Black Pucka

Some days, around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon, I see an elderly african-american gentleman on our corner. He parks his car and takes out a folding chair to sit in. The chair is high, and he sets it up at the back of the car and looks over the car over to Agassiz Public School. He is well dressed, usually with a nice cardigan sweater and wool pants, and in the cooler fall afternoons he has started wearing a nice brown fedora which hides his silver hair. His silver mustache is still visible from beneath the hat.

I have tried to catch his eye from time to time to say hello, but his eyes are intent on the school as he waits for his grandkids. After seeing him a few times, I have started to build up in my mind this whole fantasy world about him. While I never have seen the kids, I imagined they would be thrilled to see him, just as Donny and Emily were always happy to see their Pucka after a hard day at Latin. I imagined him having these wonderful conversations with them as he drives them home to their parents. Who knows, maybe he lives with them and watches them as well. And with Allyson watching Carter these days, the entire scene brings back nostalgic, happy memories for me. In my mind, I have started calling him Black Pucka.

I don't see Black Pucka every day, but every day I see him, it gives my heart a little lift. Black Pucka reminds me of the good old days of Our Pucka and our kids when they were little. It reminds me of the circle of life, and how in some strange way, while I don't believe in reincarnation, I believe that the patterns of our lives are repeated and played out in many ways. And just as Our Pucka had his routines that we all grew used to, Black Pucka has his little routines, like his high stadium chair, that bring color to the lives of his grandkids. I even imagine the other parents and caretakers seeing Black Pucka and knowing that all is right with the world.

Today, Black Pucka was not on the corner as I went out for an errand around 4 pm. I walked north on Seminary, and saw a little african-american girl dancing on the sidewalk. As I walked closer, I saw that she was making faces at a kid in the back seat. She was either teasing him or trying to make him laugh. She danced around, made faces, waved at him. And then, the driver side door opened, and out of the car came Black Pucka! I finally got to see Black Pucka in action, watch his interaction with his grandchildren, see the great man as he performed the duties that, while appearing mundane, are critical to the kids' happiness and the functioning of a well-run household. Black Pucka in the flesh!

As he approached his granddaughter, I finally heard Black Pucka speak. His voice was a low, rumbling bass, from deep within his chest. He looked at his grandaughter and said in that low, deep voice, "Leave that motherfucker alone".

I guess there are more differences between Our Pucka and Black Pucka than just the color of their skin.

Summer in South Haven

Summer has officially arrived in South Haven.

The pool is open.

The weather this weekend was perfect - no hotter than 76 degrees. Sunny all day, cool at night.  This has been the best weather Memorial Day weekend I can recall.  Absolutely perfect.

I ran yesterday from the Haven to Avalon.  Avalon is in the water and looks ready to cruise. Allyson walked to the light house.  Summer is here.

We discovered a new restaurant in Fennville, "Salt of the  Earth," which is our new Michigan favorite.  They had a group tonight performing Lyle Lovett and blues tunes.  The food is amazing.  We shared a White Chicken pizza with bacon.  Allyson had pappardelle, Donny Gnocchi, and I braised pork shoulder with polenta and a side of brussel sprouts that were to die for.  They also have a nice wine list, with a killer $8 glass of Three Sisters zinfandel that made the music all that more enjoyable.

We went to Doug and Michael's for their inaugural summer party and connected with a number of old friends.

The stereo is working, with a mix of Allyson and Don tunes competing for attention.

We hosted an evening with Bill and Tory, Leslie and Mark last night. Just appetizers and conversation on the deck as we watched the sun set.  Summer is here.

We are getting the place ready.  Screens on the porch go up tomorrow Morning.  We are working out some winter kinks.  All in all, the house held up well during the winter.  Now, the flowers are coming in, the chives are growing in the herb pots, and the trees are providing shade.

Grace is adjusting to life as a single puppy.  She doesn't run like a little maniac on speed, but she did enjoy a little time on the beach. She ran into the water, enjoying the lake and the gentle lap of the waves.  Summer is here in South Haven.

We can't wait to see you all.

What GTM Are You?

If I were a Springer-Verlag Graduate Text in Mathematics, I would be  W.B.R. Lickorish's An Introduction to Knot Theory. I am an introduction to mathematical Knot Theory; the theory of knots and links of simple closed curves in three-dimensional space. I consist of a selection of topics which graduate students have found to be a successful introduction to the field. Three distinct techniques are employed;  Geometric Topology Manoeuvres, Combinatorics, and Algebraic Topology. Which Springer GTM would you be? The Springer GTM Test

In Memoriam: Crissy

Crissy was part of our family for the past twelve years. He passed away on March 6, 2010, in Allyson and my arms after a diagnosis of lung cancer.

