Like many of us in The Fourth Quarter, I have been mesmerized the past couple of days by the important attention given to the stories of June 6, 1944.  I listened to the riveting words of President Reagan in 1984 in the cemetery in Normandy where 9,400 brave young men, who never got to experience full lives, but instead gave theirs so that I might type this to you today and for eternity.  Yesterday, President Biden spoke eloquently about the sacrifices made by young men who did so unflinchingly and without hesitation because the freedom of the world was at stake.  And today, more moving words at Pointe du Hoc.

Then it dawned on me.  I know a person who, while he didn’t arrive in the first wave, came ashore in Cherbourg a couple of months later.  His name is Harry Paulsen, and he is my father-in-law.  I wrote about Gramps in the Western News, the alumni newsletter of Western Illinois University.  I share his story with you on the 80^th anniversary date of D-Day.

Spring 2001

I tend to write about people, and I think I know why. While I’ve had the opportunity to see many places and things in my life, it’s people who interest me most – large ones, small ones, different colors, ages 1 to 101, career- driven, family-oriented, nice, not-so-nice, personable, distant-they all have a story to tell. Harry James Paulsen, Jr. is one of those people. He is my father-in-law.

Harry Paulsen is not a millionaire. I don’t believe he’s invented anything. He doesn’t drive a fancy car or live in a mansion. He was never a great athlete, didn’t go to college, and has never had a high-profile job. Yet, Harry Paulsen is indeed an extraordinary man. Born in 1921, he married Anna Arnoldsen in 1947. They have four children—Diane, Arne, Paul, and Ruth, and nine grandchildren. Harry Paulsen has lived in the same house in Winthrop Harbor for nearly 50 years and at age 79 he still works. He’s a printer by trade.

What makes Harry Paulsen unique is the way he has lived his life. In a world of flamboyant, headline seekers looking for their 15 minutes of fame, Harry is EVERYMAN. Since he was a young boy, he’s never known life without a job. He has not missed more than a handful of days of work in 60 years. He has always paid his bills on time, prefers hamburger steak to lobster, still mows his own lawn, prefers overalls to a suit and in the 33 years have known him, has never uttered a profane word. He goes to church every Sunday, he’s handy around the house, he likes to take walks and his major indulgence is chocolate Nonpareils candies. He seldom imbibes in alcohol, has never smoked and rarely raises his voice in anger.

In 1943, he began his stint in the army. He served with distinction in the 104th Infantry Division (nicknamed the Timberwolves) as a medic.  In Harry’s own words, “We landed at Cherbourg, France in landing craft boats in September 1944 which was several months after D-Day.  Our mission was to link up with the British and Canadian armies which we accomplished in Holland.  On October 29, 1944 I was wounded in the leg and chest by German artillery shrapnel near the town of Breda, Holland. We were the first casualties of our Battalion Aid Station.” Harry James Paulsen Jr. received a Purple Heart.    

Harry Paulsen is a quiet, introspective man. You know the type; they don’t say much but when they do we listen. Sometimes those who say the least really are the ones who say the most. Their actions speak volumes. As I age and hopefully mature, I no longer walk into a room and look for those who are speaking the most or the loudest. I look for the people who are listening. You generally learn the most from them.

Harry is a man I have grown to admire, respect and in the highest praise I can give, love as if he were my own father. Harry believes in hard work. He taught life lessons to his children by example. He never complained, he never made excuses, he just did what he had to do and expected the same from his children. All four of his children are successful college graduates, including four WIU degrees. He and his wife, Anna, helped make that possible by defraying as much of the financial burden as they could when their children were in college.

Harry is an unpretentious, modest man who earns respect by the way he lives his life. He is part of Tom Brokaw’s Greatest Generation, those men and women who put their very lives in peril so that future generations could live in prosperity and peace. We all have our own Harry Paulsens in our lives. They are caring, decent people upon whom the success of this nation has been built. They might be 25 or 105, man or woman, but they get up every morning and simply go about the business of life as best they can. They might be a grandparent, a parent, an aunt, an uncle, a sibling, a son, a daughter or the neighbor down the street. They are simply people, who in the conduct of their daily lives, serve as role models for the rest of us.

In Harry Paulsen’s case, it was his generation who helped give us the college students of the 1960s-1970s. They asked for little but accomplished much. They taught us that the value of a human being is not in what we have, but in who we are. Did we listen? They are, as Brokaw says, “The men and women who have given us the lives we have today.“

Harry has discovered what many seem to be seeking—simplicity and comfort in a life well-lived. He’s always been an individual who took the words of noted humanitarian Albert Schweitzer to heart, “Example is not the main thing in influencing others, it’s the only thing.” Take a minute and say thank you to the Harry Paulsen in your life. For me, I can simply sit back, wait for the Western News to arrive at his doorstep and in the words of Jackie Gleason’s Ralph Kramden of “The Honeymooners” say, “Harry, you’re the greatest.”

And I DID!  I happened to be with him as he was reading the Western News when it arrived.  He was not one to tear up much, but Gramps did that day, and so did his son-in-law.

Sometimes this whole 4th Quarter thing “gets to me.” I never thought the day would come when going for a walk would make me tired and require a nap afterwards. The same goes for mowing the yard or doing yardwork. Being required to sit four times a day to consume a total of ten, eight-ounce cartons of Jevity 1.2 then also another four sittings to ingest regimens of medications is burdensome. I admit that in the grand scope of things it sucks but then in a broader context it could be a whole lot worse. 

I tell Diane that we can still travel with cases of Jevity in the back of the car. We do get to sit together at night, her eating real food and me “eating” in my own tortured way by pouring all liquid sustenance into PEG (the feeding tube); however, it does keep me alive and sustained nutritionally.  Everyone’s 4th Quarter is different and before it’s over, I assume most of us will suffer our own trials and tribulations moving forward in life.

Lately I have been going through files and discovered a folder with copies of columns I wrote (with assistance from Diane Taylor and Cathy Onion) for WIU’s Western News. What follows is one of my favorites as it is not only inspirational but also tells the story of a man of great courage and dignity who never, and I mean never, ever gave up.

The column was written in 1996 about a man who graced this earth for 46 years in conventional terms but who nevertheless never had admitted his life was anything but spectacular. One of the great privileges of my life was to be a eulogist at his funeral. This is about a man revered in the annals of Western Illinois University:  Bruce Craddock, Head Football Coach, and leader of young men.

Western News, Summer 1996

Abraham Lincoln once said, “People are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” I think he was right. My journey through life has taught me that possessing a positive mental attitude is one of life’s greatest gifts, and we give it to ourselves. I’m not talking about people who ground “acting” happy all the time, but those who really live life, who see the beauty of a flower in bloom, who love what they do, who savor new adventures. To smile or frown, to laugh or cry–the choice is up to each of us. Are we all born with the same opportunities? Absolutely not, but that’s what makes life exhilarating, exciting, challenging. We are tall, short, thin, not thin, bright, not so bright, born with wealth, born in poverty–you get the message. However, each of us must play the hand of cards we are dealt in life.

We all must decide how we intend to live. Will we lament at our position or will we do something about it?  Will we be happy or sad? Life happens to all of us. It’s our response that counts. Let me explain. It was a beautiful fall day in September 1982; I was sitting in the west stands of Hanson Field prior to a WIU football game. It was not a good year for the Leathernecks.  We had struggled but as our Division IAA team took the field for warmups, it was apparent they were a well-fed group of young men.  They were big. Soon our opponents arrived. There were only about 40 of them, and they were small in comparison to Western. They ran onto the field screaming and yelling like crazy men. Their leader was an ex-Marine, and he acted like he actually thought they might win. The team was a Division Il opponent, Northeast Missouri State University (NMSU). I looked over at my longtime friend Steve Stanko and said, “These guys are going to kick our tails.” Steve assured me that the large, mighty Leathernecks would prevail. He was wrong. NMSU beat us 27-10, and at the end of the season we fired our coach and hired theirs, the demanding, charismatic, and upbeat Bruce Craddock.

Bruce Craddock didn’t think he could win or feel he should win or hope he would win:  he KNEW he would win. He encouraged, he worked, he struggled, but most importantly he believed and taught his players to believe. In 1988 Bruce took Western to the NCAA-1AA playoffs. It was a tremendous season and the ‘Necks finished at 10-2. Bruce was on top of the world. His enthusiasm was contagious. It was a wonderful time to be a Leatherneck.

Then it happened. Bruce went in for a routine physical, and the doctors found cancer–lots of it and in bad places. The prognosis was certain. It was just a matter of time. As he struggled through the next season and into the final stages of his illness, we became good friends. The guy was so upbeat, so optimistic, so positive. He was terminally ill, but people wouldn’t know it.

Near the end, February 1990, I was sitting in my office alone one morning with my thoughts. It was terrible outside: a freezing, subzero day with arctic winds. It was so bad classes had even been suspended. I was the only one in our office who made it in that day. As I sat at my desk looking at the just published Western News, the phone rang. Who in the world would be calling on a day like this? It was Bruce Craddock. He called to tell me thanks for putting an update about his condition in the Western News. I will never forget that conversation. He said in that raspy voice of his, “Hi Gordy, it’s me Bruce, how ya doing buddy?” There was no response from me. I simply couldn’t get anything out. A lump the size of a watermelon had formed in my throat. How could this man, literally on his death bed, call me, tell me thanks, and ask how I was feeling? The answer was simple. It was Bruce Craddock. I’m sure he was smiling.  He still maintained his positive attitude. I finally regained my composure; we had a nice visit. Two weeks later he died.

While most of that day is a blur, I do remember saying to those at the funeral that Bruce Craddock wasn’t really gone. Yes, his body had been taken from us, but his spirit would be with us forever. He had no regrets. For him every day was a great day to be savored and enjoyed. Despite grave adversity, Bruce had demonstrated a positive mental attitude to the end–the very end. He lived until he died. I mean really lived–with gusto and passion.

Coach lives on today. He was a mentor to many including his gridiron successor Randy Ball. Bruce’s legacy endured through Randy who along with Vice President for Advancement Larry Mortier would simply not be denied in bringing the St. Louis Rams summer training camp to Macomb. Randy and Larry believed with every fiber of their bodies that they could entice the Rams to Macomb and with the help of tremendous community support, did indeed get them here. Bruce would be so proud. 

I tell my Bruce Craddock story often when I speak to groups about the meaning of life and the importance of living. Bruce Craddock is high on my list of unforgettable people I have met at Western. That’s what makes this institution great: not the bricks and mortar, not the landscaping or the books, but the people. You have your own special memories of the people at Western who helped make you what you are today–who made a difference in your life. Gosh, it’s a great day. Take care.

