Friendship

“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.” Abraham Lincoln. We’ve all heard that phrase but I never knew it was attached to the 16th President. He obviously was a deep thinker but then he had a nation to save so suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. When you examine his words a bit more closely, it’s clear that we pretty much are in control of how we view the world and everything in it. I spent a good portion of my youth doing yard work to make a little money and the man I worked for the most was Sidney Albee. He lived across the street and in 1958 was paying 12 year old Gordy Taylor the vast sum of $5 an hour. He had 100 roses and he was very proud of them but each of those roses had thorns and you simply couldn’t cultivate around them without losing a little blood. While I didn’t enjoy that aspect of my time spent in Mr. Albee’s back yard, I certainly came to appreciate the compliments we garnered when we would win Top Prize award year after year at local contests. I can assure you, the awards would not have been forthcoming had a little blood not been shed along the way. Bottom line-it was worth the effort and since that time I’ve come to understand that good things happen to us sometimes in proportion to the sacrifices we make to earn them.

When I was the “alumni guy” at Western, I had the good fortune to be called upon to speak around the country at various regional and national meetings. It was clear to me that my good fortune was less due to the depth of whatever remarks I might make but rather that they were generally simplistic, easy to understand, and from the heart. I was more of a story teller about the foibles of life than I was a purveyer of deep and profound thoughts. It worked for me. Two of my favorites had to do with starfish and ponies. One has to do with helping others and the other with the importance of a positive mental attitude, a topic we members of the 4th Quarter sometimes have trouble maintaining. Truth be known, I borrowed the starfish story from George Herbert Walker Bush (#41) who no doubt borrowed it from someone else.

A young boy was walking along the beach when he happened upon thousands of starfish washed up on shore to their certain demise. He stopped and began throwing them back into the water one at a time. As life would have it, a gruff, cranky old man happened by and said, “Why are you wasting your time doing that? There are thousands of them. It won’t make a difference.” The young boy turned to the man, smiled, and said, “It makes a difference to this one and to this one and to this one” as he continued tossing them back into the sea. The point is really pretty simple. We can all do little things to improve the lot of our fellow man. It doesn’t have to be anything huge it just has to be and we shouldn’t lose sight of that.

As for that pony, my source here is anonymous, who I’m told was a very great writer and teller of stories. A nice Mom had twin sons. One was always dour and unhappy and the other, the eternal optomist. As their birthdays approached, she sought out advice from her pediatrician. “What do I do with these guys?” She was told, give Mr. Negativity whatever he wants-candy bars, a bike, video games, anything he wants. “What do I do with my optomist?” The response surprised her. “Put him in a room full of manure’ WHAT, but she complied. She looked in on the pessimist who had everything and he was complaining saying that none of this was what he wanted. Then she opened the door and looked in on the son with a room full of manure and could not believe her eyes. He was standing there going through the manure, his hands and hair full of manure. She exclaimed, “What are you doing?” to which he briskly replied. “Oh Mom, I just know there has to be a pony in here somewhere.” The message is simple. Look for clouds and the dark side of things and you will most surely find them but search a little harder with a smile on your face and rainbows and ponies will surely be yours. The choice is up to you.

Finally, and this is one of my favorite inspirational stories that came from somewhere within the deep recesses of my colleagues who were members of the Council of Alumni Association Executives. We are a unique band of retired professionals who have, for the most part, never lost sight of what’s important in life. I tip my hat to each of them for their wisdom, kindness, and understanding of the best that is the human condition.

A newlywed young man was sitting on the porch with his father on a hot, humid day, sipping ice tea. As he talked about adult life, marriage, responsibilities, and obligations, the father thoughtfully stirred the ice cubes in his glass and cast a clear, sober look at his son.” Never forget your friends,” he advised, “they will become more important as you get older.” “Regardless of how much you love your family and the children you happen to have, you will always need friends. Remember to go out with them occasionally, do activities with them, call them.” “What strange advice!” thought the young man. “I just entered the married world, I am an adult, and surely my wife and the family that we will start will be every thing I need to make sense of my life.”

Yet he obeyed his father, kept in touch with his friends and annually increased their number. Over the years, he became aware that his father knew what he was talking about. In as much as time and nature carry out their designs and mysteries, friends were the bulwarks of his life. After 60 years of life, here is what he learned:

Time passes. Life goes on.

The distance separates.

Children grow up.

Children cease to be children and become independent.

Jobs come and go.

Illusions, desires, attraction, sex, …weaken.

The parents die. Colleagues forget the favors.

The races are over.

But, true friends are always there, no matter how long or how many miles away they are. When we started this adventure called LIFE, we did not know of the incredible joys and sorrows that were ahead. We did not know how much we would need each other.Love your parents, take care of your children, but remember to keep a good group of friends.Stay connected to your friends, even those you seldom see, as they help make sense of life and will always be there for you.

To me, and I know Diane, family trumps all and they remain our raison d’etre. But don’t forget to cultivate some lasting friendships along the way.

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Sometimes I’m a little amazed, generally, in a good way, by what happens around me but not always. Life has a way of unraveling in ways we never imagined or anticipated. Take today for example. Macomb had a huge thunderstorm this morning, and as I laid there in bed with Diane (good choice on my part), I lamented that the twenty bags of mulch in the driveway that I intended to spread around this weekend would have to wait for another time. Diane smiled and immediately put things in perspective, “At least you don’t have to do your Chicago Tribune paper route this morning.” She was absolutely correct. Her comment took me back 70 years when my dad came home from the office and announced, “Gord, I have a surprise for you.” I hoped it would be a new baseball glove or maybe some baseball cards but alas, in a way, it was the beginning of adulthood in my still young life. I was crushed. To myself, I said, “What is he talking about? Gordy Taylor doesn’t do manual labor. I’m nine and I play sports with my buddies, ride my bike, and maybe help a little around the house, but I surely don’t get up at 5 a.m. six days a week to deliver newspapers. Dad explained his reasoning, “Gord, it’s time you learned the value of a dollar and the meaning of work.” Indeed, I did. I got three measly dollars a week for at least 12 hours of labor. I was mortified. In reality, it was even worse.

Best buddy Ted Mowery who lived five doors down from me had a Trib route too but his delivery area was Adams, Bruner, and Quincy which were the streets directly around the where we lived. My route was two miles from home, so I had to pedal there just to get started. But I was a dutiful son so I complied and became an employee of the Hinsdale News Agency.