Crissy was our family's first dog. He was always wonderful with the kids when they were little. He suffered through our early mistakes, as first puppies do, leading to regrets of what we could have done better. All in all, though, he seemed very happy living with us.

Crissy spent most of his days sitting on his dog bed in the family room, staring out at the back yard. He would rouse himself, barking, when someone rang the doorbell, or if he saw a rabbit or rat in the back yard. His favorite daytime activities were his walks. He ran to the front door, sometimes shaking with excitement until he got out to the sidewalk, and then marched along, sniffing and watching. No weather deterred him from enjoying the time outdoors. We felt good about engaging the services of Paws Claws and More, and he enjoyed his daily walks with Gracie and our dogwalkers, Betsy, Claire, Chris and Sam.

When I would sit at the dining room table for dinner, or while reading my Sunday paper, Crissy would come up to me and push his head into my right hand, persisting until I gave in and petted him. At times, he wanted to be petted for over an hour, shifting his body so that different parts of his body were scratched without me moving my arm. His favorite scratch was in his ears, a special treat.

In his later years, I would lift him up on Emily's bed, holding his outside legs while flipping him on his side before scratching his haunches. Crissy would stretch his neck out and smile, enjoying the bedtime attention.

Crissy was extremely well-behaved, but had naughty moments. He once jumped on the kitchen table and ate food we had left out for our niece. He also liked to sneak into the pantry and steal doggie treats. His only other fault was bad breath. Licks from Crissy were particularly hard to take, as his breath could knock you out.

Crissy also loved rides in the car. He would run to the door, jump up on the back seat, and then try to climb in the front. While we drove, he would stare out the window, occasionally barking at passing dogs, but otherwise content just to take in the scenery.

My favorite memories of Crissy will be the times we shared in the back yard at our house in South Haven. He loved the freedom of running as fast and as hard as he could, no leash to restrain him, chasing Gracie or his next-door neighbor friends, Shelby, Sadie, Murphy and Cooper. When he tired, Crissy would lay down in the grass, his front paws crossed regally in front of him, observing the antics of the other puppies. He loved his walks in South Haven even more than in Chicago.

Crissy lived a good life. His decline was mercifully sudden, but he left us before we were ready to say goodbye. We miss him terribly, and look forward to the day when we can watch him run in endless fields, playing with his friends and then panting from exhaustion, only rousing himself to poke his head into our hands, demanding scratches and attention.

Paperwork

I was waiting to cross LaSalle Street at Madison during this past week's driving snow when the gentleman next to me stepped into the path of a car running a red light.

I grabbed the soft elbow of his tan cashmere overcoat and firmly pulled him back. He whipped his head around to look at me accusingly, then turned to see the cell-phoned woman piloting the errant Camry, clueless to the world, through the snow-covered intersection. He turned his head back to me, his face filled with gratitude and apology. "Oh my God. Thank you."

I looked at him and with a mixture of paternalism and amiability crowed, "Don't worry about it. Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out if I see some guy killed in an intersection?"

The woman next to him burst into laughter. He looked at me with bewilderment. And I walked off, content in my role as slayer of bureaucracy and thwarter of young women more concerned with cell phones than murder.

Up In The Air

The woman in front of me announced loudly, "Jimmy, don't let the security man find the bomb in your suitcase." As you might imagine, the statement caused quite a stir. The airport security guards stopped the screening line, located Jimmy's suitcase, and searched it. Meanwhile, the woman chatted with her friend, whining about how seriously the security detail seemed to take her obvious joke. One of the security guys finally leaned over to her and said, "Ma'am, joking about explosives in a bag is a federal offense. You can go to jail for that."

Assured that Jimmy did not, in fact, have a bomb in his suitcase, Jimmy and his Mom were cleared through security along with the rest of the two families making their way on a fun family weekend.

At the time, I was upset because I usually left myself five minutes to park my car in the parking garage and clear security. With five minutes before flight time, I would hit the bar for a beer and then climb onto the plane as one of the last entrants. Jimmy's Mom was cutting into my Friday afternoon bar time after a hard week consulting.

This was in 1985. The time before terrorists.

Today, Jimmy and his Mom would be lucky if they weren't shot. They certainly would be arrested. In all likelihood, the entire airport would shut down, and possibly be evacuated. We would all be on the wrong side of security for a beer, and most likely would wait outside for an hour or two, shivering in the cold Detroit air, before operations resumed.

I am not condoning Jimmy's Mom's behavior. As I said, I was pretty angry at the time, and the story has stuck with me all these years. But after watching the movie "Up In the Air," I was reminded once again by what the terrorists have taken from us.

