Category: Life

The Story of My Life

June 1, 2021 / Paul E. Veith

If you ever met my Mom, you probably heard The Story. But you didn’t get the whole story.

Imagine this. You are a woman and married at 18, to a man roughly two years older, recently out of the Marine Corps. He had barely a high school education and an uncertain future, but he was handsome and a bit of a rake, and you were about to start a journey together that would last six decades.

You start having kids at 19, in 1950. First a girl. Then a boy, and a girl … and a boy. And then a run of four more girls. (With two miscarriages sprinkled in for good measure.) By 1960, you are the mother of eight children, from newborn to 10 years old. Somehow, you and your husband had just lived through a blur of a decade of baby bottles and diapers and jobs and half-baked business ventures.

After your eighth child is born, you become pregnant again. That’s just what you did. You carry another child nearly to term, but late in the pregnancy you feel something’s not right. The baby isn’t moving. The doctors confirm your fear, and you give birth to a stillborn baby girl. You return home to the house full of eager big brothers and big sisters ready to add another to their brood, but without a baby. The crib that had been readied got banished to storage, or somewhere else.

At that point, a doctor counsels that your child-bearing days are over, that your body cannot take any more, and that another pregnancy could threaten your life. Though you were heartbroken to have lost that little girl, you follow his advice and have a tubal ligation performed. That’ll do it, you think.

And then, in late 1964, when you start feeling a little off. You tell your husband, “if I didn’t know any better, I would think I am pregnant.” You visit the doctor and a pregnancy test confirms the unthinkable. You are pregnant, again. After having decided on a procedure that would prevent you from ever hearing these words again, you hear them loud and clear: “you’re pregnant.”

Imagine that.

If you’ve heard the abridged version of The Story, you know the punchline: the person on the receiving end of that news was my Mom, and I was the surprising addition to the family. Number 9. And I am typing these words because she made a decision to give me a chance at life.

* * *

My mother died on Memorial Day. She was 90 years old. Her last two weeks or so were spent at home, in her bedroom, under hospice care. A series of chronic medical issues, mini-strokes, falls, and a pandemic that confined her to her apartment for the better part of 15 months sapped what remained of her physical health and her will to live. She was ready to go, and my siblings and I all came to the conclusion that it was time to let her go. She died peacefully, having lived a full life. She is reunited with my father, who died in 2009, and the third oldest of my siblings, Elaine, who died in 2015.

* * *

My Mom spent the last couple decades of her life in Park Ridge, Illinois, first in the condominium she shared with my Dad, and for the last two years in her own apartment in a nice, new assisted living facility that she jokingly called “The Home.”

Though I’ve made the drive from my home to “The Home” many times, last Wednesday’s drive was different. On that particular drive, The Story came rushing to the front of my mind and wouldn’t go away. I’ve heard The Story dozens of times, usually when my Mom had cornered some unsuspecting neighbor or colleague on the occasion of some gathering. The Story was one that my Mom never hesitated to share, no matter the audience or occasion. The Story became her shtick.

And that was okay with me, though I rolled my eyes a lot. Truth be told, throughout my life, The Story never really fazed me. OK, my Mom was done having kids, I snuck through. Thank goodness for medical malpractice. On rare occasions, a sibling might have said, “you were a mistake” or “you weren’t even supposed to be here” – to which my Mom would always say, if she heard, “don’t listen to them, you were a blessing.” I was never fazed because I did not much care how it all came down. It was always good enough for me to be alive, if not anticipated.

* * *

What hit me on that drive last Wednesday was a realization that the frail, dying woman I was about to visit had faced a gigantic decision more than five decades ago, and I owe my very existence to the choice she made at that moment in time. My Mom was baptized and confirmed a Lutheran, but she did not regularly attend church as an adult and no one would peg her a “religious woman.” I am certain that her decision to give birth to me was not compelled by dogma or fear that terminating her pregnancy would lead to her eternal damnation – maybe in part because Lutherans aren’t big on dogma or eternal damnation. But I am equally certain that her decision was supported by a simple, almost quaint faith that God’s will would be done. That is, against evidence and professional counseling, she followed her instincts and gave it up to God. That kind of thought process is the very definition of faith. Despite the prospect that it would all end terribly, or worse – she carried on with a little bit of faith.

Who really could have blamed her if she had made a different decision? Eight kids at home, all under 15. And then, “you’re pregnant”? Could anyone have blamed her for choosing to be done – forever – with baby bottles and diapers? Could anyone have blamed her for wanting to avoid the prospect of enduring the crushing disappointment of a second stillborn child? Could anyone have blamed her for wanting to avoid the tragedy of leaving eight children motherless trying to give birth to a ninth?

My oldest sister – who was 15 when I was born – does not recall any hesitation on my Mom’s part. And knowing my Mom as I did, I doubt that she made a show of the decision. After the initial shock of “you’re pregnant,” she most likely quickly decided to forge ahead with the pregnancy without a second thought. But beneath the surface, she must have been terrified of the prospect of a another stillborn child. In fact, I am told she did absolutely nothing to ready a room for an infant. No crib. No changing table. No diapers. Nothing. She lived in fear of being enveloped again in the darkness of a stillborn, or worse. She could not prepare herself for the joy of a newborn baby against the prospect of that darkness.

Once the news came back from the hospital in July of 1965 that she had given birth to a healthy, 5-pound, 7-ounce baby boy, friends and family scurried about setting up the house for my arrival. The darkness averted, my family prepared to squeeze one more child into the bungalow on Sacramento Avenue. With eight kids packed into two tiny bedrooms, I have no idea where they put me.

* * *

For reasons that now leave me feeling a little selfish, until last Wednesday I really had not thought much about the moment when my Mom was told, “you’re pregnant.” How did she react? Did she cry? Did she laugh? Did she curse the doctor who apparently botched the tubal ligation? I know now that she was terrified that she might carry another child to term, go into labor, leave for the hospital to give birth, and come home empty-handed. I never really, truly appreciated the gravity of the moment. Eight kids at home. A stillborn daughter. Tubal ligation. A high-risk pregnancy. No more diapers. No more bottles. Every kid off to school. Finally, she had started to see light at the end of a tunnel full of babies and toddlers. And then, out of the blue, “you’re pregnant.” Mom did not flinch. She made a decision, endured what must have been an excruciating pregnancy, and brought me into the world.

* * *

My Mom’s last few months (heck, years) have been a roller-coaster ride – for her and for her children. In recent weeks, after her umpteenth fall and hospitalization, she was intermittently in pain, agitated, always tired, mostly sleeping. For brief stretches, she rallied and communicated coherently. About 10 days ago, she noticed I was wearing a golf shirt and asked if I had played. “Yep,” I said. “How’d you do?,” she said weakly. I said, “not so good, but I made a birdie on 18.” With my wife as my witness, my Mom’s face lit up and eyes got wide and she said, “You made a birdie!?! Good.” (Apparently, she understood the rarity of such an event.)

By last Wednesday, she was seemingly nearing the end, and she was resting. No pain. No agitation. Just the labored breathing of a dying woman. At that moment, I closed her bedroom door and we shared a room no more than a mile or two from Lutheran General Hospital, where she brought me into the world. Just the two of us, alone. Though I had thanked her many times for many things, I don’t think I’d ever thanked her – specifically – for making the choice that led to The Story. For soldiering through a high-risk pregnancy. But I did it. I said it out loud, through more tears than I’ve shed in a long, long time. And it felt good.

I cannot be certain that she heard me, but I’ll die believing she did. And I’ll die only because I lived, and I lived only because my Mom decided that I should have that chance. She was willing to face the prospect of darkness – or even death – to give me a chance to see the light of day.

* * *

Rest in peace, Mom. And forever, and finally, thank you.

A boy named Kyle

August 28, 2020 / Paul E. Veith

On Tuesday night, a boy named Kyle decided to make the 30-minute trip to Kenosha, Wisconsin, not far from his hometown of Antioch, Illinois. Antioch is just south of the Wisconsin border, about halfway between Chicago and Milwaukee. Kyle lived there with his mom in a small apartment near a park. He apparently dropped out of high school not too long ago.

I imagine Kyle had a bedroom, like most 17 year old boys do, decorated with posters of his heroes, or his favorite bands, or whatever. Maybe he had some pot or some booze stashed in a drawer, or maybe those things did not interest him at all. Maybe he owned a Bible and some comic books.

Sadly, Kyle likely will never see that bedroom again. He may never step foot in Antioch again. Right now, he’s in a juvenile detention center in Lake County, Illinois, awaiting extradition to Wisconsin.