It wasn’t all bad as occasionally it gave me the opportunity to do something neat for my family. On mornings when the weather was good, I would sometimes finish my route and head uptown to Rapp’s Bakery where at 6 a.m. a crew was baking sumptuous rolls for consumption by the day’s customers. It was like something out of a Horatio Alger story. The old guys would look up at me as they took fried rolls and applied savory frosting for a wonderful finished product. It was always the same. “Hey, kid, out early delivering papers. Good for you. What do you need this morning?” I’d pay 67 cents and ride home with a large bag of tasty rolls for my parents and three brothers. I do remember that sometimes on really rainy or cold wintry mornings one of my parents would get up and drive me around on my route. Those were special times–a kid, his bike, his job, and the occasionally wonderful smells from the back alley of the bakery. Let me close by saying none of my three children ever had to get a paper route.

As I get deeper into the 4th Quarter of my life, I wonder sometimes, do I still “make a difference to people” and then something happens to answer that question. Recently, I was sitting on the patio at Northwestern Hospital in Lake Forest when a woman walked up to me and inquired, “Are you Gordon Taylor?” I replied, I was and with that she threw herself in my arms and said, “Mr. Taylor, I just need a hug.” As I type this I tear up as it was an extraordinary experience full of deep and profound emotional release. We hugged for a very long time as she sobbed and attempted to regain her composure. I told her to “have a seat” and we had a long chat. Her mom had just been diagnosed with a serious health challenge, and she thought she recognized me sitting there and she just needed someone to care. I was glad I could be that person. I hadn’t seen her in 40 years (not sure how she recognized me) but she related how one of my sons had been her first love in junior high back in Macomb. Her name had become a staple in our house for many years. As we talked, she told me she was experiencing a double wammy as she had just gotten her mom’s diagnosis but was also soon to lose her job due to the fine work of Elon Musk. It was sad to hear her tell me that “I’m just one of the little people. I do my job and now this. I’m too young to retire. What am I going to do?” It was a tough few minutes. We hugged again and went our separate ways. Right place at the right time–fate.

Damn, I’m losing too many friends and former colleagues. This is one of the serious downsides of this 4th Quarter. Lately, the Class of 64 at Hinsdale Township High School lost our leader–spiritually, emotionally, athletically–that was Al Koranda. He was All-state in football, played basketball and baseball and was simply an all-around great guy. He was born into wealth, but you would never know it. He was everyone’s friend–kind to you regardless of which side of the track you came from. Al Koranda just didn’t care. He was handsome, personable, outgoing, and a true leader. Most importantly, he was just Al. After graduation from law school, he went to work with his dad, Hugo, and later his brother, Ken, at Mid-America Savings and Loan. They held the mortgage to my parents’ very modest little home. I’ve mentioned before the Taylor family for a multitude of reasons including just bad luck, had a hard time making monthly mortgage payments. Many times Mid-America could have foreclosed but it never happened. Hugo, Al, and Ken were there for us, sort of like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life.

At our 30th Class Reunion someone asked classmate Tim Feris if he would do anything differently in his life? His reply brought down the house. “Hell, yes, I’d have married Al Koranda.” We all laughed at that master stroke of self-deprecating humor. Al suffered mightily the past couple of years but through it all, with the love and dedication of his wonderful wife, Jennifer, he managed to maintain his positive mental attitude. In death, as in life he is an inspiration for anyone wanting to know how to measure a life well-lived. To use a baseball analogy, Al Koranda touched all the bases. I’m grateful I got to be a part of his universe. I sometimes talk about someone being what English philosopher, Sir Thomas More referred to as a A Man for all Seasons. Al was ours.

The deeper I get into this 4th Quarter thing, the more I appreciate the life I have lived. Believe me, it has not all been fun or easy but looking back–a paper route, a warm cinnamon donut, a hug, knowing Al Koranda, it’s been a pretty good journey so far with more experiences and memories to come.

We all went to school, somewhere, at some time, for various periods of time. Among us there are high school graduates, and college graduates too many degree programs to mention—law, MD. PhD, etc. I was among the very lucky ones as I attended one of the premier high schools in the nation. That was just my good fortune and from K-12 I had some of the best teachers and courses anyone could hope to have.  I was not a particularly gifted student, but I got by, probably graduating in maybe the upper third of my class, I’d guess 205 out of 624. I went to college at Western Illinois University. The choice was easy and pragmatic. Older brother David went there, and he said I would too and so I did. Brothers Douglas and Gregory would follow me in the birth order, so all four Taylor boys graduated from Western.

But it doesn’t matter how many years of education you have or what kind of degrees you earned or even where you went to school. What does matter is that somewhere along the line we all had special teachers who helped make us the people we’ve become today–teachers who challenged us, inspired us, pushed us a little harder than we’d liked, but teachers who were there at all levels preparing us for our own individual destinies. I’m told it’s weird that I can remember the names of most all my teachers from first grade on through graduate school. They taught me how to read and write, and to do algebra though poor Howard Stuebner had a tough time with Gordy Taylor and calculus. Brother David was the family math scholar. I learned about ancient civilizations and the founding of this great nation, and the civil war fought to sustain it. I took typing and speech and even learned how to say a few sentences in French. What I did not take, much to the everlasting chagrin of Diane and sons Gordon III and Ryan was “shop” and consequently I need help to change a light bulb and don’t know a hammer from a screwdriver. I’m quite helpless around the house and without my wonderful neighbor Greg Mason, I doubt our house would still be standing. 

I guess this is me, simply reflecting on the value of education, and what it has done to and for each of us. For me, it all seemed to come together one magical quarter in college as an undergraduate. I took 18 hours, which was a full load plus a little extra. I’m a morning person which I suppose emanates from my youth when I was up at 5 a.m. to deliver the Chicago Tribune every morning for two interminably never-ending long years.  But that’s a story for another time. 

The following is an article I wrote and published in the Winter of 1998 edition of the Western News:

It happened during the Spring Quarter of 1966, my sophomore year at Western.  I was doing fine scholastically and that reality would never change much, but my life as a student would.  I guess you could call it the academic epiphany of Gordy Taylor.  My schedule on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday was horrific.  I was in class straight through from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.  It was a long time ago, but sometime during that quarter I realized that something very special was happening to me.  It was no longer a matter of having to go to class, but rather I felt excitement, curiosity, and intellectual stimulation.  It was an incredible time in my life, and as I reflect, I now understand what happened.