Four years ago at the encouragement and urging of longtime friend, Mike Burke, the technology expertise from our daughter-in-law Margaret, and Diane’s willingness to co-edit entries, post each article, and navigate the public website www.gordyandthe4thquarter.blog became a reality.  My audience of “fourth quarter” readers are my focus, but I never seriously considered myself a “fourth quarter” member.  Sure, I’m almost 78, but me Gordy Taylor, frustrated jock, actually in the 7th or 8th inning or marching down the football field with a mere 10 or 11 minutes left to play in the game? Can’t be, couldn’t be, but recent events have made it clear that not only could it be but without a doubt I’m in that final quarter of life. 

Allow me to catch you up on why I am a “Fourth Quarter” member, and it is not mere years of the calendar.

September 5^th-16^th:  Celebrated our 55^th wedding anniversary by visiting Prague followed by a Viking Danube River Cruise from Regensburg, Germany to Budapest, Hungary.  Traveling with Ruth & Steve, Diane’s SIL & BIL, was extra special. The trip exceeded our expectations.  If we can give you any advice or encouragement, if you have been putting off travelling—don’t.  Make plans and don’t look back.

September 20^th:   Total right knee replacement outpatient surgery in Springfield, IL.  Played too many sports for too many years but all worth it.  Physical therapy followed.  Slowly the knee began to bend more as the weeks passed.

October 13^th:  While my knee and mobility were improving, I was more fatigued, coughing up mucus, and had a temperature.  Started oral antibiotics but didn’t improve.

October 25^th-30^th: Ole Gordy was not functioning 100% or anything above 80%, so off to McDonough District Hospital’s Emergency Department where I was diagnosed with aspiration pneumonia.  After days of getting antibiotics through an IV, I was well enough to return home.

Now it is important to “my story” to add something here.  In 2010 I had 5 days a week for 7 weeks radiation blasts in two areas of my throat to get rid of a base of tongue cancerous tumor.  Hooray, at the end, the tumor was eradicated.  However, as Diane says, “radiation is a gift that keeps on giving.”  It compromised my ability to swallow, the back of my tongue is not pliable, and the epiglottis, the flap in the throat that prevents food and water from entering the trachea and lungs, is weaker now that I’m in the 4^th quarter.  When I eat or drink, particles go into my lungs all the time which has resulted in my lung condition called bronchiectasis (airwaves fill up with mucus).

October 30^th:  I’m home but I need to increase my walking and push myself so that my knee replacement is successful.  Did you know that even when dismissed from a hospital and still take oral antibiotics that people still have pneumonia in their lungs?  I didn’t, but I know now.

December 30^th:  After a delightful Christmas visit with Ryan, Margaret, and 5-year-old Danny, I felt a malaise, no appetite, coughing more so back on two very strong oral antibiotics after a doctor’s visit.  Surely, this will do the trick. 

January 6^th:  I looked at “Dr. Diane” who was very concerned and worried and she said, “Gord, we have to go the ER again.”  I knew she was right.  Aspiration pneumonia again in both lungs AND sepsis which I’m told is very serious.  I am thankful and grateful Diane insisted we go because the ER doctor said that the longer sepsis is untreated the more likely the outcome can be fatal.   Once again, I was in the hospital with IV’s and oxygen.  Now this is getting old for me.  I asked the hospitalist what I could do to stop getting aspiration pneumonia since every case is getting worse than the last which eventually would be terminal.  Her reply was brief and direct: “Stop eating and drinking by mouth.”  I couldn’t believe it, but of course I could.

January 12^th:  Her diagnosis meant a return to a gastric-feeding tube (percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy) or PEG like I had when treated for cancer in 2010 when I couldn’t eat or drink anything. I had the surgery in the afternoon.  This means PEG is a part of my life and this is horrible, ghastly, life changing, and forever. No more popcorn, Diet Coke, pizza, Dairy Queen, or anything else that enters my body by mouth including water, milk, and wine.  PEG sticks out from my stomach adjacent to my belly button. I consume 9 cartons of Jevity 1.2 which amounts to roughly 2,300 calories per day by pouring it down the tube.  We are grateful we travelled to all the places on our wish list because taking a week’s worth of “food” results in 63 cartons—rather difficult to take on a plane or a ship. 

This is life-changing for Diane also.  Like most of us in the 4^th quarter, our social life is going out for meals, sharing meals with friends, and just the enjoyment of sharing a glass or two of wine. The first time with PEG, it was necessary to get nutrition and meds during the cancer journey.  BUT there was an ending to this.  Now it is forever.  She feels terrible eating in front of me because she is my caring and loving partner who is very empathetic, but she must continue to get nourishment.  After all she is my Dr. Diane.  Thanks to her for always taking care of me.  

When I was discharged, I had both PEG but also an oxygen machine with yards and yards of tubing so that wherever I went, I was getting oxygen adjusted from 1-2 liters depending on my level of activity. Some of this discussion is way over my head but thankfully Diane has a handle on what to do and how to do it.  I cannot express how much I have depended on her for all of this medical information and multiple appointments.  I spent almost a full month hooked up to oxygen approximately 23 hours a day as I slept, walked a little, and slept some more.  Sepsis and pneumonia make for a nasty tag team; I remain weak and compromised but thankfully am better. 

Add to this PEG which requires four feedings a.k.a. “meals” a day, so I sit on the couch as I pour product into the tubing that enters directly into my stomach. Remember, nothing enters my mouth. I do stand over a sink and wash water around in my mouth then spit it out–not a pretty sight.  Diane has to endure all this. While my situation is not to be envied, it is also extremely difficult to be the spouse watching all this unfold, knowing you absolutely have to eat enough to keep up your strength. Diane has lost weight and needs to eat in order to maintain her health. I worry about her.  My weight has gone from 151 to 156, and I need to get up to 165 or so.

In our meeting with my doctor, he said that while this is all good news, the journey is not yet over.  My doctors in concert with one another told us that the healing from my pneumonia will take months and patience is extremely important; I am attempting to deal with that issue.  Specifically, while I have been dealing with this since mid-September, I have only really been in recovery since the tandem of oxygen at home and insertion of PEG began on January 12th. 

Our odyssey has been made bearable by all our dear family and friends who have been there to support us these past few months. All of this has made it clear that I am clearly in that veritable Fourth Quarter and now just want to extend it as long as possible as Diane and I have many memories yet to create for ourselves, our family, and our friends. The possibility of getting aspiration pneumonia has decreased immeasurably. That’s good news! While PEG is no walk in the park, it does allow me to keep moving forward on my journey through life. The key word is LIFE.  The obvious decision if I wanted to live was to get the surgery.  We all know people who never got the chance to make the decision to live or die—I did. 

Finally, I met Diane on April 1,1967 (yes, April Fool’s Day), and had the good fortune she wanted to marry me on August 31, 1968. Little did I know she would be not only the “love of my life” for all the good times but my savior in these most challenging of times as well.  We both have gone through some “down” times emotionally and psychologically since September, but we remind ourselves to take it one day at a time.  The Fourth Quarter continues…

Funny how things work out. At the time it happens, we seldom know who the people are who decided to “take a chance” and support us on our life’s journey. As I sit here in the Fourth Quarter of my life, I wonder what would have become of me if certain people had not reached out and said to themselves, “I think I’ll take a chance on Gordy.” Thankfully they did, and I’m forever grateful.  

I was in graduate school at the University of Florida in 1970 pursuing an MBA and then PhD in Management having graduated from Western Illinois University in 1968. I had been awarded an NDEA Title IV Fellowship which meant my tuition and fees were paid for, and I received a monthly stipend of $200 the first year and $216 the second. Diane got a job and somehow we managed to pay our bills. Life was good and the fellowship had one year remaining. We busied ourselves as newlyweds working, studying, watching Gator basketball and football, and driving the 80 miles to Crescent Beach, just south of St. Augustine almost every weekend we got the chance. We didn’t know it at the time, and even with the pressure of the elusive PhD pursuit, it was the most carefree time we would enjoy in our almost 55 years together. But change was lurking on the horizon.

My mom had died tragically in 1969 at age 47. I felt the need to be closer to home in suburban Hinsdale where younger brother Greg was living with our dad, who just was not excited about raising a twelve-year-old on his own. It was complicated, but then we all learn at some point, that life can be that way. I had finished two years of the fellowship with one to go, so what to do. Maybe I could return to my undergraduate alma mater, finish my doctorate degree from Macomb, and play a more significant role in the lives of both Greg and Dad.  Diane and I hatched a plan that could make this outcome a reality.

I wrote a letter to one of my favorite teachers at Western, Dr. Bob Jefferson, Professor of Marketing. He might remember me as Gordy Taylor who had received one of two A’s in his Advertising 213 class a couple of years earlier.  Lucky for me he did, and he called back suggesting I return to Western for an interview as there was an opening in the Department of Management for an Assistant Professor. How about that! I flew back to Illinois, interviewed, and “got the job.”  Dr. Jefferson had taken a chance, put his reputation “on the line,” and was the driving force behind me getting the job. I taught Management for eight years before fate struck again.

Now how would Gordy move from the classroom to the realm of Alumni Programs?  Still young at 32, Mr. Taylor would be hired by Dr. Ralph Wagoner, Vice President for Advancement. I had never met the man, nor he me. I was totally unknown to him and vice versa. The interview process went well and after the “dinner with the spouse” where Diane hit a proverbial grand slam, the job I would love for the next 28 years was mine.  Ralph and I remain friends to this day and not only did he take a chance on me but he was also my primary career mentor. Sometimes timing is everything. 

As stated earlier, life can get complicated and it did for me. Pursuit of the doctorate was not going well. Simply stated, everything that could go wrong did. It was a lousy time in our lives and it appeared the PhD just might not happen and thus my teaching career at a university would most likely end as individuals needed a doctorate to get tenure in a College of Business. Faculty had ten years to get the job done, and I was running out of time, ergo, my pursuit of the alumni job. I was about to “give up” which certainly was something foreign to my DNA but was it even worth the effort. At this point, I called good buddy, Harry Gianneschi, who was one of my predecessors in the alumni job and inquired, “Harry, should I even bother with this? I have the job and you don’t really need a PhD to be the alumni person.” His answer was brief and immediate. “Gordy, get it if you can because it gives you credibility at everything that matters in higher ed. It makes you an equal at the table so yes, get it.” Now what?

I desperately needed a “knight in shining armor” to come to my aid and help me get over the hump I was facing regarding the quantitative aspect of my degree pursuit. But who? I was at a complete dead end when it dawned on me. Dave, he is the guru of all things mathematical which I am not. Good old Dave Beveridge. We taught together, partied together, Diane and Judy became the closest of friends, we had kids together, and of course, we played softball together.  Dave was the Dean of the College of Business administering to the needs of his faculty.  Fortunately, we remained close friends. So what did I do? I walked into his office, closed the door, and said, “Dave, you know I have the alumni job, but I need to finish up this damn doctorate.  I am clueless on how to handle the computer analysis of all this data that has been generated. Will you help me?”  The poor guy looked at me, standing there looking helpless and forlorn (I was) and he consented to help me much to his eternal chagrin.  I was in his office three times a week for the next two years badgering the poor guy on “what to do next.”  It was excruciating; it was painful; it was extreme frustration.  However, we pressed forward as the clock was ticking closer and closer to the ten-year completion deadline at the University of Florida.