Two people died and another was shot in Kenosha on Tuesday night. And Kyle Rittenhouse has been charged with multiple felonies, including two counts of first degree murder. Conviction could lead to life in prison. He allegedly killed a 26-year-old man and a 36-year-old man, and shot another. Two lives ended and one upended, it seems, by a baby-faced 17-year-old with a rifle. Reportedly, after Kyle shot his first victim, he was pursued by others trying to gain the police’s attention to have him apprehended. He tripped and fell, and he flailed around in the middle of a street pulling the trigger of a gun the others may have been trying to take away. At least that’s the picture painted, so far, by the many video accounts of Kyle’s night.

Kyle went to Kenosha Tuesday night, he’d tell you, to help bring law and order to that town. After a Black man was shot seven times in the back by a police officer over the weekend, Kenosha took center stage, adding another city’s name to 2020’s infamy. On cue, protests and chaos and violence followed the shooting, along with the predictable revelation a half-beat later of details about the victim of the shooting – a man named Jacob Blake. He had a knife, or was reaching for one. He had a rap sheet. He was resisting arrest.

It took seven shots, apparently, for multiple police officers to prevent whatever mayhem Blake was about to inflict on them as his three children sat in his car. In time, the shooting of Jacob Blake will be investigated and debated and will divide us some more. He was a thug who brought it on himself by resisting. Or he was another victim of regrettably inept policing, or worse. Those cases will be made. Americans won’t agree. These days, Americans never agree.

It’s almost a certainty Kyle did not know his victims. It’s almost a certainty that he did not hate his victims. To someone like Kyle, Kenosha was tantalizingly close – an attractive nuisance, you might say (if you completed a first-year law school curriculum). Kyle believed he had a job to do. I mean – he really believed he had a job do. A website, The Daily Caller, interviewed a young man identified as Kyle on the streets of Kenosha before the shooting, in front of a boarded-up business.

“So people are getting injured, and our job is to protect this business,” the young man said. “And part of my job is to also help people. If there is somebody hurt, I’m running into harm’s way. That’s why I have my rifle — because I can protect myself, obviously. But I also have my med kit.”
https://www.nbcchicago.com/news/local/who-is-kyle-rittenhouse-what-we-know-about-the-17-year-old-arrested-in-kenosha-shooting/2329610/

I suspect the idea of injecting himself into the chaos of Kenosha was irresistible. You see, Kyle had a deep respect for law enforcement and had even participated in programs for aspiring policemen. He wanted to be a Marine. He wanted to help. He wanted to protect property that was not his, in a town that was not his, in a state that was not his. And, of course, Kyle had guns and ammo, if not training or experience or any legal authority to participate in keeping the peace. And, as far as I can tell, Kyle was not promised a wage for his help, and his only reward that night was a thank you from the police, who offered water to Kyle and others toting guns, and told them they were appreciated.

If you are interested, you can watch Kyle’s night unfold on video here. Or read a little bit more about his background here.

So Many Questions

I typically sleep like a rock. When I was a kid myself – maybe 10 years old – a coach house on the alley of the narrow lot immediately next to my house caught on fire, so close that the flames charred our detached garage, which stood maybe six feet from the burning building. Multiple fire trucks were parked no more than 50 feet from my bedroom window and fire fighters shuffled up and down our driveway. I did not stir until someone came in and woke me from my slumber. Storms, barking dogs. I am pretty much impervious to all of it if I am sleeping.

Until 2020. Since March, I’ve awoken at night dozens of time – easily more this year than in all the nights of the balance of my adult life combined. Some might say my shrinking bladder has something to do with it, but that’s not fair to my bladder – it is holding up fairly well. Put simply, this year has been chock full of stuff that has had me rattled. I worry more than ever – about a whole lot of things, big and small – and worrying really isn’t my thing.

Early Thursday morning, I woke up again. This time, I was thinking about Kyle.

So many questions.

Did Kyle play Call of Duty, like my boys did when they were his age? Did Kyle imagine himself in a real-life video game Tuesday night as he roamed the streets of Kenosha with his rifle? Where did he get the rifle? Who suggested that he throw himself into the mess that was Kenosha on Tuesday night? Was he invited? Did he go as a member of a group of like-minded keepers-of-the-peace? Was he a militia member? How does one become a militia member?

How did Kyle get to Kenosha? Did he have a driver’s license? When he said, “I just killed somebody” on his mobile phone (a moment captured on video), who was on the other end? Was it his mom? A friend? Did Kyle have many friends? Any friends?

Lots of questions, no answers.

And then I thought of the pictures I had seen of Kyle, like the ones reproduced in this post. Just a kid. And I thought, did he play Little League baseball a few years ago? Did he ride bikes with his friends? Does he shave yet? Did he dream of having a family? And kids? Where did he learn to shoot guns? Who taught him to assemble and disassemble and clean his rifle? Where is his dad? Does he have siblings? Did any of the police he encountered on Tuesday night think it odd that a kid was walking around Kenosha toting an AR-15?

The Day My Dad Cried

June 21, 2020 / Paul E. Veith

Every father should remember one day his son will follow his example, not his advice.
charles kettering

On a hot summer day in 1980, my Dad and I sat on one side of a small table in a cramped interview room in the Albany Park police station on Pulaski Road on the Northwest Side of Chicago. I was within a week or so of my 15th birthday – I’m not sure on which side. On the other side of the table sat three of my best childhood friends. As we sat there, a detective questioned me and my friends, trying to piece together a strange series of events that had transpired over the prior 24 hours, which culminated with me chasing two semi-professional burglars out of my house in my boxer shorts, wielding a baseball bat.

My Dad mostly listened. And then – as if someone had turned the spigot of a faucet – the tears came. He sobbed. His whole body shook and heaved. Disappointment came crashing down on him, driving him well beyond simple tears. I sat stunned. I’m not sure I had ever seen my Dad cry, and I definitely had never seen him sob.

I’ve thought about that day many, many times, and especially in the nearly 11 years since my Dad passed away. That afternoon is etched in my mind, and I think I’ve finally figured out the lesson I took away that day.

The Neighborhood

I grew up in a bungalow in a typical Chicago neighborhood, a neighborhood dotted by row after row of bungalows, two flats, and – typically on the corners – apartment buildings. Our day-to-day world was bordered by Irving Park Road on the south, Kedzie on the west, Montrose on the north, and California (and Horner Park) on the east. Thinking back to the summer days of my early teen years, my friends and I would wander outside on our bikes early in the morning after our parents went off to work, organize games of lob or fast pitch in the school yard, maybe hit up the corner grocery for a freeze pop, and just sort of pass the time.

None of us had much spending money. The neighborhood was firmly middle class, I guess. I am sure some of us had a few more bucks in our pockets than others. I vaguely recall getting a small allowance from my parents, but my greater source of income was the $10 or $20 my Grandpa would give me – along with a lunch of bratwurst and German fried potatoes – when I would cut his postage-stamp sized lawn as he pretended to tend to his rose bushes or tomato plants while supervising me.

As we hit our early teens, having a few bucks in our pockets became a bigger deal. We had started hanging out at a small Chinese restaurant/grocery store on Irving Park that was owned by a classmate’s family and happened to have a couple pinball machines. So part of our day, every day, was mining the neighborhood for bottles we could return for deposits that we could drop into the pinball machines. We’d find stray bottles or, maybe, figure out a way to liberate bottles stored on the back porches of some of those apartment buildings. And some of us had started umpiring baseball games for the Horner Park Little League, for maybe $5 or $10 per game. Pretty good money. We were hitting the age where we were getting a little restless, wandering out of the neighborhood a bit, wanting more than our daily lives had been serving up.

The Pirates

I’ll call my friends “Jimmy,” “Mike,” and “Patrick” here. We were part of a group of maybe 8-10 kids within a two-year age span that attended the same grammar school and lived within the half-mile square I mentioned above. And most of us had been Pirates.

The Pirates were the team we were all assigned to at the Neighborhood Boys Club. During the school year, especially, we spent most every day doing something at NBC, which was about six blocks away, halfway between my house and my Dad’s insurance agency on Irving Park Road. NBC organized team sports starting in September and continuing through the following July: football, basketball, floor hockey, 16-inch softball, and baseball. The teams were organized by neighborhood, and our neighborhood was divided up between the Pirates and the Buccs. The Buccs were our arch-rivals, and also happened to be some of our schoolmates and friends.