My 8 a.m. was Development of Civilization 134 with John Raatjes.  Raatjes didn’t lecture out of a book about ancient societies; he took us there.  One week the focus was on Africa and the explorations of the famous archeologist Louis Leakey.  I entered class to the beat of African drums and natives speaking Swahili.  It was a tape, but the entire class sat speechless as Raatjes took us with him to deepest Africa.  It was electrifying.  You could always tell wen Raatjes knew we were with him because his eyes twinkled with excitement.  Even he was having fun.

My 9 a.m. was Earth Science 101 with Bob Gabler.  He didn’t just tell us how the earth was formed.  He took us on field trips around campus and showed us.  When the subject was the solar system, he took us on an evening excursion to the old golf course where Higgins and Thompson Halls now stand and helped us make sense of the infinite sky above.  Bob Gabler is not a timid man.  Every minute of his class was loud, intense, and action packed.  As he made a point, his arms moved so violently you thought he might take off like Peter Pan.  Students just knew that Gabler loved to teach and he was fantastic.

My adrenaline was in full gear as I entered Garwood Hall at 10 a.m. where Jean Clow was teaching Principles of Accounting 281.  It was like having a class with my mom.  She explained that credits go by the window and debits by the wall.  Her goal was to teach us the fundamentals and that she did, concluding the quarter with the infamous “practice set” whereby we had to balance the books for a fictitious enterprise.  Mrs. Clow treated us like her own children which included a piercing stare and dressing down when needed.  I will never forget the day Bill O’Toole, currently vice president of operations services at Walt Disney World, came to class with an incomplete assignment due to an important intramural football game the previous day.  Clow looked at Bill and said, “Mr. O’Toole, you had an assignment due today, and you didn’t do it.  That’s an F for today.  Hope your team won.”  Bill never made that mistake again.

Eleven a.m. took me to the second floor of Sherman Hall for Money and Banking 325 with Karl Marx.  Honest, that’s how he spells his name.  Marx had a habit of leaning against the window frame and on occasion would begin to fall out of the window to his certain demise.  Then his remarkably quick hands would brace against the frame and propel his body back into the room.  Every time it happened, my heart would skip a beat.  At times, Marx seemed to be in a world of his own full of profound and deep thoughts, and we wanted to be there with him.  One of my most vivid college memories is of this young professor, and the energy he expended as he explained the famous IS/LM curves.  Marx would literally write on the blackboard with his right hand while erasing with his left hand.  It was incredible, and after class we felt emotionally and intellectually drained.

Then it was noon, and I had one class to go:  American History 225 with Victor Hicken.  It would be one of the most extraordinary classroom experiences of my life.  Victor Hicken WAS American History.  It oozed from every pore of his body.  We lived the American Civil War through the reflective eyes of this splendid educator.  From Bull Run to Vicksburg to the burning of Atlanta he took us with him.  You could cut the emotion in the classroom with a knife when he spoke of Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox.  You were there.  Victor Hicken knew about war, knew about it firsthand, up close as only a veteran could.  You see, a mere 22 years earlier, he had been part of the original assault force on Dog Green Sector, Omaha Beach, D-Day, June 6, 1944.  Vic Hicken knew how to teach history.

The educational “spark” had been lit for me, and from that time on, I became a serious student. In my senior year it was time to contemplate what lay ahead so of course I asked brother David what I should do. It was 1968 and his response was quick and succinct, “Vietnam is exploding so you will go to graduate school” and I did. I got a NDEA Title IV Fellowship at the University of Florida, and the lovely Diane Paulsen married me on August 31, 1968.  Two weeks later we began our life together in Gainesville, Florida, and of course we remain proud Gators to this day. I got my MBA and then finally the PhD with Diane working, taking classes herself, and encouraging me every time things got a little tough. The adventure continues to this day.

It needs to be mentioned that education is not something that exists only in the classroom though that is an important component of this dynamic. Sure, classroom teaching was helpful to us but there is also the great educational process that transpires outside the classroom in real life.  We learn so much just by living, about the world, ourselves, and whatever it is that matters most to us. Somewhere along the line we learn how to communicate with others, how to interact with diverse personality types, how to map out our individual life destiny. The plan is never completed, particularly if we are lucky enough to make it to the 4th Quarter of our lives when health curve balls present a totally new reality and path to the future. There is a practical “life education” that enables us to pivot when adversity strikes and make changes that assist us in facing the “new reality” that inevitably will come our way. We lose our parents and that is the natural order of things, but the everyday lives of our children and their kids impacts on us, as does the health of our life partner. I know Diane and I could never have prepared ourselves for the health challenges that have come our way but that outside the classroom “education” has served us well as we face the realities of our lives today. 

There you have it. Regardless of how any of us got to where we are today, we are all citizens of the world making our way as best we can. Hats off to Raatjes, Clow, Marx, Gabler, and Hicken for lighting the academic spark in this humble student of life and to Diane and everyone else who has kept it burning the past 50 years. The 4th Quarter ticks on…

It’s been an interesting last five months for Diane and me. It started out with a left hip replacement on December 10th that worked out satisfactorily after a rough beginning. Then it was off for our annual Marco Island, Florida, adventure that turned out to be a medical marathon as I had some very serious back issues followed by—get this—a urinary tract infection (UTI). I had always assumed this was solely the province of women but found that not to be the case. Lots of itching and even a bit of female doctor exploration of my “privates.”  Is nothing sacred anymore as we age? Guess not. Then it was more “back stuff” with X-rays, two types of MRIs, bone scan, back injections, a medial nerve block, and visits to what seemed like every physician in the state of Florida. Now it seems things are better. I have had a “come to Jesus meeting” with myself realizing that there will always be challenges moving forward as we age.  All of us have our own personal issues. Enough on that topic.

Being in the 4th Quarter of life has resulted in my being a little more patient than I used to be or at least I hope so.  Having said that, there are still things that other members of the human species do that clearly irritate me. These all seemed to manifest themselves on our 1,400-mile drive back from Florida. One has to do with attempting to make a left turn at a busy intersection and finding the person in front of you, just sitting there, and not moving out into the intersection to make the turn on yellow/caution. I know, silly but “get out there, you aren’t the only person on the road.”  Next, we have the thoughtless people who when we come upon a standstill in traffic and are down to ultimately one lane each direction as we merge, decide they are entitled to “stay left” as long as possible, cutting in front of the rest of us who play by the rules. Daughter Jennifer calls this “Texas Friendly” as in that state people seem to more often use good manners and everyone takes their turn. Finally, and this one is scary, has to do with people who decide they need to text while driving. Drunk driving is bad enough but this careless and dangerous threat to public safety is serious and life threatening. When out walking and crossing an intersection, I never assume the driver sees me and am saddened by the number of times I see the driver looking down with no regard to what is happening around them. OK, suppose that concludes Gordy’s list of “old people pet peeves.”