First and foremost, they have taken away our common sense. We don't want to profile people at the risk of appearing racially insensitive, so 82 year old grandmas undergo humiliating searches and wandings and questionings as TSA agents attempt to figure out if Grandma has the necessary paperwork to clear her metal hip through security. In 2005, Jon Stewart hosted a pundit who joked after the shoe bomber attempted his attack and we were then all forced to take off our shoes, "You'll know the terrorists really have a sense of humor when we see the underwear bomber." I guess the terrorists have a sense of humor.

I left my consulting job of 23 years in some small part because the travel was no longer fun. I used to love the fast-paced race from ticket window to gate. One of the greatest joys was boarding a plane as they slammed the door behind you, confident that you had not wasted a minute waiting.

Now, we all wait. We wait and wait and wait and are humiliated in the process. We are made to feel stupid the one time we forget to remove our three ounce bottles of shampoo and toothpaste and deodorant from our bags and are admonished by the TSA agent that we must place the items in a clear plastic bag. One time, my deodorant was in a 4.5 ounce container. I begged the agent to let me slide so that I was not forced to find a drugstore during my overnight business trip. She did, but not before giving me a stern warning about what would happen "next time."

We wait, and we are humiliated. And worst of all, we all know it is a colossal waste of time. If airport security isn't even checking the names of the guys on the terrorist watch list, and we let a Nigerian with a one-way ticket paid for in cash with no luggage board a plane, then what are they going to find in the endless shoe-searching and patting down and removing the laptops from the bag charades?

The attacks on board planes since 9/11 have been prevented by citizens. One of the four surprise attacks on 9/11 was prevented by citizens who would not allow their plane to attack the White House or wherever it was headed. The government needs to start treating us as allies and as adults. We are all in this together. Don't look at me like I am some type of criminal for carrying on a large deodorant, and I won't hold you accountable for terrorist attacks. Let's work together to do our best to prevent terrorists, and then rally when we are attacked.

I didn't blame George Bush or the CIA or the predecessor to the TSA for 9/11. And I don't expect them to keep us safe now. What I can't forgive is the humiliating pointless activities that rob us of our privacy and dignity. The terrorists are always going to be probing for holes and looking for ways to hurt us.

Benjamin Franklin said, "Those who would sacrifice liberty for security deserve neither." We deserve better than what we have now. We deserve better than the loss of freedom and dignity. We are a great nation and great people if we are resilient in the face of attack and terrorism. We let the terrorists win if we let them rob us of privacy, and liberty, and dignity, and then, when attacked, we attack each other and seek to hold good people responsible for the acts of evildoers.

I heard some say Obama should have fired everyone who was involved in allowing the underwear bomber to attack. Yet in the private sector, the greatest leaders allow people to learn from their mistakes. We need to be more tolerant, more forgiving of those who are trying to protect us. In exchange, our leaders and those who seek to protect us need to treat us with respect, honor our rights, and work with us to meet this threat of evil. If not, we don't deserve to be free, and we will not be safe.

Five-Second Rule

Halloween evening, my sister spilled M&Ms on the kitchen floor. A debate ensued, as we picked them up, on whether we could invoke the five-second rule. Food that falls on the floor but is then picked up within five seconds is still fair game for consumption.

Jen had just read an article about the “10 Myths Your Husband Will Tell You About Raising Children.” The five-second rule came in for heavy criticism. Allyson and I countered with an article we had read that scientifically proved that germs do, in fact, take a little time to adhere to dropped food. Five seconds was a good guideline for demarcating eligible from inedible food.

The next morning, I waited in the checkout line at Costco. In the line next to me, a baby threw his bagel to the ground. It bounced a few times before coming to rest. Dad scooped up the bagel and handed it back to the baby, who obliged by shoving it in his mouth.

I am sure this calculus drove dad’s behavior as he retrieved the bagel: “Screw it. I don’t care what my wife thinks – I think it is OK for Ralphie to eat this hairy dusty bagel.” To most dads, what we believe are not myths – they are articles of faith that guide our actions when our wives are not watching. Occasionally, these articles of faith are proven true by scientific research.

I grew up believing that it is OK to give kids a shot of whiskey or glass of sherry to calm them down Christmas Eve. That trips to the emergency room are only to be made when limbs have been amputated or vital organs pierced. That helping kids with their math homework is a form of torture for the kids. As much influence as my wife has on me, I still treat these as articles of faith. I await the scientific proof to validate my beliefs on these topics. Certainly, the current health care debate lends credence to the idea that inappropriate use of emergency rooms is driving costs out of control. Proof on the others is, I am sure, in the works at some research university. But I don’t know if I will ever pick up a bagel from Costco’s floor and shove it in my mouth.