NBC was really all about letting kids play. High-school or college-aged “Leaders” ran the programs and refereed the games. With the exception of football, there were no coaches allowed, and in all sports there were strict rules about how much each kid played. Every kid got a fair shot to play. If the supervisors caught a team trying to cheat the rules, justice was swift and simple: a loss in the standings.

NBC allowed adult coaches in one sport: football. My Dad had volunteered to coach my brothers years before, and before I came along more than a decade later, he coached a team called the Hornets – from the neighborhood near his office. They called him Papa Hornet.

NBC football was tackle football for second- through eighth-graders – with a few modifications. Players who ran the ball had to be below a certain weight – white elastic arm bands distinguishing the “lights” from the “heavies.” The heavies could handle kickoffs and punts and receive passes – but those plays would end if they were tagged with two hands below the waist. Also, players were substituted in and out at the beginning of each quarter, and played both ways. A typical team would have maybe 15 players, and every player had to play at least a full quarter. Unless someone got hurt, there were no mid-quarter substitutions. And the kids called their own plays.

You might gather this was not the right place for a control-freak kind of coach. And that was perfect for my Dad. He was the biggest cheerleader on the fields, his voice booming encouragement and congratulations at every opportunity – especially to the two or three kids on the team who were the least athletically gifted. We would hold an occasional practice where we walked through plays. If it was too cold or rainy to practice, he’d gather us around the ping pong table in our basement and show us how to vanquish our rivals using checkers to diagram plays and defensive strategy. He taught us three or four running plays, three or four passing plays, how to line up in a stance and not jump offside, and how to position ourselves on defense. And he taught his quarterback – me – a little about strategy to help in calling the plays. And then Dad got out of the way and let us play.

Jimmy was our star and one of my best friends from kindergarten on. He was maybe the best athlete in the entire club. Mike was a lineman, better at floor hockey than football. Patrick was the center – the kid who snapped me the ball on every play. I’ll never forget one awkward practice when we were 11 or 12, after Patrick and I had gotten into a scrape on the playground. Prior to the shotgun era of quarterbacking, quarterbacks and centers were, let’s say, intimate on most every play. Patrick and I were initially in no mood to be intimate after our playground tussle. But we figured it out and got over it – for the team.

My Dad loved to coach, and he truly had zero ego about doing it. We typically had good teams – in part because we had a good coach and mostly because we had Jimmy. But Dad could not have cared less about winning or losing, he was all about doing what he could to see kids have fun. And my Dad loved Saturday morning games at 10 a.m. or later. After those games, he’d wedge me and an obscene number of my always sweaty and sometimes muddy teammates (still wearing shoulder pads) into his comically spacious Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight and take us all out to lunch – probably for pizza or hamburgers or hot dogs. His treat. And then he’d pack us back into the Olds and drop my teammates off at their homes.

A Bad Choice

There are bad people, but many more people who simply make bad choices, for which they should be forgiven. Jimmy, Mike, and Patrick made a bad choice on a summer day in 1980 that set off the chain of events that led my Dad to sob.

That summer, I was lucky enough to score my first real job. I applied and was hired at No-Frills Discount Foods, a grocery store about a mile from my house. I was 14 when I started, having fibbed and said I was two years older on my application. I was a stock boy, and pretty terrible at the job because it required a level of strength lugging boxes, moving pallets, and baling cardboard that my immature body could not always muster. But I worked hard, showed up on time, and earned my keep. If my memory serves me, I made $4.10 an hour – significantly better than the $3.35 minimum hourly wage in 1980. And it made me the richest kid in the neighborhood. And my friends knew it.

At this point in the story, I am going to start using Jimmy, Mike and Patrick interchangeably. Collectively, I’ll call them The Three.

On the day before we found ourselves together in the police station, I worked an afternoon shift. I remember it being a particularly hot summer week, and a particularly hot day. I cashed my paycheck at the store after work, and rode my bike home. In my bedroom, a small cardboard box on my desk was my piggybank. When I went to add the $100 or so I had netted from my paycheck, it seemed to me my stash of money was light.

A little puzzled, I ate dinner and then wandered outside, where I met one of The Three. Something was off, he was noticeably fidgety. Within a few minutes, he said, “Paul – I have to tell you something.” He then proceeded to tell me that he had been a party to a crime. The Three (and one more boy, who may have instigated the whole thing) had been idling away a hot afternoon – as broke as usual – when one of them got an idea: let’s go get Paul’s money, and split it up. I’m not sure if they were envious or resentful that I had found a job, or bored, or all of the above.

My house was never locked, my parents both worked, and all but maybe one of my siblings had moved out. My friends knew that if I was working, no one would be home. And they knew where I kept my modest stash of money. So in a manner of about three minutes, a couple of them dashed up the stairs and into my second-floor bedroom while a couple of them kept lookout. They grabbed maybe $80 or $100, got out, and rode their bikes to some nearby alley or the schoolyard to split up the money.

But one of The Three could not stand the guilt, and he spilled the beans. I immediately went home that evening and told my Dad what had happened, and who was involved. He had coached The Three for years. He did not fly into a rage. He did not call the cops. He did not get their parents on the phone. He thought a minute, and then told me calmly: “I think you need to go find your friends and get your money back.”

My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.
jim valvano

I was a little terrified about confronting my friends, but I got on my bike and rode to the house of the first of The Three. Nervously, I rang the doorbell. He answered and I asked him to step onto the porch and to close the door behind him. Protecting the identity of the friend who had told me what happened, I said: “I’m missing some money from my bedroom, and one of my neighbors saw you guys go into the house today while I was gone. We are not going to call the cops, but I want my money back.” Surprisingly, as I think about it, there was no denial. The first of The Three said, “I’m sorry. But I don’t have the money – I spent it. But give me time and I’ll pay you back.”

I moved on to the next of The Three. He was not around – I later found out he was at NBC’s annual carnival, a weeklong highlight of the summer. I have no doubt he was spending his take from my stash on rides, or games, or popcorn. But somehow word got to him that I knew what had gone down, and word got back to me that he would come to my house the next morning to pay back his share of what had been taken from me.

The “Semi-Professionals”

The friend who pledged to bring back my money the next morning followed through. But, unfortunately for him, he arrived just as the police were responding to a call after my house was robbed for the second time in less than 24 hours. So Friend Three was coming to pay me back and had not been a party to the second robbery, but he was the first to be taken into custody.

Here’s what happened.

As Friend Three was spending his take from my stash at the carnival the prior night he ran into a couple of kids who were maybe 16 or 17 years old, and for a long time had started to drift to the rougher side of my neighborhood. By that, I mean they were among the kids who had started flirting with drugs, petty theft, and possibly street gangs (street gangs on the Northwest Side were not as prevalent or menacing as they were in some parts of the city, but they were a thing, for sure). I knew who these older kids were, by name and reputation. They were well known to me as kids to avoid. My friend was better acquainted with them and was starting to drift a bit himself to the darker side, so when he saw them at the carnival he bragged about his heist – and told them what an easy mark our house was for a burglary.

So the next morning a little after nine o’clock, not long after my parents had gone to work, I was home alone sleeping in my boxers up on the second floor at the front of the bungalow’s converted attic. I woke up and heard some rustling downstairs – doors and drawers opening and closing in a more hurried fashion than made much sense. Through my fog, I thought, “is that Dad getting ready for work?”

Soon, I had my answer, when I heard people talking while bounding up the internal staircase at the back of the house that led up to the second floor. Sensing something was not right, I grabbed a baseball bat and opened the door to my bedroom, which opened up into a “middle” room that separated the staircase and me by about 20 feet. As I stood there in my boxers, Semi-Professional Thief 1 reached the top of the stairs and looked me directly in the eye. I didn’t get a great look at him. He immediately bounded down the stairs, nearly running over Semi-Professional Thief 2 in the process. I gave chase in my boxers and the bat – somewhat half-heartedly, because I had no idea if they were armed or would decide to confront me.

They likely ran out the back door and to the alley, and were gone. I ran to the front of my house, noticing a bit of disarray where the thieves had been seeking valuables. Frightened, I ran out the front door and to the neighbor’s house across the street, where I breathlessly tried to explain what had happened. We called the police, and my Dad.

By quick inspection, it looked like the Semi-Professionals had taken off with some jewelry, some prescription drugs, and some spare cash that had been in my parents’ room. They were probably disappointed with their take, but at least some of the jewelry was reasonably valuable and meaningful to my Mom.