Sometimes we come across people who do so much for others that I feel embarrassed that this writer doesn’t do more to make more of a positive impact on the world in which we live.  Some people are just “natural givers” and share much of their time and resources, financial and otherwise, to assist others. The Taylors were viewing 60 Minutes recently (which we started watching with the first episode as newlyweds in 1968), and one of the correspondents inquired of the interviewee why they were so generous/thoughtful. The answer was brief, succinct, and to the point. The response, “Because their need was greater than my need.”  Well said, and good advice for each of us to ponder.

Lately, an event transpired that really hit home with me as I continue my journey deeper and deeper into the 4th Quarter of my life. It made me realize that the older you are, the longer your past.  So many life experiences are behind me, never to return—career, specific vacation adventures, relationships with friends and relatives who are no longer with us.  It’s even the little things.  I had an opportunity to play drive-way basketball with three of my grandchildren:  Paul (13), Ava (12), and Kent (8).  I spent most of my time simply attempting NOT TO FALL!!  Here was Gordy Taylor who couldn’t move gracefully or hardly at all.  It just wasn’t a pretty sight. Then Gordon III put things in perspective. “Dad, you’re 79 and how many guys your age would even attempt what you’re doing?”  Suppose he’s right but how did my past get so long so fast?

Sometimes events that come our way arrive with a sense of ambivalence in that they strike both a positive chord but also provide a bit of a reality check. Recently, Diane and I ventured to Chagrin Falls, Ohio (outside Cleveland) to watch grandchildren Ava and Kent perform in the Stagecrafters musical Mary Poppins. Kent did a wonderful job as a “banker” and kept his banker peers on target.  Ava WAS Mary Poppins!! It was incredible. She sang solo; she literally flew through the air on stage.  The cast had 185 kids, and all eyes were on her. It was unbelievable. Both kids were poised and self-confident. It was a truly joyous family occasion. Two weeks later, I find myself singing “A Spoon Full of Sugar” and “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”  When Mary addressed the topic of positivity, she proclaimed to everyone listening, “There’s the whole world at your feet” and of course, she’s right.  It’s there if only we are smart enough to see it. 

It was such fun and memorable.  Ava and Kent are only two of our six grandchildren, each doing neat and creative things in their own lives. Yet, it does make me regret the reality that I will not be around to watch their entire lives unfold. That is how life works, right?  Diane and I will endeavor to savor as much of this grand family adventure as our lives and theirs permit. I plan on heeding the advice of Miss Mary Poppins “A spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down.”

Usually, when I write this blog, I try to be non-confrontational and avoid taking a position one way or another on any issue. I am deviating from that tradition today. It dawns on me that this is my blog, and I should pretty much say what’s on my mind, so here I go, not sure of where the keys on the laptop will take me.  We live in a college town so intercollegiate athletics surround us, and we can’t help but be affected or have opinions on what is happening today to our young people. I speak specifically of three issues—the transfer portal, NIL (name, image, likeness), and gambling.  

To me, the transfer portal, whereby an athlete can jump from one school to another simply because he or she can get a better “deal” has been disastrous. The previous competitive model was clearly not working, but there must be a better way. Some of these young men and women jump from school to school once, twice, or even three times in their career. It makes college recruiting a nightmare. It’s one of the reasons legendary Alabama football coach Nick Saban gave to retire from coaching. The most competitive universities are now hiring “managers” to handle some of this workload as it is simply too daunting for the coaching staff to address without some assistance.

Somewhere in all this, the education component has gone missing. I don’t pretend to think that every athlete will stay all four years at a single school or even stay until graduation, but it was fun when Christian Laettner and Bobby Hurley were Duke Blue Devils, Michael Jordan was a Carolina Tar Heel, and Larry Bird an Indiana State Sycamore. Fans followed our favorite players and teams, and it was fun to watch them grow and mature in front of us. Now, you don’t know from year-to-year who will be on a team and there is apparently little, if any, institutional loyalty. I didn’t say this was any easy problem to solve, and it is further exacerbated by the whole NIL phenomenon which is part of this dysfunctional equation.  Heck, coaches seldom recruit high school seniors anymore. Why not wait to see who’s out there in the portal and then build a program that way. Of course, that results in the rich getting richer as coaches or the managers simply wait to see what they can attract from the portal and build their program with a new group of players every year. This transpires from top to bottom with well-funded programs being able to poach from anyone and in the end, it goes from the premier programs all the way down to lesser programs and puts schools like Western and our counterparts at a severe disadvantage.

NIL makes all this worse. Yes, players should somehow be compensated for their efforts as there is no reason the colleges and universities should be the only ones to profit but again, let’s think this out and find the best option moving forward which NIL clearly is not. The best players at the most noted programs can literally rake in millions like former star Caitlin Clark did at Iowa.  Now I like her as much as everyone else but what happens to her teammates in this pay-to-play scenario?  I wonder what would happen to a “name” quarterback if his offensive line got together and said to one another, “Let’s see how Mr. NIL does if we let the defensive line through for a play or two.”  More and more the collegiate game has simply become a minor league for the NFL, NBA, WBA, and beyond. 

I was visiting the other day with good friend Mark Ortmayer who made this obvious and profound observation, “Gordy, the genie is out of the bottle and not going back in.” Unfortunately, he is correct, and a real financial monster has been created. How will NIL compensate lesser-known players or those not playing the most visible positions moving forward?  This much is clear.  No one knows and possibly we are worse off now than we were before all this madness started.

On to the third leg of my stool–gambling. A few short years ago the commissioners of all the major sports appeared before the U.S. Congress to state unequivocally that gambling had no place in athletics, i.e. college scandals in the 50s or Pete Rose, or even NBA officials a few years ago.  How the landscape has changed. The commercials are everywhere with offers about how much fun gambling is. You can bet on the next pitch or on whether the next shot will be made–anything. I am not denigrating the yearly office Superbowl or March Madness Tournament pool, but it is clear that gambling has gotten out of hand and in the small print you will see references to where you can get help for gambling addictions. Really, good old gambling turning into an addiction? Say it ain’t so, but it is. I speak from personal experience.