And then “We did it.” All the hurdles were overcome and in June 1980.  I became Dr. Gordon A. Taylor with maybe ten seconds to spare before my time ran out.  Hooray! Eureka! Yippee! Time for a party and boy was it a big one which was held on our driveway on Glenoak Drive. As fits rural America, it was a pig roast with plenty of food and there was beer and champagne, lots of it.  At some point, late into the evening, there was a toast, “Here’s to Dr. Taylor” and a huge round of applause filled the evening air. Then, someone, and I don’t know who, made a suggestion that to this day remains a seminal quote in our family lexicon. “What about Beveridge?” came the loud shout, and then we had a toast to the “only co-authored dissertation” in the annals of academic history. It was a hoot and everyone laughed. The point is, Dave Beveridge was a very busy man, and he didn’t have to take a chance on me but he did. We all need people like Dave who in those crucial, defining times in our lives, are there for us to help us in our times of greatest need. Dave was one of those people for me.

I suppose that should be the end but fortunately it isn’t as there is one more “take a chance” moment left to experience. One would think that was it–teaching career, wonderful fulfilling alumni job, what else could there be, but sometimes, things just, well happen, and they did for me.  Ralph Wagoner went on to become President of Western Illinois University for eight years and then assumed a similar position at Augustana College in South Dakota.  WIU’s next president was Dr. Donald Spencer who came to Western via State University of New York at Geneseo.  Don is a brilliant “man of action” who accomplished much during his tenure. Shortly after his arrival, President Spencer made some changes and one of them included me. He selected the wonderful, personable, respected, and admired Dr. Larry Mortier to become Vice President for Advancement and Public Service. Larry was perfect for the job and accomplished many fine things during his time at Western. Simultaneously, Spencer looked into his crystal ball and said something to the effect of “what to do about Gordy?”  He knew I had been the “alumni guy” for a long time and maybe could assist Larry with fundraising.  Consequently, I became the Associate Vice President for Advancement and Alumni Programs, a position I held until I retired. Again, and to my good fortune, Don Spencer took a chance and the team of Spencer, Mortier, and Taylor was a damn fine one in the area of university advancement and fundraising. 

“Taking a chance” affects all of us, in ways large and small.  I’m grateful these people all “took a chance” on me.  Bob, Ralph, and Don are all retired and sadly Dave, my softball playing buddy, passed away much too young.  Now it’s time to take a moment and maybe reach out to those who “took a chance” on you via a note, a call, a text, or email. I guarantee you will feel good and so will they.

I never know when the “spirit will move me” to write and type; today is no exception.  As I was walking out of our beach condo (it’s a rental), Diane asked, “Have you given any thought to the next blog entry.  It’s been awhile.”  I answered that I had not and was on my way to take an always-enjoyable walk.  

I noticed an elderly couple on the other side of the street walking in the opposite direction. The husband was pushing his wife in a wheelchair.  God bless him!  He was all stooped over, both their heads were completely covered by visors, but by golly, they were “out there” enjoying the day.  

When I started back in the other direction, I came upon them again.  He appeared to be struggling.  I inquired, “Hi there, beautiful day, can I lend you a hand?”  Poor guy looked up and said, “Oh that would be lovely, it’s pretty warm out here today.” As we walked ever so slowly with me pushing the wheelchair, I asked how old he was and he said, “I’m 93, my wife is 95 and we’ve been married 71 years—5 kids and 17 grandchildren.”  I complimented him on a life well lived.  Our short walk got us to their destination and the elevator to take them up to their unit. He looked at me and said, “Thanks partner, I can get it from here” and that was that.  I don’t believe his dear wife even knew that I had been along. 

It was then that it dawned on me. Most of us in the 4th quarter are at peace with the reality that we won’t be discovering a cure for cancer, coming up with the next great computer innovation, or countless other discoveries that lie “out there.” However, each of us can still continue to do little things to improve the condition of the world in which we live. When I returned to our condo, I offered to do some laundry and as I was putting clothes in a washer, a woman who had just put her clothes in the dryer, said to herself out loud, “Darn it, I forgot my Bounce to which I quickly replied, “I just opened a new box, help yourself.”  These are what my Dad referred to as “little things,” but they still matter. We all do them—carry groceries for someone, do an errand for a friend, drive when someone is unable, send a card, make a phone call, reach out to others. You get the point.

It just dawned on me, I’m “on a roll” so let me continue. We are going on a river cruise in September and can’t get our flight tickets without our passport numbers which naturally are in Macomb while we are in South Florida. What the heck were we going to do? Marilyn, our neighbor across the street has a key to the house and is our “go to” person. She is always there to lend a helping hand but is out of town.  Then I thought of my walking partner Sean. He has a key as well (honest, we don’t give them to everyone) so I gave him a call. Sean and Kathleen drove in from their home in the country, found the passports, gave us our numbers, and saved the day.   Waiting until our return to Macomb may have presented travel complications so Sean and Kathleen—thank you.

We have met some wonderful people down here, two of which happen to be our next door condo neighbors. Last week, Mary and Mark texted us from Walmart which is quite a distance away and asked, “You guys need anything?”  to which I replied, “Damn right, I do!  I’m a DOVE vanilla ice cream bar with milk chocolate addict, and I can’t find any on the island.” Thirty minutes later there was a knock on the door; I was a happy camper.  They handed me four boxes of ice cream bars. 

The other day, I noticed a slight pool of water on the kitchen floor. Mr. Wizard or Mr. Fix-it I am not. My knowledge of plumbing, wiring, or anything mechanical is zero.  Diane and our children will vouch for this lack of practical knowledge on my part. They will kid me: “Someone need a speech on leadership or motivation, call Dad. Anything else, pretty much out of his league.” Well, we just didn’t know what to do. Then Diane said, “Gord, Mark is an engineer.”  I smiled, walked next door, knocked and there he was. I escorted Mark to our condo. He pulled out the refrigerator, saw a leaky plastic tube, made ME drive to ACE where he made ME spend $1.59 on a thingamajig, returned to our condo, cut off a piece of tubing, inserted the thingamajig, and restored what was a leaky hose back to working order. I offered him money—nope, dinner—nope, a glass of wine—sure.  

When I left the condo this morning, I had no idea I’d be writing about this but here I am and it has been fun. Look around and every day we have the opportunity to do those “little things” that make a difference to others. The best part is, it makes us feel better to do these small good deeds. Even as we move deeper and deeper into the 4th quarter of our lives, we can continue to remain helpful and useful.

I must close with a cute exclamation point on all this. After my brief adventure with my new 93 year-old friend, I had walked to the next beach access when I spotted a little old lady in front of me who was struggling to carry her beach chair.  I had just helped a 90+ year-old couple and now was my chance to strike again for as Superman said, “Truth, justice, and the American way.”  I got beside her, looked over, and said, “Hi, I’m going the same direction you are. Can I carry that for you?” She immediately turned her head and glared at me. “No, I am perfectly able to carry it myself!” So, I pushed her in the bushes and continued on my way.

The year 2023 has arrived, and with it, the hope that it will be a year of renewed faith in the word “democracy,” sustained or better health, as appropriate, for ourselves and our loved ones, some exciting new life adventures, and certainly, significant and sustained relationships with those who make up the fabric of our lives. That’s a pretty big order, but as our former Men’s Basketball Coach, Jack Margenthaler was famous for saying to exhort his teams to play harder, “You gotta believe,” and so they did. I’m simply suggesting that we need to believe good and meaningful events will transpire, as to think otherwise is to guarantee failure and frustration. Consequently, let’s opt for the words of Coach Margenthaler. Last year is behind us and 2023 is out there, ready for us to explore, appreciate, and enjoy.

Jack Margenthaler was a “gift” to the Western Illinois University and Macomb community.  He was not only an excellent coach but also a local personality.  Even when his teams struggled a bit, fans would flock to Western Hall to enjoy the “Jack Margenthaler Show.”  He was passionate, colorful, animated, and engaged.

He also has a great sense of humor.  I was coaching Gordon III’s YMCA team of 10 year olds one Saturday morning when Coach M stopped by the gym.  He looked at me, looked at the scoreboard that showed 30 seconds to play, pointed and said, “Well, Gordy, I’ve had some tough games, but we never got shut out 25-0.”  Two men—one a real coach and one a pseudo coach—had a good laugh.

Gosh, I seem to be on a “Margenthaler roll.”  When Gordon III was 12 or 13, he entered a local free throw contest and who should be standing there watching a nervous youngster hit 14 of 15 but Coach Jack.  He walked over, put his arm on Gordon’s shoulder and said, “You’re a little young, but I could use a free-throw shooter like you.  Remember, Gordon, always remember, you gotta believe.”  The man just has a way with people.  That is his gift.

When I first started my blog about three years ago, the expression, “The Fourth Quarter” was pretty much intended as a “throwaway” line to acknowledge the reality that I was, for better or worse, aging.  The challenge was how to cope with that fact in a manner that was more optimistic than pessimistic and let readers know that we are all together on this journey through life.  It will be ripe with wonderful anecdotes of uniqueness for each of us, but that we can surely share them with one another which is precisely what I have attempted to do here. Death, sickness, Covid, disappointment sure, however still the theme for each of us can be “upward and onward” as we progress through the proverbial Fourth Quarter. 

Diane and I have lost a good many friends the past year, more than we would ever have anticipated a mere twelve months ago. It made me question the blog entry I wrote about regarding that miraculous train, chugging down the track picking up and dropping off passengers on my journey to ultimate eternity. Frankly, that story deserves repeating so here are the words of Malcolm Tilsed on the Train of Life:

“Life is like a journey on a train—With its stations—With changes of routes—And with accidents!  At birth we boarded the train and met our parents, and we believe they will always travel on our side. However, at some station our parents will step down from the train, leaving us on this journey alone. As time goes by, other people will board the train, and they will be significant i.e. our friends, children, and even the love of our life.  Many will step down and leave a permanent vacancy. Others will go so unnoticed that we don’t realize that they vacated their seats which is very sad when you think about it.  This train ride will be full of joy, sorrow, fantasy, expectations, hellos, goodbyes, and farewells.  Success consists of having a good relationship with all the passengers…requiring that we give the best of ourselves. The mystery to everyone is we do not know at which station we ourselves will step down. So we must live in the best way–love, forgive, and offer the best of who we are.  It is important to do this because when the time comes for us to step down and leave our seat empty–we should leave behind beautiful memories for those who will continue to travel on the train of life. I wish you a joyful journey this year on the train of life. Reap success and give lots of love. More importantly, give thanks for the journey! Lastly, I thank you for being one of the passengers on my train.”