Within minutes, the police and my Dad arrived, I put on shorts and a t-shirt, and I tried to explain what had happened – starting with the theft of the prior day and ending with my unexpected wake-up call from two neighborhood punks/budding criminals.

The Interrogation

The explanation of the two incidents led the police to round up The Three (and maybe a fourth) and bring them to the Albany Park station, where they sheepishly had to look into the eyes of their football coach, their friend, and a detective who was trying to piece it all together.

As they talked, my Dad sat silently, taking it all in. He said little or nothing. He just listened to the kids he had piled into his car and bought hamburgers – kids who played and ate and slept at his house many times over the years. I wish I knew what was going through his mind as he sat and listened. I wish I knew what made him break down and sob.

It had been a weird, jarring 24 hours, for sure. These were some of my best friends – but as I think back on it now we had reached a time when we knew we were all on the cusp of drifting apart. I had just finished my freshman year in high school, and I was the only kid from my grammar school who had gone on to attend Luther North, a small school that was three-and-a-half miles west of my grammar school as the crow flies, or about a million miles away in other ways.

At the end of the hour or two we spent at the police station, the detective ushered The Three to another room and asked my Dad f he wanted to press charges. No, he said – just let them go home. Within about a week, they paid me back every dollar they took from my stash. I cannot recall if the Semi-Professionals were ever arrested. I know we never got back anything they took on the second day. My Dad, I suspect, wanted to move on. And we started locking the door when we weren’t home.

By the time all this went down, in some senses I had already left the neighborhood. My group of friends changed, as often is the case when a kid hits high school. And maybe that made it easier for me to be the mark – that, and the fact that my friends knew I had earned a few dollars at the grocery store that summer and knew where I kept my money. We moved out of the neighborhood when I was 19 and in college, to a new house several miles away on the far Northwest Side. I have stayed in touch with one of The Three over the years, and know relatively little about the other two.

But the rest of that summer was pretty normal. I remember asking my Dad – would it be okay if I hung out with (one of The Three)? He told me, that’s up to you. I did hang out with at least two The Three a little bit more that summer, and my Dad never disapproved. In fact, he never said much of anything about that incident. I don’t know why. He moved on. I moved on.

My father didn’t tell me how to live. He lived and let me watch him do it.
clarence budington kelland

Lessons Learned

My Dad taught me a lot, and mostly by example. Nearly 11 years ago, I eulogized him, and it was maybe the greatest honor of my life to do that. This is not a eulogy about a man who raised nine children, was married for 60+ years to the same woman, and built a successful business on a high school education. This is an article about a single day, and what I’ve come to think he taught me that day.

What I said when I eulogized my Dad, among other things, was that he was honest and generous to his core. When he heard that the kids he coached strolled into his home in the middle of the day and took his son’s money, he was brought to tears. Not by anger, but by disappointment. He had coached them and fed them and unfailingly supported them – to what end? He was crushed, and his emotions overflowed. He did not yell or scream. He did not threaten my friends. He did not run off to try to tell the other parents that they had raised terrible kids. He did not – in short – act as you might imagine a man could be expected act in that situation. He cried in front of all of us. I cannot speak for my friends, but that made more of an impact on me than any fit of anger.

I wonder sometimes if he cried that day because he felt bad for me – crushed because my friends had betrayed our friendship. Maybe. But the thing I appreciate most about how my Dad handled the entire incident is that he left me to deal with the fallout. He did not confront my friends that first night; I did. He did not issue an edict as to whether I could maintain those friendships going forward; he left that to me. He did not demand I forgive them; he left it to me.

That first night – the night before I was awoken by the semi-professional thieves – I cried as I went to bed. Softly. I cried because my friends had betrayed me. As I toed the line between boy and man, I cried not because I’d suffered a broken bone, a cut, or a scrape, but because I had been hurt inside. My Dad did not know I had gone to bed and cried, but the very next afternoon he let me know – through his own tears – that it was perfectly okay that I’d done so, whether I was a boy or a man.

Thanks, Dad. And Happy Father’s Day. Hit ‘em straight up there.

It’s Not Your Fault, Dave

June 8, 2020 / Paul E. Veith

My friend Dave posted on Facebook for the first time last Tuesday. And it was a doozy. Another friend, in a private text, asked Dave: “couldn’t you make your [Facebook] debut with some cute dog pics?” Dave chose to go in another direction – to launch a scathing attack on himself. To blame himself for the vexing problem of institutional racism in our society.

Dave’s despair-fueled suggestion that he is at fault for institutional racism is preposterous. And it caught my attention because …

Dave is a middle-aged white man, like me. He is a lawyer, like me. Before he retired, he spent his entire career at a large law firm in Chicago, like me. He commuted to a comfortable office from a cozy house in the suburbs via Metra (when we still did that kind of thing), like me. He got married to his high school sweetheart, like me. They had kids and dogs and vacations and all the good stuff, like us.

Given the parallels, Dave’s first Facebook post hit a little too close to home. Here’s the post:

WHAT IF IT’S MY FAULT?
I have never posted to Facebook. And I really don’t much care for political posts. But maybe now is the time.
I have led a nice, comfortable life. I am politically knowledgeable and have a 100% Democratic voting record. I share with many utter disgust of a President who is a narcissistic troll, offering nothing in the way of national unity. And now it is time for the all important “but.” Because while his defeat in November is necessary for any hope of a better America, it is not sufficient. And it is not sufficient at least in part because I have never done anything meaningful to make this country a land of equality, certainly not for African-Americans. Nor Hispanics, nor Native Americans, nor any other marginalized group.
It is easy to think you are on the side of right by opposing the horror currently occupying the West Wing. But the carnage inflicted on minority communities is not his fault alone. It is the fault of a man who spent thirty years working at a large law firm that, like all large law firms, was disproportionately white and who never spoke in protest. It is the fault of a man who daily took a train from his safe suburban house to his safe downtown office without giving a thought to the lives of the people in between those points—people with no money, shoddy schools, a police force dressed like an occupying army, and so little hope. It is the fault of a man who would say he is not in any way racist, who would say all the right, woke things, but whose friends all share his pasty skin tone. It is the fault of a man who was one of many beneficiaries of a system of institutional racism, who knew that the contest was rigged in his favor, but who silently accepted the benefits.
I don’t pretend to know how to fix any of this. But it is a massive problem and it is my fault. So bring on the massive solutions. Reparations, wealth transfers, tax the hell out of me and others who can afford it. I am at fault, so if I whine about fairness, do not listen to me. I have been on the plus side of “fairness” for over six decades. Time for a change.
Dave, Facebook, june 2, 2020

To my knowledge, no one has ever accused Dave of being a racist, and if you know him or know his work, you couldn’t possibly reach that conclusion. He is a sarcastic smart ass, and one of the brightest people I know. He is a good enough friend that I will say most anything in his presence. Yet I’m always a little guarded if our conversation turns away from something I know well – like sports or Italian beef sandwiches. If I’m wrong about something, he won’t simply nod in faux agreement like so many people. He’ll let me know if he doesn’t agree with me, and he’ll tell me why, if I care to listen. And Dave does something that is too rare – if he is engaged on a subject on which he doesn’t really know enough to form an intelligent opinion, he’s not afraid to utter the three words that are a telltale sign of an honest, secure person: “I don’t know.”

Some of you may have read Dave’s post for the first time here and written it off as the plaintive wailing of a self-loathing liberal. If so, I think you missed his point entirely. Sure, Dave boasts of a perfect Democratic voting record. But the political references in Dave’s post are somewhat beside the point. He makes the point that it’s way past time for those of us who have fully enjoyed the privileges of growing up as white Americans to wake up and take real action to advance the goal of racial equality. It’s certainly not enough to self-evaluate, conclude “I’m not a racist so I’m not the problem” – and go on with our lives. Personally, I suppose I’ve done all the normal, easy things to check the “not a racist” box. But I could have done, and could do, so much more.

Obviously, institutional racism is not individually Dave’s fault – or your fault, or mine. But Dave started with that preposterous punch line in all caps because he wanted you to read the rest of what he wrote (kind of like starting a sports blog post with the proposition that Scottie Pippen, Dennis Rodman, Duncan Keith, and Marian Hossa were “role players,” right Dave?).

I have not talked to him about it, but I suspect the motivation for Dave’s first Facebook post was pure, helpless frustration. He is, essentially, throwing up his hands and saying, “I give up. Tax me. Treat me unfairly if you want. I’ve done nothing meaningful to make life better for people of color during my lifetime, so take your pound of flesh from me now.” For Dave, writing and posting was probably as much therapy as anything else. He’s not running for office. He’s not campaigning to add Facebook friends. I’d guess he probably cares very little if many even took the time to read his post. He had a bunch of thoughts and needed to get them out and onto a screen. I get it.