As I’ve written elsewhere, I was raised in a family with addiction. Our choice was alcohol that affected everyone but me. I was the lucky one. I’m told addiction takes many forms. You name it and it can become an addiction. Shopping, drugs, gambling, alcohol, and goodness gracious, even sex.  This is dicey here, but even Gordy Taylor had a bout with addiction. Ten or so years ago, I was prescribed a drug for my severe case and decades of long affliction with Restless Legs Syndrome. I took it religiously–never missed a dose. Gradually, I found myself with an affinity, increased enjoyment, and finally addiction to gaming salons.  The prescription was a dopamine agonist which can result in impulse control behaviors through a process called augmentation. Diane understands how this works, but the details are lost on me.  

It took a while for me to know something was wrong and even then, I wouldn’t admit it. My golf buddies Frank, Berg, and Bob were in town one weekend, and I felt the need to show them some neat places which, of course, were the very locations where I sneaking out to do my addictive vice.  What was I thinking? But, in retrospect, I was sneaking around Macomb like a convict from parlor to parlor. Finally, Diane figured it out, tracked me down, and caught me in the act.  It was awful and poor Diane had been caught up in my horrible web.

Diane scooped me up and drove me to my neurologist where we discovered that this drug could cause addictions to almost anything. I stopped taking the dopamine agonist immediately and the urge to gamble mercifully went away. We don’t point fingers at anyone but obviously wish none of this would have happened, but it did. Now there is more information about RLS, and my meds were changed to a dopamine med. We were fortunate to meet with doctors at the Mayo Clinic concerning RLS, and they informed us that research revealed impulse behavior addictions from dopamine agonists.  I was one of the lucky ones. My addiction went away once I got free from what I was taking. Cause and effect–stopped taking and urge gone.

But this is not unfortunately how things usually work out. Addicts hide their problem from everyone; I was no different. We all know what happens when people get hooked on opioids–they won’t let go and the same is true with gambling. It escalates and escalates until finances and families are ruined, sometimes forever. Fortunately, neither of these outcomes befell the Taylors.  Again, and I don’t want to sound redundant, my problem had a specific cause, and once it was removed the issue went away. Most people are not so fortunate.

There you have it. We are building a house of cards built on recruitment gone awry, compensation for athletes being mismanaged, and all sports susceptible to the curse of unregulated gambling.  Let’s see where we go from here.

I was going through some old letters last week and came across one that caught my eye. It dated back to December 16, 1963, over 60 years ago. Why would I have kept a letter from so long ago? Then, I read it; it was a beauty: 

Dear Gordon,

Our whole family admires you for the way you have worked so hard to help your folks during these difficult days.

Use this any way you’d like for a merrier Christmas, Gordy. We pray ’64 will be a good, good year for your mother and the whole Taylor gang.

Your friends,

The Campbells

Enclosed was a check for $100. I was overwhelmed. Don and Sally Campbell were a middle-aged couple with two grown sons who lived down the street from us. Their gesture was a wonderful reaffirmation to a young man/boy to “do the right thing” decades before that phrase become an everyday part of our daily lexicon. I can only imagine how large that $100 gift would be if converted to 2025 dollars–substantial I imagine. I relate this story for a reason. These were the bleak years for the Taylors—monthly struggle to pay the mortgage, utilities, insurance, car payment on a junk heap, groceries, and so much more. New clothes and shoes were never going to happen. It was hand me downs from the beginning and braces for our teeth—oops, you must be kidding on that last one. As a matter of fact, we never even went to the dentist and our mouths looked like it. But no one complained.  What good would it do. 

As an old Boomer, my kids are grown, the mortgage is paid, and hopefully no more car payments, so we have an extra 50 cents in our pockets these days. I mention all this because sometimes we are at a loss as to what we can do to make this a better world, to help others, to reach out just a little bit. It certainly doesn’t have to be money. You can tell someone you admire what they’ve accomplished, that you applaud their integrity, or that you commend them for their work in helping others. Help a person out for no other reason than it’s the right thing to do. They’ll feel good and so will you.

I suppose we can look no further than the fires in California, flooding in Ashville, North Carolina, recent tornadoes in the Midwest, or countless other personal tragedies that have befallen our friends and neighbors to find examples of how we can help others but surely, we can also just look around our own community.  In Macomb we have a Toys for Tots drive over Christmas, food drives, clothing drives, and all such things. But I sort of emphasize the “personal one on one exchange” right there in our own communities. You never know when opportunities to help will just pop up but if you are alert, you can find them. 

For us, our latest opportunity dovetailed precisely after I reread that Campbell letter from so many years ago. It had to do with a man who had had some tough sledding after a serious motorcycle accident. Suffice it to say, his life will never be the same. Recently, we received an unexpected modest check in the mail. We weren’t counting on or expecting it so what to do with it. I suggested to Diane, we pass it along to this fellow in need, much like the Campbells had done for us so many years ago.  Diane concurred–why not, so we did it telling him that we were simply doing for him what another family had done for us. So, we put a check and a little note in the mail explaining our actions. A couple of weeks later we received a heart-felt thank-you note which made our day. 

It can really be anything. Our neighbors, Jim and Marilyn Olsen, shoveled our walk and driveway knowing I was unable to do so because of my recent left hip replacement.  How nice! These same people go on an annual church outing to build houses for the underprivileged. I look around and see so many people who reach out to others for no other reason than it is the right thing to do. I applaud you for the good deeds you do for others, not because you are asked to do so, but because in your heart, you know you can improve the lot of someone less fortunate.  

Of course, this expands much further than doing things for others. It is also simply recognizing the accomplishments of others or commenting on their good deeds. Being in the 4th Quarter gives us the ability to often just reach out and do things for others we probably wouldn’t have or couldn’t have when we were younger. We are the lucky ones–still here able to live the Golden Rule every day.                                                

Diane and I are blessed with three children who have made us proud but more importantly, have lived lives that we believe make them proud. I didn’t say there haven’t been “bumps in the road” as there clearly have been, but they have been successfully navigated and all three, their spouses, and children doing just fine. When we get into the 4th Quarter, I can’t speak for others, but to me, my family is pretty much, “it.”  They give me great pleasure and we are a family full of significant and long-lasting memories. I don’t know if this makes us unique but one of the things I take greatest pleasure in is a texting tree that includes Jennifer, Gordon, Ryan, Diane, and me. I reluctantly got into this link, but when the family finally convinced me that I absolutely had to learn to text— I did. Diane came up with the phrase, “The Five” and we all participate with comments, observations on life, and simple random thoughts about what is happening in our lives. It keeps us connected and provides both substance and humor.  

