly needed his own advocate.

I got a call a few days later. They found someone who would be GAL for both -- my services were no longer needed. I got a copy of the Court Order relieving me of my duties.

Probably a better man and lawyer would have plowed on -- finding a new needy youth to help -- but my aversion to morons and moronic institutions won out. That was my last foray into the world of DCF.

Paul presses on, and I praise him for it. He goes bi-weekly to a grade school in Liberty City and helps out. He has befriended the principal, Lamar, and enjoys his time there with the kids. I am proud he does these things -- I plan to toast him tonight at our family's non seder, seder.

Wifey's friend Cara sold her condo a few years back for 7 figures and paid a huge entry fee into a concierge place in Aventura -- she lives in a regular unit, and is guaranteed admittance to ALF and nursing home if needed.

Cara is youthful and beautiful and I was kind of surprised at her decision. But she explained she has no kids or grandkids, no family (a younger sister in Arizona died of cancer) and she knew she needed to take care of herself in the future, assuming she declines. I get it.

When she moved in, the facility told her to invite all her friends for a dinner -- an obvious marketing ploy -- maybe one of us might with to cut an $800K check for admittance, too. We went, and the food and room were top notch. But then...as you walk to the elevators, there are a bunch of wheelchairs and drooling folks.

Recently, she invited Wifey and me to lunch there. I told Wifey it is my life's intent to NEVER set foot in a "retirement community" as the running joke on The Sopranos goes, again. So now Wifey is engaged in negotiations -- neither Cara nor her BFF Ronnie, who now lives where Paul does, wish to drive anymore, and Wifey and her bad back don't wish to drive to Aventura, either.

I imagine my former "client," C, must be in her late 20s now. When I was discharged, I told her to reach out to me anytime if I could help her. I never heard from her. I hope she is well -- her baby must be in high school now, himself. Hopefully his Mom's superior intellect has helped them along.

And as for Wifey and me? Hopefully we live right here in Villa Wifey for the duration -- bringing in aides if they become needed. As my neighbor the rich widow Judy said the other day: "As long as one of you is functional -- you're golden."

I guess we'll see...

Into The Maw of Bureaucracy

 So Wifey and I successfully avoided First Seder on account of we figure without kids -- we don't have to do that no more. The boys are with Joey and his family, D2 and Jonathan are with Jonathan's half brother and their whole family, and D1 is at old family friends --- texting us that apparently a Lefty Boomer is starting political discussions to great hilarity. Wifey and I ate some schmura matzah, and that was it. And then, since I am OCD and learned I can apply for Medicare the first day of 3 months before I turn 65, I set out to do that.

I joined the SSA website years ago, and check it for accuracy and dream of the checks I'll start getting at either 67 or 70, depending on which theory I choose. The increase is 8% per year, but since I would probably just invest the money anyway, if I lose out of those 3 years, it may make less sense. Plus, if I don't live that long, it will have made sense to start earlier.

But Medicare -- hell -- I WANT that July 1. So I signed on, and couldn't find a place to actually register for Medicare. I called a few govt folks, and then -- I got an error message. I got through to a worker, pleasant enough but who kept telling me I couldn't apply for Medicare until May anyway, until she realized that in fact April was 3 months before. Lord.

But then she said she found the problem. SSA has me being born July 12, not 18. What????? The site has been letting me on and showing my correct birthday for years now -- why the mistake? Well, she said, she would make me an appointment at the SSA office in Cutler Bay for Monday -- and they would work it out for me.

Great. Precisely what I was hoping to avoid -- actually interfacing with government people. My passport renewal was fine -- did it all on my phone without even having to visit a passport office. But now I have to schlep to SW 211 Street Monday am.

Wifey had to go once, as she has a complicated name situation -- sometimes she used her birth name, but later the less old Jewish lady Hebrew name. So she had to visit the office, too, when she was getting Medicare, and had an appointment but still had to wait a few hours.

I have the time, of course, but not the patience. But, as Tony S says -- what are ya gonna do? I plan on bring my passport, driver's license, and even birth certificate. Probably they'll ask for a water bill, too.