For my part, I have taken a break from blogging since I viewed the video of George Floyd’s murder. That incident and subsequent civil unrest sapped me of any urge to write about sports, for sure. Lots and lots of thoughts have been bouncing around my brain at warp speed over the last two weeks, but I was silenced by the paralysis caused by too many thoughts. Having consumed a torrent of articles and video depicting the events of the last two weeks, one of the thoughts that silenced me was “what do I – a middle-aged white man, possibly have to add to this conversation?” I’m not sure I have anything to add, frankly. I am less qualified than most to speak on the subject of racial equality, and obviously less qualified than any person of color.

But eventually I got the nerve to write this post because, at bottom, I am an optimist. I think a huge part of the path forward from 2020 is to listen and to understand, and then to speak up and act, when the opportunity presents itself. I can read. I can listen. And I can speak up when it’s appropriate. And, I am here to respond to Dave and talk him off the edge. I want to stop Dave before he sells his possessions and donates the proceeds to the Sanders 2024 campaign (slogan, “The Third Time’s The Charm, Dammit!”). So hear me out, Dave; there are several reasons for optimism.

This just feels different. I’m not the first to say this, but the breadth and intensity of the recent protests are unlike anything I can remember in my lifetime (excluding 1968, perhaps, because I was only three years old and have no lasting memory from that time aside from a dog named Pirate). Sure, we expected to hear from all of the usual pols and public figures protesting Floyd’s murder, calling for reform, and urging unity and healing and all that. But Patrick Kane? And NASCAR’s Jimmie Johnson? The list of people from the world of sports who have used their social media platforms to speak up – largely, I think, from the heart – has gone much deeper than I can ever remember. When you step up and speak up and talk, you sign up to “walk the talk,” as they say. So let’s do that, ladies and gentlemen of the world of sports.

Another reason I think this feels different? The ubiquitous smartphone. I suppose we owe a debt to Steve Jobs, right? Where would we be without having a high-quality video recording device at our fingertips constantly? There is no question that the shocking smartphone video of George Floyd being murdered at the knee of a police officer changed the world, particularly coming so soon after the release of the shocking smartphone video of Ahmaud Arbery’s murder. These two events were, together, a deafening thunder clap in the middle of a quiet night of sleep. Without the smartphone, Arbery’s killers likely never get prosecuted, and the police officer who knelt on Floyd’s neck for more than FIVE … HUNDRED … SECONDS … likely would be weaseling his way through yet another sticky internal police investigation of his conduct, and not facing a murder rap.

Yes, the Floyd murder was the spark. The protests and looting and tear gas and helicopters were the fire. But not all sparks cause fires. You need the right conditions for the spark to cause a fire, and the right conditions to sustain a fire once sparked. For a whole lot of reasons, America in 2020 is a tinder box. The fire will die down, for sure. But my hope is that the embers endure, and that the spotlight on racial inequality does not dim when the news cycle ends, as it inevitably will. The media loves to cover sparks and fires. But the coverage of Floyd’s murder and the protests will only take us so far. The media should shine light not just on the tragic effects of racial injustice, but also on the conditions that cause the injustice — every day.

Safe spaces are becoming less safe – in a good way. Last week, I observed a friend step out of character and rebuke other friends for banter that struck him as inappropriate. This caused a very brief period of tension that was quickly ironed out privately. Normalcy returned and the banter continued. What happened, in a nutshell, was that someone in a safe space (sophomoric chatter among good friends) had called someone else out for a comment made within the confines of that safe space. By doing that, he was basically saying this: maybe that’s a borderline comment we would have chuckled about in the past, but let’s not go near that border any more.

This was a baby step. It won’t be covered on CNN. But I suspect this is a scenario that will play out over and over and over among friends in the coming weeks and months and, hopefully, forever. Friends should call out friends on occasion. That said, I am not naive enough to suggest that calling people out will be the rule. Most of us tend toward the avoidance of conflict. More likely, I think, jokes or insensitive comments that have a racial component will be met with awkward silence. Or a subtle, disapproving glance. Silence can be a powerful tool for change. Silence is death for a wannabe comedian. Removing the crumbs of racism – the “harmless” banter in safe spaces that leads to racially insensitive comments – is a step in the right direction. A tiny, tiny step. But a step.

Our kids are better than us. I attended a local community Black Lives Matter protest this afternoon. It was organized by a recent high school graduate. As I recall, all but one of the several speakers was under 25. And people listened intently to their stories. The crowd was full of little kids toting homemade signs. My favorite adorned the side of a Radio Flyer wagon carrying two pre-school age kids, I think it said: “Too Woke, No Nap.” Young people seem to be fiercely aligned in opposition to racism. God bless them, but the generation of Americans who didn’t think twice about using racial slurs or perpetuating stereotypes is dwindling in number. In my own immediate family, the three people who have the keenest sense of detecting words and actions that might be hurtful or demonstrate subtle racism are the three youngest people. I wish I was educated enough to be able to cite empirical evidence that attitudes about race have shifted – in a positive way – among young adults over, say, the last 50 years. I cannot cite any research on the point, so I will stand on my anecdotal observations: young adults seem better attuned to the subtleties of racism than I was at a similar age, or am today.

There is a lot we can do, short of throwing up our hands. Like Dave, I occasionally feel the guilt of someone who recognizes a problem, arguably has the means to help solve it, but does less than he or she could because … well … the problem is so big that nothing any person could do could have a meaningful impact. But like a colony of ants devouring an apple, there is power in numbers and power in constant, relentless, collective effort by individuals.

I ran across an article titled 75 Things White People Can Do For Racial Justice. As its author says, “achieving racial justice is a marathon, not a sprint.” I may never tackle all 75 items on that list. But I can absolutely tackle some. I can read. I can write. I can listen. I can vote. Those four tools cover a lot of ground. I encourage you to check out the list – I’ve bookmarked it for myself and hope to make it a regular stop for inspiration.

Dave wrote, “bring on the massive solutions.” That makes sense. Racism is a massive problem, and massive problems sometimes call for radical, massive solutions. But I guess my pragmatism and optimism keep me from straying too close to the edge of the cliff Dave stood on when he wrote his first Facebook post. I want to believe the privileged among us can meaningfully chip away at injustice. I can hear Dave already, “Of course you’re pragmatic and optimistic! Things have always worked out for you pretty well. And it’s easy for you to be optimistic because you like the status quo – you like your life just fine, why would you truly want radical change?“

As usual, Dave’s right. But I guess I’m going to summon Lloyd Christmas, Jim Carrey’s character in Dumb and Dumber. When Lloyd asks the way-out-of-his-league Mary Swanson the question: “What do you think the chances are of a guy like you and a girl like me ending up together?” Mary answers, “Not good.” Lloyd presses: “You mean, not good like one out of a hundred?” Mary responds: “I’d say more like one in a million.” After a long pause as he processes her answer, a gleeful smile comes across Lloyd’s face: “So you’re telling me there’s a chance! YEAH!”

Maybe I’m dumb – or dumber than Dave, at least. Maybe I am being a little bit Lloyd Christmas here, but I see signs of coalescence around the cause of racial equality that I have never seen before in my lifetime, and it gives me hope.

So yeah, Dave – I guess I’m telling you there’s a chance. Don’t quit yet.

-30-

From Serenity Now!! to The Serenity Prayer – How To Survive a Pandemic

May 20, 2020 / Paul E. Veith

The actor Ben Stiller’s father Jerry died on May 11, a month shy of his 93rd birthday. Jerry Stiller was a comedian and actor whose career spanned more than half a century. Like the spring-loaded plunger that sends a pinball into the field of play, Stiller’s death (which was not attributed to Covid-19) sent my thoughts bouncing around the bumpers and flippers in my brain, unexpectedly leading me to the answer to a most vexing question: How should I live my life as the Covid-19 pandemic plays out?

“SERENITY NOW!!”

Fans of Seinfeld know Stiller as George Costanza’s father, Frank. George is famously “neurotic, self-loathing” and “prone to occasional periods of overconfidence that invariably arise at the worst possible time.” Frank was perhaps best known as the prickly champion of an alternative to the Christmas holiday known as Festivus – a product of his “disgust with the commercialism of Christmas and his dislike of tinsel decorations.” Frank did not conceive of Festivus himself, or declare that feats of strength and the airing of grievances would be among its core traditions, but to me Frank is Festivus, and Festivus is Frank.