When I initiated the “gordyandthe4thquarter.blog,” Diane and Ryan encouraged me to post some of the past entries I wrote for the “Across the Miles” column published in WIU’s Western News.  Blog #38 highlighted Jennifer and John’s wedding and 16-year-old Gordon finally beating Gordy in “driveway basketball” was #48.  What follows is an entry that appeared in the Fall of 1998. 

I’d been through this twice before, so it shouldn’t have been difficult, but I knew it would be.  As we drove from Macomb to the University of Illinois to drop off son Ryan for his freshman year, my mind was filled with a thousand memories of events never to be repeated.  You see, Ryan is the end of the line for Diane and me, the youngest of our three children preparing to embark on the college experience. 

For us, no more piano recitals, no homecoming or prom dances, no more posters to be made for student elections, no school conferences, no sitting in the stands at athletic events, and no one living in the bedroom next to ours.  We were about to become empty nesters.  Where had the years gone?  Since the birth of Jennifer in 1971, followed by Gordon III in 1974, and Ryan in 1980, there had always been children in our house.  That 27-year era was about to end. 

As I got closer to Champaign/Urbana, I glanced in the rearview mirror at the sleeping man child in the back seat.  Had we prepared him for what lies ahead?  We would soon know.  I must admit that raising Ryan was never much of a challenge—his brother and sister had given us plenty of rehearsal time.  As a matter of fact, Diane and I frequently joke about how easy Ryan was to raise, so much so, that when we had something of a serious nature to tell him, we would say, “Ryan, your mom and I are about to have a parenting experience with you.”   

Upon arrival we did the usual things:  check him into his residence hall, picked up his carpeting, rented a micro fridge, shopped a little, and then it was time to say goodbye.  This was also the hardest part for me—saying goodbye.  I knew none of our lives would ever be the same.  I gave him a hug and didn’t look back—I couldn’t bear to see Diane say goodbye to the last of our three children.  These rites of passage in our lives can be difficult, but they are inevitable. 

Life goes on and Diane and I are adjusting to our new status as sole tenants of our home.  It’s been interesting.  Meals for two, no kids’ events to attend, and the house to ourselves makes for a different lifestyle.  So, what’s next—marriages, grandchildren?  I look in the mirror and think “Surely, I’m not old enough for that.  Heck, I’m still playing slow-pitch softball.” 

One bit of advice—to those of you with young ones still at home, enjoy them and remember that a hundred years from now it will not matter how large your bank account was or how big your house was or the kind of car you drove, but it will matter if you made a difference in the lives of your children. 

Ryan ended up graduating “on time” (bless him), from the University of Illinois and then earned a law degree from DePaul University. He became partner in a law firm in Chicago and then made a wonderful career change to a major international insurance firm that allows him to spend time with his lovely and talented wife, Margaret, 6-year-old son Dan, and Lady the Wonder Dog.  

This seems to be an appropriate place to relay a Ryan Taylor event when he took the Illinois Bar Exam in July 2005.  Graduates register online to take the exam in Chicago and each person is assigned a 5-digit number.  Once the exams are graded, the Illinois Bar Association posts all the numbers so that nervous grads can see if there is a “pass” or “fail” sometime around October 5^th.  Diane not only knew Ryan’s exam number but also memorized it—not sure why but she did.  It was homecoming, and we were involved with numerous activities at the Alumni House.  Late that afternoon, Diane disappeared to my office, then came down to visit, then took a glass of wine upstairs to my office, reappeared to say hi to alums before taking another glass of wine upstairs.  What the heck was going on?  Then, she suddenly reappeared and gave me a huge hug, whispered in my ear, and announced that Ryan Scott Taylor had passed the bar exam!  Looking over the computer screen one more time, we decided to phone Ryan who was NOT checking the website.  Yep, she got to call Ryan, asked him again if the 5 digits were correct, and had the pleasure of telling him the results.  What a memorable day! 

  

I’m in a particularly good mood this morning because I get to tell you about some dear friends who can teach us all about what it means to be “our brother’s keeper.”  This 4th Quarter thing has plenty of ups and downs.  Each of us has our own experiences to enrich us, teach us, and help us grow as human beings and sometimes frustrate us and make us sad. I’ve often said I had the best job at Western and that’s true primarily because of the people I’ve met getting on and off my “train of life.”  My career was primarily to meet people and try to encourage them to be proud to be a graduate of Western Illinois University. As such, I traveled the country like a peddler with my trusty archaic slide show in hand. We did around 70 of these events per year and my travels took me from coast to coast, north to south, and east to west.  

On occasion I was privy to hearing stories about their lives and how they became the people they became. They would talk; I would listen.  Sometimes it was vice versa, but I can assure you, it was never boring. Each of us has a “story” to tell, and it has been my pleasure and privilege to listen to many of them over the decades. My position gave me access to the “best of times” and sometimes the “worst of times” in the lives of alumni I came to know, respect, admire, and in some cases be privy to pain, anguish, and suffering.  This is a story that starts out with great promise, has a very sad bump on the road of life, and an ending that gives us all hope for the future. 

I first met Kathy Cavins when she was a student at Western, and she went on to carve out a stellar career after graduation right here at her alma mater. Her personality and skill set caught the eye of University President Don Spencer who knew just who to call when necessity required creativity, bringing diverse campus groups together for a shared effort, and the delivery of a polished and high-quality product. President Spencer thought Kathy could deliver and she did, time after time. They made a great team. Then she left Western. Just like that she was gone.  She still stayed close by as a VP and Dean of Students at Illinois Wesleyan University for six years.  Then the big move to Texas Christian University where she met Ashley Tull. She fell in love with both Ashley and TCU. 

At TCU the Tulls met Jamie Dulle who was earning a Ph.D. and working for the Dean of Students.  Where was Mr. Donald Dulle, prominent lawyer and professor at Wright State University in Ohio? Tragically, he had died, and Jamie was left to raise two sons, Boston (13) and Braylen (11). Before he died, Jamie had promised Don that she would finish her doctorate, and she did. It was a festive accomplishment, and it was time for the Dulles to move on to the next stage of their lives. Here’s where life got dark, very dark.  Braylen spent the night at his friend Zach’s house.  After almost eight years without their dad, they wanted their mom to start dating.  They were excited for her that this was her third date and began to see the benefits of having another grown-up in their lives. Tragically, that night three months after getting her Ph.D., Jamie was killed when her car was hit by a drunk driver.