July 12? What the hell. Must have been that the 8 looked like a 2 sometime during the past 50 years. Who knows? Hopefully I get 'er done and stop those $2200 per month Obamacare premiums after June...

Meanwhile, tomorrow we have our non-seder, seder. We plan to bring in Middle Eastern food from a place called Turko -- and Paul and Patricia will be joining us.  Paul joked that he plans to lead a formal seder that will last hours. I told him after Jonathan and I down a few martinis -- he can do whatever he wants.

The boys will take part in a tradition -- watching the Rug Rats Passover episode. They love it -- it'll become sort of our family holiday movie tradition -- like watching "It's a Wonderful Life."

I think Friday Little Man gets another sleepover before I re-home him before noon Saturday -- then off to see soccer in Naples -- the team his uncle owns.

Kenny scored some free Canes baseball tix on account of being a Navy veteran -- haven't been in a few years and am looking forward to that.

Speaking of Navy, a former Navy Captain just piloted a moon rocket tonight -- Artemis II -- first trip to the moon since 1972. It brought back memories -- I wanted to be an astronaut since I can remember -- like the vast majority of American boys of our era. It was sweet to see the craft blast off and go into orbit. I guess the plan is to land again in 2028 -- maybe this time they'll find Alice Kramden...

So this is Pesach. Wifey has on a TV service from some Reform temple in NYC -- girl rabbis. Ha. What's next?

Here's to a great unleavened week...

The House Where It's Impossible to Be Lonely

 Pesach draws nigh, as Elizabethan rabbis used to say. And like most holidays, for me it's time to take stock -- looking forward and backwards.

Friday we drove up to D1's house and had a Chick Fil A shabbos -- sandwiches all around, and then the lighting of candles and sharing of challah. We drove home with Little Man in tow -- he slept most of the way since he has an aversion to sleeping an entire night.

We got him set up, and he wound down with his IPad, which he loves. Finally, I walked him to his room, and he fell asleep -- up BEFORE first light, against our rules. I let him climb into bed with us and await the first photons visible in the sky -- and then we headed to House of Bagels, where they had his favorite black and white cookies, and he made sure to remind me to get an extra since his Ippi, a/k/a Wifey, "always finds and eats them."

Wifey arose, and we headed to Neighborhood Fish Farm, for some replacement cichlids and plecos. The koi did fine during the coldest weather we've had in years, but the tropical cichlids and plecos -- not so much. This kid. We arrived, and he went right up to one of the workers and said "Can we have a tour?" We got one, and he got to touch the small plecos in the net -- taking them home and letting them swim free in the pond.

Afterwards, I needed to run some errands and tried to entice him like I used to entice his mother and Tia -- D2 -- but he didn't bite. At home, his parents have CONSTANT activities for him, and with us, he savors "just chilling." As he said "Grandpa -- if I come along, that will cut into my chill time." I didn't disagree. I fetched his favored Anthony's Coal Fired wings and came home.

And it occurred to me that we again had what we first did in the late 80s -- a house I called "a place where it's impossible to be lonely." Back then,there was a was a huge, goofy black lab named Midnight, and an adorable Cocker Spaniel named Alfred. There was the textbook adorable baby and then toddler, D1. Later, in the next house 2 miles West, there was D2. Wherever you looked, there was activity -- canine or child related.

Now, in our much larger house, we're down to one elderly Spaniel who is anything BUT lively. And Wifey tends to putter around outside, or sit in her recliner. The house is blessedly quiet, and chill -- but when Baby Man and Little Man arrive -- instant life!

Saturday night he fell asleep with his headphones on watching said IPad. I was passing out -- Wifey walked him to his bed across the small hall. He slept soundly until 530 -- then up -- leftover bagel and more chilling. I re-homed him early -- his mother had tickets to a K Pop party near their house. The boys were adorably dressed when I left.

I came home...and napped. Parenting small ones is a job for the young -- surely younger than this about to be Medicaire eligible guy with a wife 5 years in already.