So here’s my dilemma. My train, just as you have yours, has been the composite of my life’s adventure, just as your train is yours. But damn it, something is happening to the riders on mine and maybe yours as well—passengers are getting off with greater frequency than they are boarding. In the early days of my youth, lots of people were getting on, and a few as I got older, began to get off.  Now, reluctantly, I find the process reversed, as age is beginning to thin out my ridership and more people are getting off than getting on and I seem to be moving closer to the front of the train and whoever is up there as the locomotive engineer.

I never thought about this very much until it happened but indeed it has and while the end result is rather obvious, I intend to believe my Fourth Quarter is just getting started and new passengers will soon appear and by golly, they have.  In September, a member of my floor when I was a resident assistant at Western reached out to me and we have rekindled a long dormant relationship. Just this week, an alum and member of Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity reached out, and we have begun corresponding after many “lost” years. 

The train keeps chugging along and gladly mine has picked up a couple of new riders who will join me for years to come. We are laughing and telling stories and reliving memories from our youth and it has been refreshing. I’m a realist and know these “new additions” will not be the same as dear friends of 40, 50, even 60 years duration. There simply isn’t enough time. What they will do is make me realize that my train continues to travel down the track with new passengers and my time to step off into eternity has not yet arrived. “You gotta believe.”  

Back again and time to acknowledge my least favorite and most favorite times of the year.  I don’t think much of Halloween. It just never resonated with me and seems to be simply a celebration of nothing.  There, that was easy and now for my most favorite day of the year, Thanksgiving. The name pretty much says it all and as someone fortunate to live until the 4th Quarter, this is an excellent, not a good, but an excellent time to reflect on my many blessings and maybe a good time for you to contemplate doing the same.  

There are the global, obvious things I’m grateful for like being born and living in the United States, having the opportunity to live the life I have in terms of the things I love most including family and friends, and being alive to appreciate all the bountifulness that has surrounded me throughout my life.  I get to wake up every morning and like you, have the choice when I put my first foot on the floor to say either, “Good morning, God, or good God, it’s morning.”  These big things are just that, big and significant to all of us. Thomas Friedman in his book Longitudes and Attitudes recounted how, in the aftermath of September 11, 2001, he told his young daughters at the dinner table, “Girls, you can have any view you want—left, right, or center. You can come home with someone Black, white, or purple. But you will never come in this house and not love your country and not thank God every day that you were born an American.”  I think he might be on to something. 

And then there are the little things for which I am grateful. These are the moments that can happen anywhere at any time—a person who slows down to let you merge on the expressway, a friend’s smile, a grandchild’s first step or base hit, or solo in the school talent show, popcorn in the basement while watching the Bears on a Sunday afternoon, our yard right after we mow it, the first red rose of Spring, a discovered note my Dad wrote to me on my 21st birthday, any kiss from Diane, chocolate, a Cardinal at the bird feeder, Judy Garland singing “Over the Rainbow,” and goodness I could on and on but you get my point. Try it sometime as it is kind of fun and will make you smile. 

Yes, I am grateful as well I should be and that leads into another word that is appropriate with this season of giving and that is the entire concept of giving to others. We are the lucky ones and need to share our largesse with those less fortunate than us. I am not a preacher and that is probably a good thing as I know and have occasionally used lots of “bad” words over the years. However, our Methodist minister is a preacher, and he recently spoke of the “the importance of giving.” While he was speaking, I was looking around a bit and my eyes found Cindy Hare who was sitting up a few rows from us.  My mind went back to the winter of 2018 when Diane was recovering from TWO broken ankles and place bound to a hospital bed on our first-floor family room.  Cindy is part of the church’s Prayer Shawl group and had presented one to Diane to keep her warm both physically and spiritually—very emotional for the three of us.  Now that’s giving. 

When I had my bout with base of tongue cancer in 2010, I got a get-well card a day from members of Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity. Most were from fifty-year old men who were students of mine in the 1970s and others from classmates of mine who were in their sixties.  They didn’t have to do what they did, but it was a strong health tonic for me.  I didn’t go back and change any grades but I was tempted. To this day, folks still inquire how I’m doing and their concern is heartening.  

It’s powerful medicine to “pay it forward.”  When my mom died in 1969 at age 47, I was in graduate school at the University of Florida and had no money for Diane and me to get home for the funeral. We didn’t own a credit card—not many of us did in those days—but our neighbors Bill and Karen Gourley did.  They came over to our apartment when they heard us talking about our dilemma and insisted on paying for our tickets with their card. We never forgot their generosity. Twenty years later, we sent the Gourleys a note with $100 enclosed and reminded them of what they had done in our time of great need and suggested they use it to go out for dinner. What did Bill and Karen do? Well, they gave $50 to each of their sons with a note to, you guessed it, pay it forward.

Giving takes place in many ways. It was July 1993 and West Central Illinois was under siege by unrelenting rain—it just would not stop.  The Mississippi River was well over its banks and there was much flooding throughout the area. People were displaced from their homes and many wondered if it was time to begin building a new Noah’s Ark. I was sitting at my desk in the Alumni House at 7:30 one morning when suddenly colleague Cathy Chenoweth Onion appeared in my doorway with hands on hips. She exclaimed, “Gordy, I’m the daughter and wife of farmers and there is much suffering all around us and we simply have to do something.” I thought for about a second and knowing Cathy was way ahead of me I asked a question for which I already knew the answer. “Do you have a plan?” Of course she did. Within two days a plan of action was mobilized and put in action. Local HyVee grocery manager Dennis Iversen donated ALL the “fixins”—hamburgers, hotdogs, buns, condiments, plates, and napkins. A call to local Coca Cola distributor Mark Martin, and we had complimentary soda. Tom Schneider put up one of his huge tents, Park District Superintendent Ray Peterson had picnic tables delivered to the HyVee parking lot where the two-day event took place. Scores of local alumni were on hand to direct traffic, serve patrons, accept contributions, and help cleanup.

It rained both days and never stopped. The line of customers seemed endless and there were wonderful rain-soaked people who came up and donated even if they didn’t have time to wait to be served. It was incredible and the entire community pulled together to “give” to others in their time of greatest need. All the money collected went to charity as we had no overhead—zero. We ended up giving the Salvation Army and the Red Cross each checks for over $6,000. The power of giving—amazing and rewarding. The Flood, Sweat, and Tears event was an extraordinary example of giving.

That brings me to the present. There seems to be chaos all around us—floods, fires, drought, and of course Hurricane Ian. What can we do to help THESE people in their time of greatest need. Two of our Florida friends lost their home and everything inside it. Since I don’t know a hammer from a nail and can be dangerous when wielding a saw, we decided my physical presence would be more of a hindrance than a help, but we were able to do the next best thing—send a check.  Upon receipt, they were most gracious and instead of accepting it, distributed the proceeds it on to others who needed help more than them.  Talk about givers!    

So, Halloween, not for me, but Thanksgiving, I’m all over it.  A Taylor tradition has always been a pre-meal game of “driveway basketball.” First it was my brothers and Dad and me. Then it became Jennifer, Gordon, Ryan, and me—priceless moments for which I am most appreciative. How about Diane?  Well, someone had to prepare that fabulous meal.  Thanksgiving is an opportunity to be thankful and reflect on all the blessings that have been bestowed on us but also to maybe spend a little time thinking about the joy of giving, be it large or small. Along these lines, I read somewhere that true kindness is when we give or do something for someone who can never repay the favor to us.  I’ll close with that. 

Happy early Thanksgiving.

I have been away from writing for a while but with good cause. In the middle of August, I had cataract surgery for my right eye followed by a visit to the dermatologist which resulted in nine biopsies on my head, face, and back that will require further “attention” in varying degrees.  Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come. On Labor Day, I told Diane I wasn’t feeling up to par, so she suggested taking a Covid test and as a man, I told her that was a silly idea as I’ve already had Covid and have had all my shots and boosters. My personal Florence Nightingale was correct (as usual with everything medical); I tested positive. How could I forget new variants are still present? I have some chronic bronchial issues, and my oxygen level was low so it was off to the Emergency Department at the hospital. Omicron hit me hard with fatigue, weakness, and weight loss. Good news is I am finally feeling better but it really knocked me on my butt for ten days or so.  Unfortunately, I gave my “gift” of Covid to Diane for the second time since it has been around.  I feel badly about this; however, her case was milder though pretty uncomfortable.  With the help of an antiviral prescription, we seem to have weathered Omicron.

That’s the down side of life in the proverbial 4th Quarter, but overall it has been a summer of much happiness and good cheer. As we age, we attend way too many visitations and funerals and that is just the nature of things. However, there is good news as well; it comes in the way of weddings. You remember—young people getting dressed up, professing their unwavering love for one another for eternity, dancing the night away at the reception, then heading off to various exotic and exciting locations for a fabulous honeymoon. Just by point of reference, on August 31, 1968 Diane and Gordy Taylor spent their honeymoon night at a Howard Johnson’s in Kenosha, Wisconsin.  

We had the privilege and opportunity to attend a wedding in May and another in August, and they were both extraordinary. There was so much energy, happiness, enthusiasm, love, laughter, and promise of never-ending good times ahead. We both had a great time and truth be known, the unofficial “dance queen” at both weddings was none other than my wife who after an obligatory swirl with me, was pretty much found on the dance floor the rest of the evening.  We both had a fabulous and fun time.  It does the soul good to be around so many young people beginning the next significant chapter of their lives. 

While attending these weddings, I thought about the wedding of our daughter Jennifer to John Stevenson on June 19, 1999, in Macomb, Illinois. I remember it well, and it started with me feeling a kinship to those Hollywood fathers of the bride, Spencer Tracy and Steve Martin. As a matter of fact, when news of the nuptials was announced in December 1998, I promptly rented the original Father of the Bride movie starring Tracy and the remake featuring Martin. I laughed at their foibles, missteps, miscalculations, and confusion. Certainly, none of those things would ever happen to me. After all, I was Gordy Taylor and our daughter’s wedding would be like hundreds of alumni events I’d planned during my career at Western Illinois University, just a bit more elaborate and sophisticated. Goodness, I was wrong, very wrong.