Festivus aside, I remember Frank Costanza best for “SERENITY NOW!!” – the phrase he bellowed when his frequent fits of anger reached a zenith.

Frank’s outbursts were often prompted by exchanges with his shrill, nagging wife, Estelle. As Frank explains: “The doctor gave me a relaxation cassette. When my blood pressure gets too high, the man on the tape tells me to say ‘serenity now.’” When pushed to his breaking point, Frank looks skyward, holds up both hands with fists clenched, and shouts that phrase at the top of his lungs – there is nothing relaxing about it.

Frank first used the phrase on the show when Estelle refused to move her front seat forward to give him more leg room in the back seat of George’s car. Frustrated by Estelle’s resistance and ignoring George’s reminder that they were only five blocks from home, Frank loses it: “Like an animal! Because of her, I have to sit here like an animal! SERENITY NOW! SERENITY NOW!”

George asks about, and Frank explains, the inspiration for the phrase. Then George asks: “Are you supposed to yell it?” To which Frank responds, “the man on the tape wasn’t specific.”

What does this have to do with a pandemic? Well, at times over the last couple of months, I’ve absolutely felt the urge to channel Frank, to look skyward and shout, “SERENITY NOW!”

In my first blog post, I described my feelings about the Covid-19 pandemic as follows: “Unsettled. Anxious. Uncertain. A little bit scared. Disoriented.” Two-plus months in, I might choose a slightly different set of words. For sure, I would add frustrated and restless to that list.

Frustrated

My consumption of news regarding Covid-19 has trailed off. I became frustrated that this pandemic – a public health crisis prompted by a virus that literally does not care where you come from, what you look like, or which political party you support – has achieved the impossible: it has further divided a country that was fast becoming a nation of Hatfields and McCoys. If a public health emergency cannot bring us together, exactly what can? Would it take war between nations? A meteor strike? An invasion by extraterrestrials?

The debate du jour, of course, is about the pace of “opening up.” Judging from a non-scientific survey of my social media accounts, there are three camps: (1) Full Throttle; (2) Proceed With Caution; and (3) Slow Down.

Those in the Full Throttle camp want to open up the economy NOW!, and some consider being asked to wear a mask to be a threat to personal liberty on the level of being forced to donate a kidney. Some – not all – in this camp are willing to tote guns and storm state capitols to prove … something. These are many of the same folks, of course, who originally thought (because they were told to think so) that the whole coronavirus thing was a hoax. As the bodies have piled up (we could nearly fill the Rose Bowl with the dead, at this point), they have now pivoted to alternately blaming bats, the Chinese, Bill Gates, the World Health Organization, and Obama. Some have taken to acts of defiance of rules and guidelines promulgated in the name of public health. They ridicule the snowflakes who wear masks and practice social distancing. The Full Throttle folks are convinced this crisis is being manipulated by “the media” to control the masses and help tank the economy for political ends.

Those in the Proceed With Caution camp (spoiler, my camp) are typically sane and rational and conflicted. People in this camp understand that this pandemic poses a once-in-a-century quandary, and that difficult decisions are being made based on a delicate balance of legitimate, competing interests. They tend to want public and private decisions guided by data, science, and compassion, but are also resigned to the fact that cold, hard economic analysis needs to be considered as well. They know that being 100% confident in the wisdom of any decision is a pipedream. These folks want to save as many lives as possible while minimizing the economic and other collateral damage inflicted by any set of policies that shackles commercial activity.

I think the vast majority of Americans are in this centrist camp, and that they hold many different opinions and points of view because there are really difficult, vexing problems to be solved, and reasonable minds can differ on how to solve them. Doctors, public health experts, economists, experts in the transmission of respiratory illnesses, economists, actuaries, supply chain experts. I say bring all of them to the table to help forge a path forward. You’ll note I omitted politicians; in a perfect world, all of the politicians would be quarantined – together – on Madagascar (with apologies to Madagascar).

Doubling up on the protection, for good measure

Then, there are those in the Slow Down camp. A few on the fringe in this camp are convinced politicians urging open economies want to kill the most vulnerable in some twisted Darwinian experiment. They are by nature nervous and cautious, and wonderfully stubborn about saving lives. They will advocate taking any and all steps to ensure that the inevitable second wave can be controlled. Whatever the economic impact, they want all of us to wait patiently for the virus to be brought to its knees – by a vaccine or otherwise – before getting all the way back to “normal.” As much heat as they take, they are the most compassionate among us, and their voices need to be heard even if the ultimate course we take strays from their ideal course.

I’m not frustrated that there are differences of opinion – that’s to be expected in a society where information (and disinformation, sadly) flows like beer at a frat party. What’s frustrating is the moving targets, the demoralization of institutions that should be leading our national response, the inconsistent approaches taken by states that share borders simply because different political parties control their governments. It’s all so silly and on-brand for America, circa 2020, that the imperative that we vanquish a common, non-discriminating foe has driven us to hate, berate, and distrust one another even more.

Restless

While my frustration is largely borne of what I know and see today, my restlessness relates to the future and its unknowns. I am restless because I realize that I need to figure out – for myself – how to forge a path forward. I don’t fully trust elected officials to call the plays, and therefore I need to figure out exactly where I stand on the “open up” versus “go slow” spectrum and be prepared to improvise. None of us is an innocent bystander; we are all participants. Going forward, the outcome here – that is, how much worse things get before we can say this pandemic is over – will depend on the choices we make, individually. Day by day. Hour by hour.

We all take risks, every single day. We drive, sometimes too fast. We eat delicious Italian beef sandwiches dipped in gravy, and ice cream, and sushi. We ski and skateboard. We jaywalk. By and large, we respect formal and informal rules – that’s part of the social contract under which we live. But to different degrees, we are willing to push the edges of those rules.

And now, mundane things we never associated with risk are – even if to some tiny degree – risky. Riding a commuter train. Using a public restroom. Going to a grocery store. Singing in a choir. Pumping our own gas. Judged against staying home, every single one of these actions increases the risk of contracting the coronavirus and suffering from Covid-19.

How each of us navigates this pandemic will be a study in risk tolerance. Every day.

I desperately want to get back to normal. I want a haircut. I want to eat in a restaurant. But I also want my 89-year-old diabetic mother to see her 90th birthday in October, and to join our family in my home on Christmas Eve.

The restlessness. The frustration. At times it leads to those “SERENITY NOW!!” moments. I don’t get there daily, or even weekly. But every once in a while – usually when I read a story about some defiant, selfish jackass – I get to that peak and feel like letting go, like Frank.

So how did Jerry Stiller’s death help me develop a framework to use going forward? My musings about Frank Costanza and SERENITY NOW!! and individual responsibility and negotiating risk led me to think about The Serenity Prayer. You may not know it by that name, but I suspect you’ve seen it:

God, grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
Reinhold Niebuhr, American theologian

This prayer was composed in the early 1930s, during the Depression, and gained widespread secular use. It was later adopted and popularized by Alcoholics Anonymous, and the famous atheist author and philosopher Ayn Rand said of the prayer:

… that statement is profoundly true, as a summary and a guideline: it names the mental attitude which a rational man must seek to achieve. The statement is beautiful in its eloquent simplicity.
Ayn Rand, The Metaphysical Versus the Man-Made, as published in Philosophy: Who Needs It (1982)

I fancy myself a rational man, and if The Serenity Prayer offers up “the mental attitude which a rational man must seek to achieve,” I’m all in – so much so that I have decided to use it as a North Star for finding the way back to “normal.”

Accepting Things I Cannot Change

Going forward, I know I will encounter things I cannot control or change, and must accept. Among them:

+ I cannot change that some people will insist on viewing the “open up” versus “hunker down” debate as a political debate. It’s nonsensical and counterproductive and I wish people would stop. But they won’t – I’ll have to accept that and move on.

+ I cannot change that some people will view minor inconveniences (wearing masks, staying physically distant from others, not getting to play blackjack at casinos) as major assaults on their liberty. There have been oceans of ink spilled onto pages by people who have actually suffered a deprivation of liberty – none of those pages describe the horror of being asked to wear a cloth mask at Costco.

+ I cannot change the hearts, minds, and souls of the truly asinine – the kind of people who respond to polite requests by becoming violent and menacing and confrontational.

+ I cannot change that some will spend an inordinate amount of time looking to assign blame, rather than looking for solutions.