As I write this today, the doors are open and a lovely Spring breeze is blowing through -- the Spaniel sleeps on the sofa. Wifey is at the dentist.

I just fielded a call from Rabbi Yossi -- inviting me as he does yearly to either the community or personal seder. I told him we were all set, but WOULD enjoy the special, extra pure matzah he delivered to our house.

Actually, the plan is to skip Night One, and meet the Ds and their men night 2 either at a local restaurant, or bringing in food -- their call.

And even without the tumult of small ones, or lively dogs -- I still find it impossible to be lonely. I have the decades of my life's work -- the home I built with Wifey and the Ds, to look back and forward upon.

The quiet is kind of nice...

Estrangement

 Not long ago, I read an article that claims up to 1/3 of American adults are estranged from at least one member of their family. I was kind of taken aback by that high number, though I guess I shouldn't have been.

Among my inner circle, estrangement is an unknown thing. Sure -- my friends all have had and have plenty of tensosity with parents, siblings, and adult kids, but no estrangements. For SOME of my friends, marrying into the family gives the new in law an almost Mafia-like status -- shared intimate information goes to them, even over long time friendships.

The article went on to state that often the estrangements are a good thing -- better to cut off a toxic relative and go live your life than try to maintain ties that continually disappoint and hurt you.

My Ds are close but also very different. They process life events differently. But as long as I live, at least, they will NOT be estranged -- at least if they wish to benefit from Wifey and my comedic generosity. Yesterday, during a Zoom meeting with our personal CPA Mark, he was reminded about nearly 7 figures worth of mortgages we hold on the Ds' houses, at statutorily minimal rates. The mortgages will likely be forgiven rather than repaid, if all goes to plan. Later, on a post Zoom call, Mark told me NONE of his clients in our financial status (he has plenty machers where money is essentially a non-issue) do what Wifey and I have done. And the one thing that shuts off that spigot is if the Ds estrange. Better never happen.

There's a sadness, of course. Wifey and I consider our grandsons sacred -- it is inconceivable, as Vizzini said in "The Princess Bride," that we would ever lose touch with them. And yet I've seen it happen.

Years ago, a close friend completely cut off her father, following the death of her mother. I never understood, fully, until years later when I got to have a long talk with another family member, and learned that the father, who to us seemed a kindly, old Jewish retiree was in reality a bitter and angry man who took out his disappointments about his lack of success in life on his family. After his wife died, his daughter saw no point in continuing to have any contact. He lived probably 15 years with zero contact, and her sons and husband learned years after the fact that he had died out of state. Hey -- it was her call.

Recently someone reminded me of a long estrangement of grandparents and now adult grandkids. I felt bad, and briefly thought about pulling a "Then Came Bronson" move. That was a show in the early 70s where Bronson would ride into town on his Harley, fix whatever problem a town was having, and then ride off into the sunset. Maybe I could contact the grandkids, now fully adult, though I haven't spoke to them in years, and try to get them to at least contact their grandparents -- both of whom are in the deep sunset of their lives.

I reflected on this last night, over a rare solo cocktail. I always say I only drink with friends, but last night Wifey was out and about somewhere on our property, it was a gorgeous evening, and my front porch with Sonos playing Grateful Dead beckoned. So I squeeze a couple of Mandarins into a glass with a big cube, filled it with Ketel, and grabbed the elderly Spaniel.

It was exquisite. I listened carefully to Robert Hunter's sage lyrics on "Box of Rain," his reflection on the brevity of life, conceived as he was traveling to a nursing home for his final goodbye to his dying father. Turns out -- Hunter is a great, great grandson of classic Scottish poet Robert Burns -- hmmm-- genetics CAN work, it turns out.

The final lyric is amazing, about life: "Such a long, long time to be gone, and a short time to be there." And I made up my mind -- I ain't no Bronson -- best to keep my beak out of most streams.