I should have seen it coming. Little things began to happen. On our coffee table, a series of different magazines began to appear: Modern Bride, Today’s Bride, The Bride’s Magazine. Our trusty mailbox from 1983 was replaced with a shiny new one. The doorbell was removed and one that glowed in the dark suddenly appeared. Our front yard gas light was cleaned and painted. An accent rug was added on top of our newly purchased family room carpeting. The deck was power hosed and stained again. Thirty colorful tuberous begonia plants in willow green sponge-painted pots appeared from nowhere for the table center pieces.  Seventy-three photos tracing our family history were hung on walls throughout the house. A willow green rug, willow green waste basket, willow green towels, and a willow green drinking glass replaced their perfectly functional predecessors in the powder room.  After all, I was told, many of our reception guests would use the powder room and thus everything should be color coordinated, including additional willow green paper cups. 

Heck, we didn’t need a wedding consultant, we had Diane Taylor, mother of the bride, who became Martha Stewart of Macomb. Yes, something was definitely taking place. Diane’s vocabulary was laced with words and phrases like tuxedo, flowers, rehearsal dinner, guest lists, invitations, Thursday night dinner for family, Sunday brunch, money is no object (that phrase really got my attention), she’s our only daughter, cake, hotel reservations, gift registration, photographer, the church, the soloist, her brothers will be in the wedding, and of course, I need a new dress. I didn’t have a chance.  

I do not remember a conversation with Diane in the first six months of 1999 that did not end up in some way referring to “the wedding.”  It became apparent to me that since Jennifer was born in 1971, Diane had been thinking about this gala event. As spring arrived, we grew Macomb’s largest flower garden. After all, the reception was being held in our back yard and flowers planted matched the wedding colors. New shrubs arrived, invitations were sent, a tent rented, cars waxed, services of a string quartet secured, and soon the big day was here.  Jennifer was a beautiful bride. Her bridal gown was sewn by Great-Grandma Arnoldsen and worn originally by Diane’s mom in 1947 and Diane’s sister Ruth in 1983. I refused to wear a willow green tuxedo and settled on basic black. The mother of the bride was beautiful and glowing in her apricot-colored dress.

The weather was delightful—sunny skies, 75 degrees, and a very light breeze. The church wedding and outdoor reception were perfect in every way.  It was a day to remember and all the credit goes to Diane and Jennifer. They thought of everything.  I joked a lot about our respective roles: Diane’s to plan, organize, coordinate, and worry; mine to sign checks, smile, and shut up. I did all right on two out of three. 

Jennifer and John have added Luke 18, James 14, Paul 11 and a couple of big old dogs to the mix. Their house is full of love, laughter, and good cheer; we are both happy and proud of them. For us, in the 4th Quarter, the growth and development of the Stevenson family has been a joy to behold. Time marches on and now both Gordon III and Ryan are married with their own families as well, but I will always remember those famous words of 1999, “Spare no costs, she’s our only daughter.”  

I live in Macomb, Illinois—population something under 20,000. I was not born or raised in Macomb but with the exception of two years at the University of Florida in Gainesville, I have spent the last 56 years here. I’m pretty much committed to the place.  I never expected that to be the case. When I arrived in 1964 from suburban Hinsdale, Illinois, as a freshman, I was quite apprehensive about the location. It seemed to me to be mostly about cows, corn, soybeans, barns, farmland, and people who spoke with a bit of a drawl. Yet, as a student I thrived participating in intramural sports, meeting what would become lifelong friends including my life-partner Diane, getting a job as a resident assistant which would define my life, and even getting a college education along the way.

Macomb has no professional sports teams, no Macy’s, no Capital Grille, no Magnificent Mile, no major museums, and no Lake Michigan. We also do not have much crime, no rush hour (unless you try to navigate the downtown Square at 5 p.m. on Friday) and certainly no false airs about who we are as a community. What we do have is a feeling, an ambiance if you will, that binds us together and allows us to live lives that are as exciting or tranquil as fits each of us. We have nice restaurants, tree-lined streets, excellent public services, a park system with something for everyone, fresh air, and a Chamber of Commerce that, with lots of other entities, provides myriad activities throughout the year.

The balloon rally, an arts festival, park n’ cruise car show, Heritage Days, library books sale, and seasonal farmers market are events offered in the community. A movie theater, a totally renovated downtown Square, and a state park a mere seven miles away are also found in the area.  Five or six times a year, the Flags of Love are raised to honor the men and women from McDonough County who served in the military whereby volunteers place flags around historic Chandler Park from sunrise to sunset. It is both breathtaking and impressive to watch the flags go up and then to gaze at the finished product as flags fly proudly in the wind celebrating those who served so we can live in this land of the free. 

Macomb was recently accorded recognition on the website realtor.com as one of the top ten most affordable small towns where you’d actually want to live in the United States.  We are number FOUR on the list.  How about that!!

Of course, Western Illinois University with talented sports teams, great faculty, music, art, drama, a marching band, and talented students is in Macomb.  Like waves on the shoreline, WIU is always here, a constant in the tumultuous world that surrounds us.  The university provides stability even as it adjusts to the changing dynamics of higher education.  Spoon River College provides another academic dimension making this a great place to live. Town/gown relations are excellent as everyone works together to provide an atmosphere that is accepting of diversity and encourages cooperative endeavors.  Our local school system thrives as well.  All three of our kids were able to carve out a path to their future and participate in the activities of their choosing.   

Macomb is also blessed with quality employment in local industry and twice daily Amtrak service to Chicago. Draw a circle around us, and we are located within 70 miles or so of Quincy, Quad Cities, Galesburg, Peoria, and Quincy. This allows us to enjoy all the perquisites of life in a small town while still having access to the big city. Citizens tend to take them for granted, but we also have an environment with quality police and fire protection. What’s neat is that we know the folks who serve in these jobs as they are our friends and neighbors. Same goes for City Hall with an easily accessible mayor and his staff.

Yet, for all of the aforementioned, what really makes life in a small-town work is “the people.”  We are by no means Mayberry; we do have issues over race, public priorities, and taxes. When a person lives in a town like Macomb, you are not a stranger. When I take my morning walk, people will holler out to me. A stroll around the Square is an adventure in who I’ll see with a nice conversation attached.  When entering a restaurant or attending a concert in Chandler Park, you’ll see at least one friendly face.  In a small town, citizens interact with folks who you really get to know, who care about you, and are there for you if you need them or even if you don’t. They will give you a ride uptown, pick up your mail when you’re out of town, and call if they haven’t seen you out in a while.  

Macomb has a wonderful hospital with a terrific staff of professionals. When COVID was raging, the CEO of the hospital worked with me to get four of his top administrators to appear on my local access tv show and alert citizens to the danger that surrounded us. The willingness of these doctors to reach out was heart warming while dealing with life and death situations.  

Is Macomb nirvana?  Of course not but it is a pretty nice place to live. I feel safe, I can socialize as much as I choose to do, I can get anywhere in nine minutes (Diane has timed it) or a little longer if a train comes a long or there are two red lights. I can go out for a lovely meal and be assured of good service or I can do carryout and enjoy a meal at home. Want to read a book? Macomb has a quality library the director keeps up-to-date.

Recently, I spoke at the funeral of Dr. Malcolm “Mac” Torgerson, former department chair of Marketing and Finance, at WIU who lived to be 100. The minister in charge kidded me a bit about my remarks, and it was all in good taste. The next week I was getting a haircut and my barber said, “This one’s for free.”  I inquired why and he said, “The minister thought you did a fine job at Mac’s funeral, and he wanted to say thank you.”  

There you have it.  Life in a small town.

It all began on a rainy Friday night, March 31, 1967. I was a Resident Assistant in Seal Hall, and it was my night to stay in and keep an eye on things in the residence hall. I went to bed early and got up early to do laundry before anyone else had a similar idea. Late that morning I ran into Thom Cornelis in the lobby, and he asked if I wanted to go on a blind date to Lake Argyle that night. It would be four Seal Hall guys and four Grote Hall coeds.  I laughed and said “Sure, and happy April Fools Day to you as well.” He assured me it was legitimate and as my dance card had been clear the entire year, I said of course and four couples crowded into Bill O’Toole’s trusty ‘62 Chevy Impala. A quick stop at H and H Liquors for a supply of Schlitz Malt Liquor, some pretzels, and off we went for an evening of goodness knows what. Within 15 minutes, the life I had lived for 21 years, 1 month, and 11 days was to be changed forever. We paired up in a totally random manner and I somehow won the lottery as a tall pretty girl caught my eye and 55 years later we remain happily together. 

None of us knows what tomorrow, next year, or even the rest of the day will bring and that is a major component of the wonder of life.  I do know that a good partner can help make the journey better. There is an old Turkish proverb, “No road is long with good company.” Those seven words speak volumes. Diane’s and my journey has been and continues to be a good one but not without some serious bumps along the way.

Vietnam was raging.  We didn’t know if the draft was in my future, but we got married anyway on August 31, 1968.  Within one week we drove with all our possessions and $700 in our famous “61 Blue Streak Chevy Impala to the University of Florida in Gainesville where I had a NDEA Title Four Fellowship that paid all my fees and provided a $200 monthly stipend.  Diane quit college after her sophomore year and had to get a job to help us survive. What in the world were we thinking?  We left Gainesville for Macomb in September 1970 where I had a position as Assistant Professor in the College of Business at Western. We had overcome money challenges, the sudden unexpected death of my mom at age 47, and an uncertain academic future. The bumps had begun. In Macomb we did OK. My first contract paid $14,000 annually, so we were by no means on easy street.

You don’t know what you will do to make ends meet until you confront adversity looking you straight in the face. Diane postponed her return to classes to again work and then after the birth of Jennifer in 1971 she was a stay-at-home Mom. Things were tight so this young mother put our daughter in a wagon and walked the neighborhood selling Avon products. Who does that?  I’ll tell you, Diane Taylor does. We needed the income so she did what she had to do. The Ph.D. odyssey was just that, an odyssey with pitfall after pitfall. My major professor died suddenly. I had to basically start over, ran out of time, and was given a terminal contract at Western. Yup, Gordy Taylor basically got fired.  What were we going to do? The first thing was Diane went back to work at W.I.U., again postponing her academic dreams. She was a good student and this was a major sacrifice on her part but she never complained and just did it. Nike, are you listening?  I tested for the Foreign Service and got all the way to the final interview before that search failed.  I was about to sell insurance. Another major bump in the road had presented itself.  

Then some good news came our way as the Director of Alumni Programs position became available. I was hired; I started this new career in June 1978. Western was lucky as the University really got two for one as Mrs. Taylor was the most productive, unpaid volunteer in the history of the school.  The four Alumni Council meetings for the members always meant someone stayed overnight at our home.  We loved having our friends stay with us, but it was always more work for her. 

Things were pretty darn good. Gordon III had been born in 1974 and Ryan followed in 1980. Diane was finally able to return to school, earned her Bachelors and Masters Degrees and began a stellar career as an English instructor at Spoon River College (SRC).  However, another one of those bumps was out there waiting for us. Without going into detail, we faced some rather serious “kid” issues. While we addressed these problems together, I was totally immersed in all I was doing at Western so again, it was Diane who was the warrior, stood strong, and got us through a very difficult period. I never thought about her role in all these events when we were “in the moment,” but on reflection one day while out walking the beach recently, it dawned on me how critical Diane had been in keep our family together.  