Braylen is by nature a glass half-full kid and very sensitive to the needs of others.  Suddenly and out of nowhere Boston and Braylen were alone in the deepest sense of the world. Two boys, both parents taken from them, alone in the world.  Early that morning when Kathy got the call about Jamie, she called Ashley to go to the hospital because she was in Los Angeles for a meeting.  He was told to go get Braylen at Zach’s house.  When Braylen saw Ashley, he thought he was there to take him to practice (Kathy and Ashley helped with the kids when Jamie was busy with school or travel).  Ashely told him that his mom had been in a car accident and his first concern was his brother.  Braylen’s world was completely shaken, but in that little body was a mountain of hope.  Every “what if” situation was workable to Braylen.  If she couldn’t walk, he and Boston could help her.  If she had to be in the hospital for a long time, he could visit her after school.  He knew she would be able to get a new car, so that was going to be OK.  Braylen had it all figured out until the doctors told him two days later that their mom was not going to wake up.  You could see the terror, the wheels turning in his head.  He looked at Ashley, then at Kathy, his grandparents, the chaplain and said, “I’m 11 and I have NO PARENTS!!”  And just then, Braylen knew that his life changed forever.  Could the world get any darker, any more helpless for the Dulle boys?

Then positive things began to happen. The accident was on March 9^th, so it was decided to keep the boys in school to finish the year. Ashley and Kathy offered to help, and soon the boys were living with the Tulls. Ashley and Kathy became temporary then permanent guardians. They are now permanent legal guardians and did not adopt the boys as it was important for the boys to retain the Dulle name.  As Kathy told me, the boys are resilient beyond measure and active in school activities. Boston is in college; Brayden is in high school.  The Tull household has been busy, and the boys have brought additional energy and excitement to the Tull household, joining Tull’s daughter and son insuring there will never be a dull moment. 

Kathy puts it best.  “It just came naturally to do what they did after losing Jamie. The real credit goes to Boston and Brayden who have stepped up to the plate and stayed strong throughout living lives that would make their parents proud. The boys could have become morose and negative but instead they took the high road and showed bravery and thankfulness every step of the way.” As the Tulls say, “the boys are the real heroes of this story.” There must be an important lesson here about doing the right thing, strength, perseverance, and graciousness as they are all excellent descriptors of a story about adults and children who rose above the ashes to create their own destinies. 

Boston and Braylen have been a part of Ashley and Kathy’s family (and the Tulls theirs) since March of 2019.  According to Kathy, Jamie would be so proud of her boys.  They’re resilient beyond measure.  They’re good kids that are more optimistic than their circumstances would prescribe.  Don and Jamie Dulle taught their children how to live by example. Their favorite exchange in explaining their unending love was, “forever and a day longer.” For the Dull boys their “forever” ended on that tragic March afternoon, but they are living “a day longer” with dignity and respect for perpetuity. God bless the Tull and Dulle families. You inspire all of us to be all that we can be. 

Thanksgiving is my favorite time of the year and a time to do just that, “be thankful” and for all of us lucky enough to have made it to the 4th Quarter of our lives, take a few minutes to reflect on your many blessings. Think about that for just a minute. We all have our challenges as we age, and health is surely one of them. But if you ever feel “blue,” close your eyes and think of the kids at St. Jude’s in Memphis and suddenly that gives your own health concerns some perspective. As long-time good buddy, Mike Burke, has reminded us many times, “it could be much worse.”

With the thought of “giving” in mind, I happened to come across a Western News “Across the Miles” column I wrote in 2001, and it demonstrates this construct perfectly. I will let it speak for itself.

I entered the house as I frequently do Monday through Friday at 5:25 p.m. prepared to get my daily dose of the evening news.  Today would be different.  Diane met me at the door and said she taped something from the “Oprah Winfrey Show,” and she wanted me to see it.  I moaned.  “I’m a guy, I don’t watch Oprah, I need to watch the news.”  I took a second look at Diane then promptly sat down on the couch to watch the tape.  There would be no evening news tonight.

For the next 15 minutes, the story on tape reaffirmed why we exist on this planet.  There, on TV on Oprah, was Western graduate Gayle Johnson Conolty ’79 and member of Sigma, Sigma, Sigma sorority, and her good friend and cancer survivor Pam O’Malley talking openly about Pam’s ordeal.  Oprah was doing a program on cancer survivors and the people who had helped them.  Oprah referred to these individuals as “angels without wings,” Gayle is married to former WIU quarterback Kevin Conolty ’79 and resides in Batavia, IL.  They are parents of daughters Karolyn, Kristin, and Kimberly and son Cameron.  Pete and Pam O’Malley also live in Batavia and are parents of four daughters:  Meghan, Erin, Maureen, and Eileen.  I know daughter Meghan as she was a member of Western’s Student Alumni Council.

Gayle and Pam became friends, but how close they would become, neither of them probably ever knew.  In December 1999, Pam was diagnosed with breast cancer and after surgery and chemotherapy, the attempt at a mastectomy reconstruction did not go well.  Pam had an incision 5 inches across, 4 inches down, and 2 inches deep in her chest.  You could have put a man’s wallet or a deck of playing cards in that hole.  As I watched the Oprah tape, I started to cry.  This visual hit me like a ton of bricks.  I thought of my own wife and daughter and then of my mom’s terribly scarred body after she had a lung removed during her battle with tuberculosis.  As I watched Pam, I was amazed at her strength, her determination to recover, her will to live, and the incredible power of her friendship with Gayle.

For weeks, Gayle came to Pam’s house at 7:30 a.m., 2:30 p.m., and 10 p.m. to change the dressing on Pam’s wound.  Pam relates it was simply too much for her family to address; they just couldn’t do all that needed to be done.  It was Gayle, who as Pam says, “Provided certainty in an uncertain time.  She was my everything.”

The tape ended; I called Gayle.  A week later I was sitting at her kitchen table sipping a lemonade visiting both Gayle and Pam.  The two women were very much at ease; I was not.  The conversation was direct as they talked about what had become their mutual ordeal.  The words mutilation, ugly, depressed, scared, painful, and fear literally cut through the air.  This was not a story for the faint of heart, but it was gripping.

I learned that each time Gayle came to Pam’s house, the two friends would talk about kids, the news, school, anything but cancer.  They found humor in the oddest places.  One morning after a drive to chemotherapy treatment in Chicago (yes, Gayle did that too) the two women sat alone in a hospital room.  As Pam sat on the bed where she would receive treatment, Gayle began to push buttons to adjust the bed—height, curvature—you get the picture.  When the doctor entered the room, he was not amused and told Gayle to treat her mother better.  The two ladies broke out in howls of laughter as they are about the same age.