It also occurred to me that it was a great thing I went to law school instead of getting a PhD in English, my alternative choice. I would have ended up far poorer, as mentor Judy Davidoff warned, but worse: I would have truly been insufferable: spouting off my supposed wisdom to everyone, thinking my education made me the smartest guy in the room and making up for my lack of material success with ego boosting, to me, intellect. I shudder to think...

This am, as Wifey stirred at sunrise, I asked her advice, but not really. I gave her a script to recite after I shared my thoughts of this family incursion: "No, David, you have more than enough on your plate -- keep the hell out of the affairs of those you last spoke with over a decade past."

She performed well, and even added, for free, some further thoughts: how would I react if some cousin contacted me and told me I "Should" reach out to another cousin...just because they were blood and needed comfort. Yeah -- wouldn't happen. Won't happen here.

So peace be upon the estranged -- far and near. All I can do, for as long as I can, is keep it from happening 'round here.

From The River To The Sea...Leaf Blowers Are Again Free

 Living in our upscale, leafy suburb, little annoyance take on outsize importance -- luckily. Recently one involved leaf blowers -- our left leaning, well intentioned Village Commission outlawed gas ones on account of noise and pollution, and sent us a warning letter saying next time the blower police caught us -- $500 fine.

Our Commish and next mayor Shannon, who is smart and easy on the eyes (not that there's anything wrong with that) patiently explained to me the rationale -- our Village noise ordinance essentially prevented ANY of the gas models from operating -- and if they bumped up the allowable decibels, neighbors could have ragers and other parties with South Beach or Ultra noise levels. So it made more sense to outlaw the gas machines -- and Shannon and her husband Skip (his actual nickname -- he's not hard on the eyes, either, according to the ladies I know) just bought their own electric model and keep it for their lawn guy. Fine -- I was well explained, and Wifey indeed bought an electric model which our lawn guy uses with utter disdain.

Well...this am I read in the Herald that our governor just signed a law -- preventing local governments from outlawing gas blowers! The GOP is, of course, the Party of small government and believes local municipalities are best left to govern themselves. Ha. As if.

So now it appears our electric blower is vestigial -- maybe I'll ship it to NYC where they probably have laws against the gas models, too, and a Commie mayor who actually enforces them.

Speaking of which, some people can get enough of videos of Pro Hamas morons chanting "From The River to the Sea...Palestine Must Be Free" and then they're asked WHICH River and WHICH Sea and they have zero clue.

But locally, our emancipated gas machines ARE free from our river (canal running alongside US 1) to the Sea (Biscayne Bay). This makes me feel encouraged for liberty going forward...

So yesterday, I got a text from Barry saying he had a meeting at UM's Coral Gables campus -- was I free for dinner. It actually read "Are you free this Thrs evening?"  When I read the text, distractedly as my trainer Jonathan and I were Talmudically debating an issue about a "Sopranos" episode, I missed the "Thrs" part and thought he was coming last night! When his 6 pm time turned to 630 I texted him -- thinking there was another tragedy he was dealing with. He FaceTimed from home -- no -- not LAST night -- THURSDAY night." This is how airplanes crash.

Since he was on anyway, and safely home, I poured a Ketel, and Wifey accepted a Cosmo -- since her mah jong friends crowed about them. The 3 of us had a Monday night FaceTime Happy Hour where we recalled Scott and Sam's wedding in DC last year, and all of the back stories that accompanied that storied event.

Then, I watched the new Taylor Sheridan series "Madison" with Wifey, shocked at how much I enjoyed this mere soap opera involving a dead husband, Goldie Hawn's real life guy, and Michelle Pfeiffer, at 67 still easy on the eyes, at least to my nearly 65 year old eyes. Great writing and acting, even though not much of a tale. Must be the reduced testosterone that accompanies a man's aging.

Tonight, Norman IS due over here, and we will cruise up to The Pines and fetch Barry for a Panthers game. I think I have the day correct this time.

Wait -- are those gas blowers I hear outside? Freedom news must travel fast...