Don’t get me wrong here. Our life together has been wonderful. Diane loved her teaching experience at SRC and received awards for teaching excellence. My years in the classroom were “magic” and to this day, a week doesn’t go by when I don’t hear from a former student.  And in 1980 I finally got the elusive Ph.D. Of course, really no need to mention the “alumni stuff” because as former student and good buddy Jim Miner constantly reminded me, “Gordy Taylor, you have the best job at Western.” He’s correct.  Add in my tv interview shows of Across the Miles with 250 episodes and Macomb on the Move, currently at 28 and what a wonderful journey it has been.  I got to share it with my best friend and mother of our three children who have all done magnificently and given us 6 grandchildren, three dogs, and a couple of cats. 

Sometimes in life we take our good fortune for granted and assume the good times will always be there. I’m one of those people. In my youth, right up to yesterday or so it seemed, I could play football, basketball, softball, and tennis and do so pretty well or at least I thought I did. This reminds me of a cute story. I would always chide the kids about their respective athletic careers. Jennifer excelled at tennis, Gordon III at basketball, and Ryan at baseball. It was fun and they were good athletes. One day, the three of them called a family meeting of sorts. “Dad, we have a highlight video of you playing basketball and softball in the park district leagues.”  All right—get the popcorn, pour the pop, and turn out the lights—let’s have some fun and the THREE OF THEM did. First video was of me playing left field for the Jackson Street Pub. A ground ball came my way and went between my legs all the way to the outfield fence. Then another video, same result. They were howling with laughter and, of course, Diane joined in. “How about basketball Dad?” And then they showed it. Gordy Taylor shooting 28 times in a single game and connecting on 5 shots. “Where the heck did you guys get these?” but to this day no one has confessed.  We all had a great bit of family time together.  

And then another bump—when my dad died, for reasons not important here, I became estranged from my three brothers for 25 years and while I made amends with one of them, the other two died with me never speaking a word to either of them ever again. It was sad but again, who was there to pick up the pieces, encouraging and supporting me in every decision I made? Why of course, that girl I’d met on a blind date so many years ago. Sometimes we need to take a moment to reflect on the roles we play throughout our lives as well as the roles played by those who are part of our inner circle. For us, it is Diane who is the mediator, confidant, nurturer, and listener.

After I retired (sort of) in 2008, it seemed like it was time to walk off into the sunset (sort of), and smell the roses as it were. And then I got that awful sore throat in 2010 and the ensuing base of tongue cancer ordeal. Another damn bump in the road.  PEG was inserted in my stomach and it was 35 radiation and 4-5 chemo treatments concurrently over 7 weeks. I was on more meds than Carter has little liver pills and for three months, it was Diane again who drove me to Burlington five times a week for seven weeks and gave me my plethora of daily medications.  For twelve years after recovery all went well until the summer of 2021—another bump—pneumonia, cancer scare, and reinsertion of PEG (for now at least). Diane made countless calls to doctors, hospitals, clinics, pharmacies, and did 100 different things to lighten my burden until we got things back on track.

There are many in receipt of this who are dealing with challenges far greater and significant than any I have discussed here. I know that.  However, I also know it is important for each of us to take a minute from time to time to thank those who help us on this journey we all take through life. Often, it is a person behind the scenes. They never really ask for, nor do they receive the credit, they deserve.  As I type this, I can’t help but smile and think back to that night on April 1,1967, when that beautiful coed from Winthrop Harbor took a chance on me and has given me not only her love but her unwavering support, guidance, friendship, and encouragement. 

Thanks, Diane.

When I sit down like I am this afternoon, I just never know where my mind will take me, and today is no different so let’s begin. It has been some time since reflections were made here about The Fourth Quarter, and as I hit year #76 before this month is over, it would seem like a good time to take a measure of things.   I read somewhere recently that increasingly with each birthday “It is better to be seen than viewed”—made me laugh.  While combing my hair this morning (and yes, glad I still have enough to make that necessary), I noticed it is all gray.  Now how the heck did that happen?  I continue to enjoy my 5:30 a.m. 4-5 mile walks most days but also upon return home, take Jevity 1.2 through PEG and then lay down for 30-40 minutes. I never used to do that but now it is becoming part of my daily routine.  Maybe, just maybe, I am getting older.  

I was reading some old correspondence the other day and came across a folder that contained nice things that folks had written about me over the years—you were a good teacher, you made a speech that had a profound effect on me, thanks for helping me get back into school after I flunked out, thanks for looking in on my parents, that sort of thing. That reminded me of something I heard on CBS Sunday Morning a few years ago:  “How we live today will determine how we live tomorrow.” That seems to make good sense. Of course, having just patted myself on the back, I recall when former W.I.U. President A.L. Knoblauch gave me a plaque with sage advice:  “Don’t take yourself too seriously” so there must be some balance in there somewhere.  

As we age, we can’t help but think about what lies ahead and what is in the rear view mirror. Someone brighter than me once told me that “They were not afraid of tomorrow…for I have seen yesterday and I love today.”  Some days it is too cold, others too hot, some days it rains and sometimes it’s too windy, but each day is a gift and I appreciate that I am here to enjoy it. 

I have always had faith in my doctors now even more so. When they tell me to wear the mask, get the vaccine, get the booster, get the shingles, flu, and pneumonia shots I do so without question hoping it will keep the grim reaper at bay. I’ve found the past few months that it is easier to get sick and more challenging to remain healthy so I need to do whatever it takes to keep sickness away with moderate exercise, healthy diet, and getting enough sleep leading the way.  About 20 years ago, an older woman on the beach (she had to be at least 77) once told me, “Young man, every day above ground is a great day.” Eureka!! She nailed that one.  

While there is a certain inevitability to life and whatever follows, we simply need to do our best to enjoy each day, each week, each month, and each year to the fullest. I’m told by readers of this blog that they are impressed by my resilience with all that has happened in the past year and my reply is pretty simple. Keeping a positive mental attitude is easy when you live with someone who is supportive; I hit the jackpot there with Diane.  I’m sure I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. When Clint Eastwood was asked how he remains so vibrant at his advanced age, he smiled and said, “I don’t let the old man in” and neither will I.  I’ve read where age is an asset as with time and experience, we learn to handle life’s challenges with more grace. However, as humorist Richard Armour once wrote:.

Lately, I appear 

To have reached that stage

When people look old

Who are only my age.

Like me, I’ll bet that’s happened to some of you.

When I think about the entire picture, there are parts of aging that are actually quite liberating. I know a couple of people who will read this blog who will stridently disagree with my advocating getting the COVID vaccine.  Guess what?  I really don’t care   My family knows me as being the “be on time guy” and now I find myself way more patient than I used to be.  I don’t question myself as much these days.  If I’m wrong, so be it, and I’ll live with the consequences of the choices I make. Getting old sets you free to do as you please and make decisions without undue guilt or remorse.  

In the totality of things, I’m not disappointed in the person I’ve become. Perfect no, but a loving Dad and Grandpa who cares deeply about others and when the time comes (many years from now) I’ll have tried to leave things better than I found them.  For me, I’m enjoying the journey as I get to spend it with the young girl from Winthrop Harbor who I met on a blind date at Lake Argyle on April 1, 1967—doesn’t get any better than that. 

Hooray, we have arrived in SW Florida.  It is a bit chilly here but then compared to up North, well you get the picture. We are moved in, bought groceries, got the car washed, and went to the weekly Farmers’ Market. Time now to walk a bit, do some long-delayed reading, and soak up the ambiance of this island paradise.  OK, let’s get the “business” out of the way. Masking is totally optional down here. At the grocery store, 50% of us wore masks, at ACE, where men are men and macho is the order of the day, maskers comprise maybe 10% of the clientele. At the Farmers’ Market, it is around 15% who care about whether tomorrow ever comes. That’s it on the “masking update” from Southwest Florida. On a personal note, we’ve been informed of the death of three people from Covid who are related to close friends:  a woman in her 40s, two men: one in his 40s and another barely 60. All three declined to get vaccinated—one because it violated her rights and the other two, because they thought the vaccine “too risky.”  And now they’re dead.  Go figure.  Let’s hope that whatever your position on this national debate, if you can call it such, that 2022 is superior in every way to 2020 and 2021.

Gordy Taylor is just damn grateful to be here writing this after a six-month odyssey of a kidney stone, followed by a mysterious neck ailment, to pneumonia, to a cancer scare, and to round out a crazy time, some topical chemotherapy to treat precancerous skin issues on my face, chest, arm, and back. PEG made the trip South with us, so I will be pretty much in long sleeves and a cheap meal for Diane. After consulting with my doctors, I have made a significant compromise—I am eating some, not a lot but some.  Generally at dinner, I try and eat, yes eat, enough to not necessitate my usual meal of Jevity 1.2.  So far it seems to be working. Of course, I continue to do my swallowing exercises and will get retested upon our return to Macomb to see if progress is being made.  Not the best situation but getting used to it and moving on with our lives.  If one was to feel sorry for anyone, it should be Diane whose eating and dining protocol has changed dramatically. 

Son Ryan gave me Destiny and Power, The American Odyssey of George Herbert Walker Bush by Jon Meacham so began reading it yesterday.  Bush’s leadership and influence are explored at length. It got me to thinking about the people who influence and help show each of us “the way” to realizing our full potential as human beings.  Then it hit me. One of my professors at Western Illinois University did just that very thing.  His name is Dr. Victor Hicken who was an iconic and monumental figure in the History Department for decades. Hicken was a scholar of the highest order and a renown published expert on the Civil War.  In 1969, he was chosen by his peers as the first Distinguished Faculty Lecturer at Western which is the highest honor that can be accorded a faculty member.  In addition to his other pursuits, Hicken was author of The Purple and the Gold, a history of Western’s first 70 years. 

I took him for three classes—two on US History and another called a Senior Colloquium which one took near the end of their senior year. Dr. Hicken was a man with “presence.”  When he entered the classroom, all eyes were on him for the next 50 minutes. We knew he was going to entertain, teach, and even make us think. When he lectured on the Civil War, you were there, experiencing each battle in vivid detail. You learned of the horror of this conflict from the hand-to-hand fighting of brother versus brother to the awful conditions from prison camps like Andersonville. He was not simply a teacher but also a master story teller and if, like me, you were fortunate to get him for both US History classes, at the end, you had a working knowledge of the American Story.