While Gayle would listen to Pam, she never allowed her friend to wallow in pity; there were more important things to do, like make the best of a difficult situation.  During the taping, Oprah asked Gayle why she did it; why three times a day, seven days a week for six weeks followed by five months of chemotherapy she did what she did.  She replied quietly but forcefully, “Because Pam is my friend.”  As in the holiday “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Oprah closed her show by referring to the Gayle Conoltys of the world as “angels who just don’t have their wings yet.” 

Sadly, Pam O’Malley passed away in 2007 but her inspiring story lives on.  Noted CBS-TV commentator Charles Kuralt once said, “It does no harm once in a while to acknowledge that the whole country isn’t in flames; that there are people in this country besides politicians, entertainers, and criminals.” People like Gayle Conolty.

 A life worth living is about people who make it so for each of us.  Think about it.  Can you name 10 people who have won the Nobel or Pulitzer Prize?  The last five Heisman trophy winners?  The chief executive officers of five Fortune 500 firms?  Probably not.  Most of us don’t remember yesterday’s headliners.  Yes, they were the best in their respective fields, but their importance to us diminishes over time. 

 Now take a moment and list the people you can always count on, the people who were always there for you, the person who taught you to swim or read or ride a bike.  These are the real heroes in your life; people who, in some way, will remain with you forever.  Gayle Conolty shows us that we can all make a difference.  What are you doing to make a difference? 

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Hinsdale Hall of Fame Dinner 2024. L to R: Gordy, Diane, & John Sandeen. Mike Mason ’64, Gordy, ’64, John Sandeen, ’64 (HOF Inductee 2024), Bill Zillman, ’63. Class of 1964 HOF attendees: Cissy Mohlman Webb, Richard Sherman, Gordy, Craig Baab, Bruce Fogarty, Richard Pavek, John Sandeen, April Holub Long, & Mike Mason.

It had to happen; it did; I’m delighted.  I was there to participate. Of our class of 624, 45 of us attended the 60th class reunion of the Class of 1964 at Hinsdale Township High School. We are senior citizens and clearly on the “mature end” of members of the 4th Quarter.  Yes, not everyone made it as some not interested, others too far to travel, others with health issues, and sadly, a good number on the other side of the grass.  The weekend began with a Hinsdale Central Hall of Fame dinner on Thursday night and Dr. John Sandeen, one of our classmates, was inducted. On Friday it was a tour of what is more like a small college campus than a high school and very impressive in every way. The football game was Friday night and Hinsdale Central defeated Morton 56-0, so we were clearly on a roll. The play-by-play announcer called out the various reunions in attendance at the game.  A roar went up for the children of the Class of 14 and a little more subdued for the folks from the Class of 04. Then it was time for 94, then 84, and finally a huge roar for 50-year reunion attendees from the Class of 74. And then it happened. The announcer spoke clearly, as if anyone was still listening–“Anyone here from the Class of 64?” There was a shallow echo from the nine of us who had endeavored to stay up beyond 8 p.m. for a night game.  Of course, we all departed at halftime as we had to return to our hotels which required, of all things, driving up Route 83 at night.  

The parade was at 9:30 on Saturday morning.  It was sort of cute—so many young people running around with all that energy.  There was a group of us standing at the intersection of First Street and Washington as what appeared to be a John Hughes movie unfolded with lots of convertibles, cheers from red and white uniformed high schoolers with school spirit everywhere.  It felt like we were back in the sixties with two modifications. First, now the school offers 32 different sports, think of it—32!  How many did we have?  Secondly, it was like the United Nations on parade.  Progress in action in suburban Hinsdale.

Time for the main event on Saturday night held at a local watering hole in Clarendon Hills. No cover charge and only expense was your own beverages. This now makes for a very cheap night for the Taylors as I remain tethered to PEG the omnipresent feeding tube. Diane and I strolled in around 7 o’clock, and things were already underway. We got our nametags and began to mingle. Diane knows my classmates from past reunions, so we each sort of did our own thing. That’s not exactly true, as Mrs. Taylor became the unofficial photographer, so she was quite busy.

I looked around at the 45 or so brave souls who had ventured out to see “what everyone looked like” after 60 years. Think about it—60 years. I was stunned as the same cliques/groups from decades ago were all represented i.e. brainiacs, class leaders, jocks, simply nice kids (work after school, played minor sports, just middle of the road kids).  But none of that mattered, none of it. We were all just a bunch of almost 80-year-olds, who for this one night were kids again, catching up with our classmates. It made no difference if you had been an executive, a doctor, a lawyer, a repairman, a postal worker, a teacher, a homemaker, an electrician, a plumber, or anything else. No one cared what we did “for a living.”  Everyone was on the same plain regardless of wrinkles, weight gain, hair loss, or even someone with a PEG. We were all the same. I wondered, “Had we matured or just too much trouble to put everyone into a specific silo?” I opted for the former. 

Maybe, just maybe we were following the words of English writer Oscar Wilde who once said, “Be yourself, everyone else is already taken,” and so we did. Stories were told and certainly embellished and photos, lots of photos to share. We heard of deceased spouses, choices good and bad made by our children, and questions about lost classmates. It was funny but ALL our grandchildren and even great-grandchildren are perfect—every single one of them.  We found out some of our classmates were gay; no one seemed to care. Again, another sign that maybe as we go deep into the 4th Quarter of our lives, we are maturing as functioning human beings.  I didn’t hear one mention of politics, or even the names of Trump or Harris. Clearly, our class has representation on both sides of the aisle, but it just didn’t seem to matter. 

There was a word I heard mentioned quite a bit as I moved from group to group—HEALTH. We range from those who seem to be the perfectly healthy to those who appear to be just “hanging on,” but God bless everyone for attending. Our lives were enriched by reconnecting with our past as we prepare to embark on our future.  Certainly glad Diane and I made the trip from Macomb. There is talk of #65 in 2029, but I’m not so sure. No one jumped up to coordinate the effort but who knows.  For sure, this effort was a success.  I’m grateful to Mike Mason, Joe Lascola, Karen Kemmerling Harbour, Roger Treend, Carol Skeels Nambo, Dawn Phillips Post, Deborah Barile, and everyone else who made the effort to bring us together. 

The 4th Quarter moves ahead…