Time's Passages

 So one year ago today, most of our family was in D.C. for Scott, my nephew of another mister's, Big, Fat, D.C. Media Wedding, as I labeled it, to Samantha. It was quite a weekend -- they married at the gorgeous Conrad Hotel, and we took the boys to the Air and Space Museum, and saw old friends of the Ds, and walked with Paul and Patricia around his alma mater, G.W. 

It was only moderate cherry blossom time, but we didn't care. I was surrounded by Eric, and Mike, and Norman, and Paul, and their ladies (those who came) and it was terrific to watch Barry and Donna and their new consuegros David and Nancy put on an amazing weekend.

I wished the newlyweds happy anniversary, and then looked back. A LOT has happened this past year -- people coming, people going, as it is said in "The Grand Hotel," health challenges among those very close to me, and some losses.

Barry and I are meeting later for dinner -- he's at Coral Gables campus for a meeting today. We were texting about a child in therapy learning to tie strings, and he sent me an excerpt from the autobio of Tom Starzl, the father of modern transplant surgery, about how one of his proteges couldn't tie surgical knots, and became an amazing surgeon -- worked at UM, then Hollywood, and is now retired. I recalled meeting Starzl on a case, where we advocated for an ERISA plan to pay for a kidney/pancreas transplant, and Starzl directed me to a wizard named Dave Sutherland in Minnesota, who agreed to come to Miami to testify, and did so, after Hurricane Andrew, before Lenore Nesbitt, a very sharp judge who kept asking the doc to slow down since he spoke as fast as his gifted hands moved.

I looked up David Sutherland, and learned, spookily, that he died EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO -- on Scott and Sam's anniversary -- at 85. Again -- people come and people go.

It still strikes me though how the more years you have, the shorter they seem. I still recall being 16 and buying tickets to see Neil Young at the Nassau Colisseum. The show was 4 months away, and it seemed FOREVER. Now, 4 months? Ain't no big thing -- hell -- I ought to be on Medicare by then.

Somehow long friendships at 20, if you're lucky, turn into half century friendships when you're mid 60s. Funny how those numbers work.

A year ago, right before the wedding, I got some very tough news -- a big change in our family I wasn't expecting. At the rehearsal dinner, Eric noticed I wasn't my usual, 4 drink convivial self, and he asked Wifey. Wifey shared the news -- next am, Eric called -- let's go to the Starbucks across the street and talk.

It was probably the longest and most intimate talk we've shared since we were undergrads. I told him things for the first time -- about his family -- things allowed to be shared years after deaths. And he took me back in time -- to July of 1982, when I was at my lowest -- having lost my beloved Dad, and he slept on a mattress in my room at my Mom's condo.

I knew I had a brother. Last year, I knew I still did. I will remember that forever.

I got a text today from my law school mate and Fla Bar roomie Harlan. He saw an article about a 10 year in federal prison fraudster who was advertising again, now in his late 70s, to consult on business matters. Harlan found that hilarious. I know the guy -- did my firm a major solid on a Receivership before he went away, as they say.

Harlan thanked me, as he always does, for keeping him laughing and calm back in July of '86, during the time in Tampa. Harlan was already married with a toddler -- passing the test was criticial for him. It was important for me, as my asshole, anti semitic boss made clear if I failed I was fired the next day -- but Wifey was making more than I was as a rookie lawyer and we'd have gotten by.

Harlan just retired, finally, after a career as a defense lawyer, then claimants lawyer, then in house for an insurance company lawyer. Now he's mediating -- could he do one for us? I told him my firm is in only the referral mode -- I don't pick the mediators. But I DID appear on a Zoom hearing last week, as a Guardiam Ad Litem for a minor's settlement -- eh -- that's enough for awhile.

So here's to Scott and Sam. May this be, as Chicago sang, only the beginning. May they bless my dear friends Barry and Donna with grandkids. Harlan, father of a doctor (OB/GYN, no less) and a lawyer in Boston -- no grandkids. Wifey and I kind of like ours...

And so time passes, ticking into the future, as Steve Miller sang. It's kind of cool to watch it pass.