The colloquium class was a wonderful capstone to one’s college career. Class size was restricted to ten students and we met weekly to discuss issues of the day—Does the United States need a third political party? Is Milton Friedman’s view of economic analysis correct? How has the assassination of John F. Kennedy affected American society? What is the most important concept you learned in college? It was a truly rewarding, thought-provoking, and tremendously interesting class and at its conclusion, I told him so.  I got to know Vic Hicken on a personal level and one day I asked him a question that had been gnawing at me for a couple of years. “Why did you give me a B and not an A in History 225?” He didn’t miss a beat. “Because that’s what YOU earned” came the quick, no nonsense reply.

Fast forward to the early part of this century and President Don Spencer and I were visiting and somehow we came up with the idea of an interview show on University Television, much like Charlie Rose did on PBS prior to his fall from grace.  I ended up doing 250 shows with presidents of Western, vice-presidents, deans, administrators, faculty members, alumni, local officials, and pretty much anyone deemed appropriate. The youngest interviewee was 19 and the oldest 101.  Who would be the first person to sit in the “interviewee” chair? Well, of course, Dr. Victor Hicken. I interviewed him four times over the next decade and he was as good with the microphone as he was in front of the class. One of the first things we talked about was WWII . I leaned into him from across the table and said, “You were in the first wave at Normandy.  Have you seen Saving Private Ryan?” He replied, “Yes, Gordon, I have and it is totally accurate. Young men were blown up in front of me.  Soldiers were crying out for their mothers. It was a scene of absolute carnage.” I pressed on. “Diane and I have been to Pointe du Hoc where the German machine guns were pointed directly down at the beach where American troops were landing. How did we ever get a foothold?”  Hicken paused for a moment and out came the thoughtful reply. “They simply couldn’t kill us fast enough. We just kept coming until the beach was fortified.”  I was speechless. There I sat with a man who had actually been there and was sitting down with me telling his story. Less than thirty years earlier, he had actually been part of The Longest Day. 

Fifty-five minutes later, I was wrapping up my first interview with this courageous, modest, self-effacing quiet man.  He was in his eighties by then and Father Time had slowed his body down a bit but not his mind.  As I was set to close, he asked if he might have the last word, and I said of course. Professor Hicken reached out, took my hand in his and said, “Gordon, you’ve grown up to be a fine young man. I hope I played a small part in that happening.”  Not a dry eye in the studio. I’m sometimes asked if I really had the best job at Western. On that day in the University Television studio, Victor Hicken answered that question.  

Friday, October 15, 2021

Today should be THE DAY with some answers. We went to bed last night after the Buccaneers beat the Eagles and the Dodgers prevailed over the Giants to win that series. While we are sports fans, we aren’t nuts, but now we apparently are. Nothing says major sports events like those two games–what the heck. Maybe we can find a couple of junior high teams to watch.  Heck, we have now officially seen all Datelines and 20/20 episodes produced in the 21st Century.  We had a challenging night’s sleep. I woke Diane up at 2 a.m. as she was having some sort of nightmare—not surprising. At 5 a.m. I quietly whispered, “Are you awake?” and the reply came, “Of course.”  So being creatures of habit, we got up, made the bed, and were down stairs fully clothed at 5:15 as if we had someplace to go.  Coffee for Diane and “product” for me.  At 6:15 I was out the door to walk on a dark (of course) cold, foreboding morning and Diane was preparing to finish up with her last “paint by numbers” (they are really nice but that is what they are) painting.

At 7:15 I was walking towards the Macomb Square when I observed a man coming towards me wearing a suit and tie. This guy was going somewhere but what the heck was he thinking.  You just don’t expect to see that so early in the morning, so I assumed it was a homeless guy wearing what was left of his wardrobe.  It turned out to be Dean of the College of Business and Technology, Dr. Craig Conrad.  I asked him if he was lost and he said no, he just saw me walking, parked his car and wanted to ask how I was doing—a wonderful gesture. You can’t make this stuff up and this is our lives these days—people caring and reaching out in ways large and small. Guess you just can’t teach “class.”  This is another example of what can happen when you live in a small town.  People genuinely care about one another.  It shows.  

I was then walking by the Dairy Queen (unfortunately closed for the season) and literally almost walked into Dr. Jack McPherson, Director of Hospitalists at McDonough District Hospital.  He has been one of our “go to” professionals during this adventure in our lives.  I got home at 8 a.m.  Now what? I read the paper and came upstairs to lie down but that was futile so here I am.  Diane answered a few emails and texts and has been pacing the house, cell phone in hand, waiting, waiting, waiting.  It is now 10 a.m.  If this is what we are experiencing, I can only imagine what it must have been like for General Dwight David Eisenhower on June 6, 1944 as the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces sent thousands of men to the beaches of Normandy to free Europe. No wonder they called it “The Longest Day.”

Six hours later…

We just got the call—not cancer! I am in the 10% of folks whose PET scan lights up, and it is good news.  Also it is not a tumor—possibly calcification of tissue and that could be a function of the aging process.  Diane asked the doctor, “Should we be doing a happy dance?” and he said “that would be appropriate.” Diane is calling the kids while I type this, and it will be a “good news” weekend for the Taylors. We have had so much “down” news the past four months that we are cautiously optimistic that we have turned the corner on this onerous episode in our lives.

With cancer behind us, it is time to revisit the whole PEG issue as dragging a tube around hanging out of my stomach for the past almost three months has caused me to lose my old man sex symbol status.  We will call Dr. Henrich, my Burlington ENT doctor, and schedule an appointment to determine how he feels we should proceed which I assume means we start with a new “swallow” test.  Even if that does not work out, it is a relief to have this cancer scare in the proverbial rearview mirror.

As I type this, I am in a bit of a fog, a happy fog I might add. At some time, will need to process all that has happened to date and take stock of our good fortune.  I do know that I will let myself believe that the prayers of loved ones and friends has made a difference in the positive outcome we got on the phone thirty minutes ago.  This is as good a spot as any to say THANK YOU to all of you who have been there for us since we started recounting this story back at the end of June. I look forward in the weeks/months ahead to get back to the original purpose of my blog with an occasional PEG update interspersed as well. 

It is Friday night and raining in Macomb but not at 35 Indian Trail. The sun is shining here, and I’ll bet there is a rainbow out there somewhere as well.  Hooray and hallelujah.  The waiting is over….

Friday, October 8, 2021

It is 10 a.m. and I am sitting here wondering what today will bring.  Diane worked her usual magic and got my appointment moved from October 14th to today at 6 p.m., so we will be heading out to Iowa City in an hour or so.  It is amazing how, in the throes of all this, life inextricably moves forward. This morning it was a trip to the dry cleaner and then the bank and a couple of loads of wash to be done for good measure.  I did all this alone. 

So, where was Diane? She was on the phone where she spends most of her time these days in a ceaseless quest to get things done in the most efficient and expedient manner humanly possible.  In addition to getting my appointment moved to today, she is trying to retrieve records from my procedure done in Cape Coral, Florida, in March 2010 for base of tongue cancer as Mayo wants them as they continue to evaluate my case before deciding whether or not to “accept” me.  It is a bit like being a senior in high school waiting to see if you are going to get into your college of choice. Diane talks to folks at Mayo, in Burlington, and Iowa City, Iowa, and Northwestern attempting to get things in order for second or maybe even third opinions. I am not mentally equipped to do any of this so fortunate to have Diane “in my corner.”  Did I forget to add grateful?  When I was out walking at 6 this morning, I thought, with the exception of actually undergoing the PET Scan or MRI or whatever the “treatment of the day” is, Diane has been way more involved.  I’m just the patient.  

The past ten days have gone by slowly, very slowly. There has been yard work to do, and some general upkeep completed by our friendly neighborhood contractor. We’ve watched football and post-season baseball.  In addition, we enjoyed the fourth season of Goliath starring Billy Bob Thornton. We binged this series, viewing all eight one-hour episodes in a single day. We do try to keep our minds occupied.  

As I close for today, I can’t help but wonder, “Is today the day we have a procedure (MRI) that will finally give us answers regarding my immediate mortality, be it good news or bad?”  The journey continues.

Saturday, October 9, 2021

Back home in Macomb and our own bed tonight.  Yesterday proved to be a long day. Iowa City was chaotic as it was the scene of Iowa/Penn State football game, so revelers were arriving. We got to at the hospital at 5 p.m. for a 6:00 procedure.  It went without a hitch but lasted from 6:15-7:15 and oh so noisy.  The MRI machine is very loud.  Suddenly, it felt like 2010 all over again as they put me on my back and fastened a mask over my face so I couldn’t move. This would be an awful experience if you suffer from claustrophobia, which thankfully, I don’t.

Exhausted when we returned to the hotel so, of course, it was pajama time and then DATELINE. Today we attended the wedding of the wonderful man, who has produced all 300 of my local access tv shows, and his lovely and talented bride. We got back to Macomb at 5 p.m. and must admit, again, we are just “spent” and really tired. I can only guess it is the unrelenting pressure of “one crisis after another” for three-plus months. 

It is our understanding that the results will come our way sometime next week. We don’t know if that will be via a phone call or personal appointment back in Iowa City. We are at the juncture where there is probably no more guessing as the MRI should definitively answer the question—”What is it?”  The doctors will, we hope, tell us what lies ahead and how we should best proceed. The hours will continue to drag on but at least, in terms of some sort of end game, we will know precisely what we are facing.

Tuesday, October 12, 2021

We were hoping that yesterday would find us getting a call with results of MRI but no such luck.  Consequently, it was another day of waiting and try as we will, that is simply not an easy exercise.  It rained all day Monday so no walk for me and quite a bit of painting for Diane. It was just a pretty gloomy day except the most recent painting is beginning to blossom into another Diane Taylor work of art to brighten things up at 35 Indian Trail.

Today will be a look on the bright side as it is sunny crisp day that will bring us some good news—right? Actually, I’m somewhat optimistic though there is no medical reason for me to feel this way. For the life of me, I actually will be a little surprised if the results show cancer as since this sad adventure began, fast forwarding to the “hot spot” of September 1st and discounting the neck/pneumonia/PEG regimen of June and July when I was literally beside myself with pain and frustration, Gordy Taylor has been feeling pretty damn good.  Now, for English majors among you, that stream of consciousness last sentence would be for the readers of William Faulkner, known for his long, very long sentences.  

It would seem odd to me that I would feel fine if cancer is in my neck/head or wherever MRI explored and not feeling anything bad. For a while, I would wake up in the morning waiting for severe pain or blurred vision or something but to date, nothing, so will continue to hope for the best.  As I type this upstairs, Diane is downstairs making what she refers to as “THE CALL” to see if results will be forthcoming today. Tick tock, Tick tock, Tick tock….

Wednesday, October 13, 2021

Nope, it didn’t happen!!  Diane and I have been given a new date as to when information will be forthcoming.  It can’t be soon enough. “They” called yesterday afternoon to inform us that a group meeting of specialists will be held Friday morning to discuss the results of the MRI. These doctors have independently reviewed the results, and they come together to discuss what was found and propose a course of action. I surmise that at this point, Diane and I are told how they collectively recommend we proceed and we go from there.