+ I cannot change that not everyone will assess the risks that are presented ahead through the same lens as I do. I have no choice but to accept that I will encounter some who do things I find unacceptably risky, and some who will believe I am the one being reckless.

+ I cannot change that my state, village, or employer will impose rules on the road back to normal that I think go too far. I’ll accept the rules, and do my level best to comply with those rules. But I might – unwittingly or intentionally – violate a rule here or there. I won’t do so intentionally, though, if I think I am putting anyone else in harm’s way.

+ I cannot change that things won’t snap back to normal overnight, that we have miles and miles yet to go before we get to normal.

+ I cannot change that when I watch baseball or football or hockey again, I’m likely going to be watching athletes in empty stadiums and arenas. Sad, but true.

Having The Courage To Change Things I Can

But there are many things I can control and change, going forward:

+ First and foremost, I can change my mindset to a pandemic mindset when I am out and about. Early on, I read or heard great, simple advice: whether you believe you are infected or not, behave as if you are a contagious carrier of the virus determined not to infect anyone else. This is the Covid-19 Golden Rule, as far as I am concerned. If everyone followed this rule consistently, we would all be OK. I am going to do my best to do so. (And, by the way, having tiptoed back into society over the last few weeks, I will be frank – lots of people are not living by this rule.)

+ I can control my level of education about the virus, how it spreads, and which precautions are most effective. Statistics about how many have died, how many have been tested, how many ventilators are in use, and how many ICU beds are open are important – but they don’t really do me any good, individually, as I forge ahead. I will read seemingly credible sources that provide practical advice, like the one I’ve linked here. Facts about the disease, and how it spreads, are critical to understanding how I can follow the Golden Rule. When I’m outside, 150 yards from a playing partner hitting a golf shot (using a club no one else has touched), I’m not a danger to anyone. When I am in line at the deli at Sunset Foods with 20 of my closest friends on a Saturday morning, I am a threat. So I will wear a mask, keep my distance, avoid coughing or sneezing, and keep to myself. And in the unlikely event someone invites me to join a choir, I will politely decline.

+ I can hunker down when sick – this is the most important application of the Golden Rule. In the past, I’m sure I’ve gone to work or to a restaurant or party when I’ve felt just a wee bit under the weather. No more. If I am even the least bit feverish or “off” in any way, I’m staying home. Period. Sure, I might have to overcome FOMO (the Fear of Missing Out) from time to time. But until we are truly back to normal – and maybe even after we are back to normal, I’m not going to apologize for sidelining myself if I am feeling ill. Those among us for whom never missing a day of work is a badge of honor? Please get over it; it’s not so honorable to get others sick.

+ I can control and change my tolerance of other points of view and degrees of sensitivity to social interaction. Look, some people are going to be very anxious in public for the foreseeable future. They will wear masks even in situations where they are not obviously needed (alone in their cars, for example). They will feel more comfortable around me if I wear a mask, or keep my distance. I’m sure there will come a time – likely a long, long time from now – where I think to myself, “wow – didn’t he hear the news that we are past this thing?” Shame on me when (if) I have that thought. Why should I care if you choose to wear a mask in public in 2025? Why should I care if you choose to cross the street to avoid me when I am walking toward you? Let’s try something new, as a society, and be universally respectful and tolerant.

Was the bearded guy’s gun really necessary?

+ I can control how I react to the defiant, rude, selfish oaf who refuses to live by the Golden Rule. My hope is that my reaction to that person will be the same as my typical reaction to any troublemaker I encounter in life. First, respectful re-routing. Second, cautious and measured engagement (if necessary). Third, extraction and flight. Growing up in the city helped train me for this moment. As someone who walked city streets every day and encountered the normal collection of drunks, menacing kids, creepy adults, etc., I learned that the best way to avoid trouble was to simply avoid it. Cross the street. Choose another seat on the bus. Move to another table. Get off a stop early. Simple survival tools. If I encounter someone who decides to make a spectacle of himself by defying rules or ridiculing those who impose or follow them, I will likely adopt that same strategy – avoidance. If forced to engage, I’ll try to do so calmly and with reason, aiming to avoid a SERENITY NOW! moment for everyone. And if all else fails, I’ll get the hell out of Dodge and, if I’ve witnessed something really, really bad, I’ll do what I can to ensure that a person charged with keeping the peace is aware that a troublemaker is on the loose.

+ And finally, I can control and change the choices I make as a consumer. When businesses re-open, those who understand and respect differing levels of comfort among their clientele will thrive. Those who celebrate being allowed to open by raising a figurative middle finger to best practices will suffer. If you are a business owner, compassion and common sense will breed comfort and loyalty. Simple gestures will matter. Case in point: the local Waterway car wash/gas station has earned my business by taking the simple step of placing boxes of disposable plastic gloves next to its pumps. Small measure, small cost. But it tells me its management knows that some people will appreciate not having to contact a touch screen or gas pump that many others have touched that day. If I owned a business that interfaced with the public, I would not want to alienate a significant percentage of my potential customer base by seeming not to care all that much about Covid-19.

The Wisdom To Know The Difference

The final ask of The Serenity Prayer is for the wisdom to know the difference between what we can change and cannot change. As the Honorable Richard M. Daley once said (I think), “it ain’t a rocket scientist thing.” We generally know what we can and cannot change. And I’m not sure the changes I have listed above necessarily require a great deal of courage to be executed. It seems that simply being considerate, tolerant, and exercising common sense will go a long way here. But that’s usually the case, right?

So that’s my plan going forward – accept the things about living through a pandemic that I cannot change, and change my mindset in small ways to be a better pandemic citizen.

Of course, I reserve the right to become frustrated. If it becomes too much, I will close my eyes, raise my clenched fists, and in memory of Frank Costanza I will wail “SERENITY NOW!!!” (But I won’t do so in an elevator or other confined space.)

-30-

Will COVID-19 Change Things Forever?

April 11, 2020 / Paul E. Veith

Nobody knows. That’s the answer. But don’t stop reading.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, rock star public health expert, was interviewed on The Wall Street Journal’s frequently enlightening podcast, The Journal, earlier this week. It’s 24 minutes of Fauci answering questions posed by a Journal reporter, uninterrupted by politicians or captains of industry or anyone else. I think the podcast is well worth your time. Dr. Fauci was asked, among other things, what we can expect over the coming weeks and months as the nation aims to return to “normal.” Dr. Fauci did not pretend to have all the answers – that’s one thing that makes him endearing, I think. He did say that things won’t return to normal suddenly. He said transitioning from our present state to normal is not like a “light switch, on and off.” In his view, it would not be advisable to “jump in with both feet.” None of this is particular alarming, surprising, or ground-breaking. As far as specifics go, Dr. Fauci talked about the possibility that we might see restaurants re-open but with tables spaced out, as one of several examples of how we might get from here to “normal,” gradually.

What Dr. Fauci said that few would dispute is that American life will eventually – albeit gradually – get its mojo back. He pointed to the availability of a vaccine, which he is hopeful (even optimistic) we’ll see in 12-18 months. He thinks a vaccine is the “game-changer” for truly getting back to pre-COVID normal. But Dr. Fauci also said, “I don’t think we’ll ever get back to completely normal.” For example, he suggested that the practice of shaking hands as a common form of greeting may never come all the way back, and that obsessive hand-washing may remain in vogue long after this particular strain of coronavirus stops infecting people. In that respect, I suspect Dr. Fauci was projecting what he hopes will be a lasting impact of COVID-19. Given his chosen profession and what he has seen over the years, he has probably been anti-hand shake and pro-hand wash for a long time.

Even before I listened to that podcast, I have been semi-obsessed thinking about the question of how COVID-19 will change the American way of life in the long term – starting, say, two years down the road, when we’re all back to work, back to attending sporting events, concerts, festivals, and weddings without worrying that we are putting ourselves or others at risk.

In the short term, the impact is plain for all of us to see. In the mid-term (say the next two to eight months), I suppose we’ll see a “gradual” return to normal. I think we’ll see sports come back, but maybe initially in venues that exclude or severely limit the number of fans allowed to congregate. I’m not sure buffet lines come roaring back in the mid-term. I don’t think cruise ships will swell with passengers any time soon. When those of us who play golf are allowed to golf again, I suspect at first the length of conceded putts will expand to avoid forcing golfers to touch the flagstick or retrieve a golf ball from the cup. (I am personally 100% behind generosity on the greens in the name of public health and safety, by the way.)

In the medium-term, people will experiment with all kinds of accommodations to make people feel better about returning to work, and restaurants, and public places generally. And those among us who are skittish may wear masks. I, for one, won’t judge anyone who wears a mask in any setting for a long, long time – maybe forever.

It’s “forever” – the long-term – that interests me most. When it comes to permanently-life-altering events, essentially no one alive today has lived through something quite like this pandemic. In my memory, the last event that had a lasting, noticeable impact on daily life in this country was the coordinated terrorist attack of September 11, 2011. But I’m not sure 9/11’s impacts were even that life-altering. To be sure, traveling through airports is different. The security process is more time-consuming. 3/1/1. Limits on liquids. No lighters. No pocket knives. Take off your shoes (prior to the godsend of TSA Precheck, at least). You can no longer access the gate areas without a ticket. I think all these changes can be traced to 9/11, but are these really life-altering? Essentially, we have all had to learn how to modify how we pack a suitcase unless we want to check a bag, and maybe leave for the airport a little earlier – to be safe. For enhanced safety, not a bad tradeoff.

Beyond that – what else? Office buildings in large cities are certainly more secure – security desks are now common. Enhanced security at high-rise buildings is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. But no security desk or array of armed guards could have prevented what happened at the World Trade Center. Incidentally, the only time I visited that complex was in July 2011, and I found it to have the tightest security of any building I had ever visited. I am sure others – obviously those who lost family or friends, and particularly New Yorkers – could point to other ways in which 9/11 altered everyday life in America and had noticeable cultural impact. But in the end, I’m not sure 9/11 had a tremendous impact on the way Americans go about their daily lives. To be sure, we are all probably a little more anxious when we fly, more aware of our surroundings, and most of us are more tolerant of the government snooping around to prevent the next attack. But mostly, we got back to normal.

The long-term impact of COVID-19 remains to be seen. I am, however, 100% confident in each of the following predictions for the coming months:

Politicians at all levels from all parties will take credit for having taken actions that saved lives.

Politicians at all levels from all parties will blame politicians from other parties for failing to take actions that would have saved lives.

Some people will say that “we” – Americans, as directed by our leaders – overreacted to the COVID-19 pandemic and that social distancing directives and shut-down orders went too far.

Some people will say that by practicing social distancing as directed by our leaders, we collectively saved lives. (Incidentally, this article has an interesting discussion of the certain debate between the “we saved lives” and “we overreacted” camps. As the article points out, some people will say that the epidemiological models over-estimated the number of sick and dead as proof that we overreacted. Others will argue that our good, conscientious behavior caused us to achieve better results than the models predicted. It will be kind of aggravating to watch that debate, which will mostly take place between cocksure panelists on night-time cable news channels. My bet: few of them will be experts in medicine, public health, statistical modeling, or any other relevant discipline.

We will be smarter and better, next time. Driven by better data than has ever been available concerning a pandemic and tremendous ability to process that data, an explosion of important, intelligent, science-based, peer-reviewed work studying our experience dealing with COVID-19 will be published – making us better prepared to deal with a threat like this in future, as long as the right people pay attention at the right time.

The balance of this post is dedicated to answering a twist on the question that sits at the top of this post: “How will COVID-19 make our lives different two years from now – on the weekend of the 2022 Masters?” I pick two years because I am optimistic that vaccination and/or herd immunity will have mostly gotten us “back to normal” by then. Let me start all this by saying this: most Americans are resilient and adventurous sorts. We like our personal liberties and hate being told how to live our lives. Many hate being told to do something demonstrably proven to be beneficial to your personal health and safety. There are many people who still refuse to wear seat belts or motorcycle helmets – actions that clearly, measured broadly, save lives and reduce injuries. So I have little doubt that we’ll get back to normal – because normal was pretty great.

Here’s my take on how COVID-19 might change our lives down the road – admitting these are nothing more than guesses. I encourage you to share your thoughts in the Comments.

People who wear masks in public won’t be dismissed as weirdos. In the past, public mask-wearing has not been a super-common thing in the USA. On the five or so times I have traveled to Asia, I’ve seen many masked travelers in airports and subways – likely in part because Asian countries have more experience with virus-borne and transmitted illnesses. Going forward, anyone wearing a mask gets a pass from me – perhaps unless you are approaching a bank teller. Those with compromised immune systems and those themselves suffering from a malady causing them to cough or sneeze who must nonetheless be out and about should probably wear masks. I could even see an industry of fashionable masks developing. We’ll see.

Hugs ‘n Kisses? Maybe not so fast. Dr. Fauci doesn’t want anyone shaking hands, so I suspect his head would explode if some random member of the public sees him in an airport in a couple of years and approaches to give him a bear hug in appreciation for his public service. My guess is that handshakes in a business setting come back all the way – except that it will be more common for people to beg off and say, “I’ve had a bit of a cold, so if it’s okay I’m not going to shake your hand.” And I think all of us will be absolutely okay with that. Not a slight. Among bro-friends, the fist bump had been on the rise – I think it continues to gain popularity. But what about the huggers and cheek kissers among us? Will they be shunned? Eventually, I suspect the practice of hugging a close friend or family member comes back – I mean, it feels good if someone thinks enough of you to offer a hug, right? But begging off or pulling back a bit will, I think, become more common and won’t be judged as an affront.

“Self-quarantine” will become a thing if you’re sick. There are people who take pride in never missing a day of work. Through thick and thin, coughing, hacking, sneezing, and wheezing – they show up and answer the bell. The Cal Ripken of the Accounting Department. I think this will change. If you’re sick, stay home, ride it out. I think people riding public transportation who cough or sneeze repeatedly will be viewed as having committed a felony. I can imagine angry words being exchanged – heck, can you imagine if someone breaks the church-like silence of a quiet car on a Metra train with a big, hacky, coughing fit? That could lead to fists being thrown. I think most people get that now, and will be quicker to stay home if they are symptomatic. Especially because …

The practice of working remotely will increase. Over the last month or so, many of us have been forced to work from home. For those of us in office/desk jobs, this isn’t a big deal. With high-speed internet at home and the proper hardware and software, not a big deal at all. With connectivity tools, face-to-face meetings are possible. Conference calls? No problem, obviously. Access to materials? Most come and go electronically, anyway. I will admit that before this experience, I was a little old school about this. I think there is value – at least in a large law firm – to being physically present and interacting with colleagues. Plus, I have always thought I am more productive in the office than at home. But I have surprised myself – and I save two hours per day otherwise spent commuting or making myself look presentable. I look forward to getting back and seeing my colleagues – but I think I will be a little more open-minded about working remotely in the future. For businesses in which mentoring, interacting with colleagues, etc. is not a really big deal – I suspect what was already a trend toward remote work will pick up steam. Commercial real estate experts, is this a worry? Will we drive a little less? Could this actually be a positive development in reducing pollution?

The practice of socializing remotely will increase. My 89-year-old tech-challenged mother who is quarantined in an assisted-living facility learned how to use FaceTime the other day in about five minutes. I have attended several Zoom “happy hours” with friends near and far. I have hosted on-line poker games with the participants engaged in banter during via companion Zoom meetings. Technology has made this all really, really easy. Particularly for folks separated by distance, the group meet-up options are now super-easy. The increased use of these tools will stick. That’s not to say the Zoom meet-up with people who all live within a mile of one another is going to take the place of an actual party – but where great friends and family are spread far and wide, there is no longer a good excuse to not “get together” every so often.

We will all have cleaner hands, forever. In the future, I cannot imagine any public establishment not having hand sanitizer available to its guests. And I think more of us will stop and take a squirt of sanitizer. Likewise, we will linger a little longer at the sink – and use soap. In the interest of having cleaner hands, I think we’ll all use cash less – even less than now. And the practice of swiping or inserting a credit card into a machine will likely give way to holding it close to devices that allow contact-less transactions.

I’ll end with one final comment. That regal looking mutt at the top of this post is our family dog, Ellie. COVID-19 changed her life for the better in the short-term. More companionship, more attention, more walks. Long-term impact? I think not. Ellie will eat her two scoops of Purina Pro Plan twice a day, get walked around the block two or three times, and sleep a lot. Her owners’ lives might change modestly. But post-COVID, a dog’s life is will continue to be pretty great – of that I am confident.

Category: Life

The Story of My Life

A boy named Kyle

The Day My Dad Cried

It’s Not Your Fault, Dave

From Serenity Now!! to The Serenity Prayer – How To Survive a Pandemic

Will COVID-19 Change Things Forever?

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