Today is Wednesday and of course Friday seems like a “new eternity” for us but then suppose we should be getting used to the way all this plays out.  Naturally, the important thing is to “get it right” so wait we shall.  Diane will paint; I will walk.  By the time this concludes, Diane will have painted the equivalent of the Sistine Chapel; I will have walked back and forth across the United States twice.  

She has been “gone” for 52 years but remains vivid in my memory as one of the most extraordinary people to be part of the framework of my life.  I feel so sad that she missed the best part of my life:  marriage to Diane, our kids, rewarding career, and all the rest that comes with time. I talk about being in the 4th Quarter of my life.  She never lived through the 2nd Quarter of hers.  Mom was everything to my three brothers and me.  We were born on February 9th, 10th, 11th, and 20th so the family joke was that Dad had to finally send her away during the month of May.  Connie Pranger was the “it” girl of her generation.  Raised on the south side of Chicago, she had it all–brains, personality, athleticism, and beauty.  At the age of 18, she married optometrist and stellar athlete Gordy Taylor who was 26.  They were a couple destined for great things; it didn’t turn out that way.  It started out with great flourish but then, as happens to some folks, the breaks simply did not come their way, at least not good ones. 

I have wonderful memories of the “early years.”  My parents were Ozzie and Harriet and we boys were not My Three Sons but rather My Four Sons. We all thrived in a modest, very modest home with three bedrooms and one bathroom.  The Taylors made it work. I fondly remember days after school when I’d bring a friend home to play and soon there would be cookies and milk for us to enjoy.  On more than one occasion I’d hear, “Boy, Gordy, your sister is sure good looking.”  I’d smile and reveal who that beauty really was—MOM.  Connie was fiercely protective of her sons and once after an article appeared in the local paper critical of young people, she wrote an editorial stating that not all kids were societal problems and proceeded to talk about her sons and what outstanding young citizens we were.  I still have that editorial and smile every time I reread it.  She was loyal to each of us and was always there for us. 

Mom took pride in her home and was admired, loved, and respected by everyone.  She even played a mean shortstop.  Mom had a quick wit and a wonderful sense of humor which she needed living in a house with five males.  Heck, even Caesar the wonder dog was male.  Then it all ended. Just like that it was over and her world and ultimately that of the entire Taylor family would come crashing down in a disaster of the highest order. On Monday, August 27, 1962, her doctor called to say the results were in–Connie Taylor had tuberculosis.  The next day she was admitted to the Cook County Tuberculosis Sanitarium.  Our lives were to be changed forever.  I was 16 years old.

Back then, due to the contagious nature of the disease, admission to a TB sanitarium meant the patient remained there until recovery or death.  None of us had ever experienced life without Mom who was the chief of our household.  Suddenly Mom wasn’t there to greet us after school, hug us good bye, make sure our homework was complete, or there to do the thousands of things Moms do for their families.  Oldest brother, David, was off at college, so it fell on me to fill in around the house, including meal preparation.  We almost starved.  

Dad worked long hours and brothers Doug 11 and Greg 5 did what they could but long before Michael Keaton would popularize the term “Mr. Mom” I became that person.  As a high school sophomore, I dusted, vacuumed, changed beds, did dishes, cleaned toilets, washed clothes, watched my brothers, and worked part-time at the local grocery store.  Doug and Greg were not allowed to visit Mom inside the sanitarium because of their ages, so it was up to me to pack up my younger siblings in the venerable ’55 green Chevy and drive them to a location about 50 yards from a window outside Mom’s room.  I would then run inside and escort her to that same window so she could wave to her two youngest sons.  It was awful, but it was the best we could do. 

Connie Taylor never gave up.  She told us she’d get well and soon we’d all be together.  She always had a brave facade, but I think we all knew better. Her condition slowly improved; however, she had major surgery and lost all of one lung and part of another. The empty chair at the kitchen table remained that way for another year.  When we finally got her home, the old zip was gone. The joie de vivre was absent and her pain was evident. Smiles were forced and her once bright eyes dimmed. 

It just couldn’t happen, but fate would simply not leave us alone. The Taylors had no money.  Between medical expenses and financial setbacks for my dad, the Taylor family was sinking like a rock. Friends stopped coming to visit their friend, Connie, as they were afraid they would contract TB from her, reminiscent of AIDS a decade later.  We were naive and didn’t see it happening, but Mom found an ally, an insidious, cruel, unforgiving, and incrementally poisonous ally–ALCOHOL.  In her mind, she had lost everything–health, looks, friends, money–all gone.  However, concealed from us, she could find momentary relief in vodka, apparently lots of vodka.  I’m pretty confident Dad knew it was happening; their marriage was crumbling under the weight of all the adversity embroiling them.  He pretty much just looked the other way. He just didn’t know what to do. 

I went off to college at WIU, but impending disaster was in the air. Poor Mom just couldn’t catch a break.  In 1968 she had a radical hysterectomy and then in 1969 the infamous Hong Kong Flu struck which dealt her the final blow. It was June, and I’d momentarily left graduate school at the University of Florida to come see her as David called and told me, “Something is terribly wrong with Mom.  You better come home.”  He had his suspicions.

At the end of my week’s stay, things seemed pretty good.  I questioned David’s judgement in calling me.  I’d been out working in the yard, was sweating, and came in to say hi to Mom.  Sitting on the table next to her bed was a large glass of Pepsi.  I asked if I could take a sip and before she could yell, “Don’t do that!” I had taken a gulp.  It was too late.  It was almost straight vodka.  I can visualize this as if it were happening “in the moment.”  I smiled, said nothing, left her room, and went back outside. I sat in the back yard, alone, sobbing uncontrollably.  It was the most alone I’ve ever felt in my life. This just couldn’t be happening, but it was.  Connie Taylor was a raging alcoholic. I flew back to Gainesville a couple of days later to complete my graduate course work.  By the end of July, it was over.  Mom was dead. 

To this day, I lament that we couldn’t help her to help herself.  We didn’t, but I’d never heard of AA or other alternative programs to deal with alcohol abuse.  On multiple dimensions, 47 was way too young for the once bright, promising life of Constance Pranger Taylor to be dimmed forever.  I never for an instant blame Mom for any of this.  Financial calamity of the highest order, a marriage that was going to end, and spirit-draining health disasters one after another were simply more that she could endure.

In 2021 we might have seen a way to provide the help she needed. In the 1960s we did not.  I sometimes wonder if my life experience might have seen a parallel trajectory.  Had I been diagnosed with base of tongue cancer in 1970 and not 2010 would I be writing this?  I was blessed that medical science was there to save me and along with the loving care of Diane here I am. 

We all have our stories and this is part of mine. I love you, Mom.

• 

On February 20, 2021, I celebrated my 75th birthday. Goodness, I’m now in the 8th decade of my life in spite of a nasty bout of base of tongue cancer in 2010, a complete shoulder replacement in 2015, and a serious three-week case of Covid-19 in November 2020. I’m the lucky one in my birth family as everyone else has passed away: Mom, 47; Dad, 74; brothers David, 71; Douglas, 54; and Greg, 59. The fact that I’m still here has resulted in quite a bit of thinking on my part lately. When one turns 75, it’s time to take stock of the changes that have taken place over the years.

The signs of aging are certainly there for me to see. I was in the barbershop the other day and had a discussion with Jerry Tyson who has been taking care of my hair for 30+ years. I thanked him for doing such a nice job of cutting my “blonde locks,” and he replied, “Pretty much your hair is gray.” Really? I came home, told Diane what had happened, and she looked at me and just smiled. Gray it is! After my cancer event, I now walk instead of jog. A look in the mirror sees my chest having sunk down to where my stomach should be. How the heck did that happen? I used to work in the yard for 7 to 8 hours with seldom a break; whereas, now, a couple of hours of raking, weeding, planting, or mowing is plenty for one day.

The Taylors go to bed earlier these days and wake up with the birds. Three meals a day is a memory. A big lunch results in a light dinner. I am no longer allowed to go on the second story roof to clean out the gutters—good idea, Diane. With age has come pills for a compromised thyroid, severe restless legs, and early-stage glaucoma. One last thing—stairs are becoming an issue and the move to a one-story home is on the radar. So now what?

Birthday #75 began with a lovely walk on the beach with high school friend, Michael Mason. Upon our return, Judy Mason and Diane quit talking immediately. I knew Diane had been up to something but didn’t know what. Regarding birthday and Christmas presents, Gordy Taylor has everything he could possibly want. What was she up to? Diane was on her iPhone and iPad more than usual and got secret phone calls. She just smiled again and reminded me I was having a birthday. What the dickens was going on? I would soon find out.

Midmorning she asked the Masons and me to join her to watch something on the TV. Diane had a twinkle in her eye. Suddenly, a montage of familiar faces appeared on the screen, music played, and one-by-one each person spoke to their relationship with me over the years. During the course of the day, we watched four splendid group videos: the men of Tau Kappa Epsilon and Delta Sigma Phi respectively, close friends, and finally my family. It was an extraordinary trip down Memory Lane with over 150 well-wishers. It was like listening to my own eulogy in real time with the good fortune of being alive to hear it.

And there was more still to come. After dinner we had a Zoom birthday party with our kids, spouses, cousins, in-laws, and grandkids. It was wonderful seeing their faces since Covid had made person-to-person visits impossible. Then after special birthday cake was served, with minimal cake and a frosting overload—just the way I like it, Diane brought out a 24 x 36 poster board. On it were printed columns—one by Jennifer, one by Gordon, and one by Ryan in which each one wrote 25 memories of “Life with Dad” for a total of 75. WOW!! I took the poster and exited to our bedroom where with a glass of wine, I read what my three kids had written. I laughed; I cried. It was incredible. My family had somehow found a way to bestow on me a one-of-a-kind gift I will treasure for the rest of my days. The words of Yankee baseball Hall of Famer Lou Gehrig seemed appropriate, “Today, I’m the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

As I enter the 4th quarter of my life a bit further each day, I am grateful for the many gifts that have come my way. I’ve seen too many friends leave this world too soon and that makes me see the wisdom of living each day to the fullest. A dear friend once told me, “Gordy, every day above ground is a great day.” She’s right!

I try to remember the important events like my first date with Diane, a special lunch we shared in Sorrento, Italy, overlooking the Mediterranean, and, of course, the birth of our kids and grandchildren. I try to “make a difference” in my life and hope when I leave the stage, I leave things a little better than I found them. Clearly, 75 is not my beginning but then again, fortunately, not the end either as there are footprints in the sand yet to be made and memories still to come. As Jackie Gleason was known for saying, “And away we go…”