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…

As we close out 2023, it is probably as good a time as any to reflect on dates that have shaped our generation and the one that went before us and the one that is following us. For those born in the late 20’s, maybe the onset of the Great Depression on “Black Monday” October 29, 1929, would be a benchmark. Certainly, December 7, 1941, and the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and our entry into World War II is another. Maybe the dropping of atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki also resonates with those who were born too late to be members of Tom Brokaw’s Greatest Generation. 

That brings us to the Boomers born roughly between 1946 and 1964. We older members of that group recall that May 1961 morning when astronaut Alan Shepherd was the first American to travel into space or maybe February 20, 1962, when John Glenn circled the earth.  We all remember where we were when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963.  It’s been 60 years, but it might as well have been yesterday.  I was a senior at Hinsdale Township High School when over the loudspeaker, we found out Kennedy had been shot.  Thirty minutes later, we were told he had died.  As if this wasn’t traumatic enough, two days later on live TV the handcuffed Lee Harvey Oswald was led through a crowd of officials when Jack Ruby lunges forward, shoots and kills Oswald.

In 1968, Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. were shot and killed.  Each of us might also have personal “Vietnam dates” as the war unfolded before us on the nightly news.  For me, I can clearly remember when CBS Commentator Eric Sevareid interviewed Walter Cronkite who told the nation “it was time to come home.” Shortly thereafter, President Johnson announced he would not seek reelection.  And it all happened right before our eyes.  What makes these examples stand out in the collective minds of the “fourth quarter” group is that we watched them unfold in real time on television.  The shock of seeing these events up close and personal gave them a clarity denied our predecessors.

More recent generations were included when classrooms around the United States on January 28, 1986, could see the first teacher travel into space.  Then 73 seconds into its flight, the Challenger broke apart. And again we saw it “live.”  The clarion call of later generations clearly has to be what has become known simply as “9-11.”  Who can ever forget seeing the planes slicing into the Twin Towers, the explosions, people running through the streets to escape crumbling buildings. 

Diane and I were visiting friends Michael and Judy Mason in Florida.  The television was on, but we weren’t paying that much attention until every channel had bulletins scrolling along the bottom with “special alert,” “breaking news,” or “warnings” filling up the screens.  The date was January 6, 2021—a date that changed American political history forever.  More recently on February 24, 2022, we began watching the war in Ukraine take place, again before our eyes.  

These dates, as they relate to each generation, define us, shape us, bring us together, and set us apart from those born both before and after us.  Boomers grew up after WW II and were shaped by Vietnam.  We have lived in nine different decades. We used an operator to make a phone call, bought vinyl records, and watched black and white tv.  We actually wrote letters to people and were here when the computer age took off.  Early Boomers’ friends had polio, meningitis, measles, mumps, and other diseases since eradicated. I had a Schwinn bike with balloon tires and collected baseball cards. I could actually make enough money with a summer job to pay for most of a year of school at a public university. 

These days are long gone. I can’t even begin to understand the complexities facing the youth and middle-aged Americans of today in terms of technology, world unrest, and now domestic turmoil on multiple levels. I tell myself that I’ll be gone before some of these nightmare scenarios become a reality, but my children and grandchildren won’t and that concerns and worries me. What is to become of them. We have so much international turmoil across the universe; you can “pick your continent” as to where a war or terrorist act will break out next. Today it’s Israel, Palestine, and Hamas and in the United States we can’t even seem to agree that yes, Hamas is rampant and full of terrorists and thugs at best. At home, and I won’t take sides, we are incredibly dysfunctional and chaotic, and some folks don’t even believe we should continue to have three separate but equal branches of government. What did I just type? How stupid is that?  

As I take stock of all this, a couple of things have dawned on me. The time has come to reach out to those I love and tell them so. Diane and I find ourselves focusing more and more on our kids, grandkids, and immediate family which now consists of Paul and Marsha Paulsen and Ruth and Steve Drew, Diane’s siblings. 

As our respective and collective Fourth Quarters move on, we are moving down the field with less time on the clock to pursue our dreams and maybe even an ambition or two.  It is time to begin thinking about moving closer to one of our three children as Father/Mother Time is there looking over our proverbial shoulders. This is not imminent but still as we age, it’s there and needs to be addressed and I’m confident the same is true for many of you.

Yes, we have immediate access to keep in touch with others.  The internet has opened our ability to connect with email, texts, cell phones, FaceTime, videos, photos, Instagram, and web pages to name a few platforms.  During the recent pandemic when there was an unprecedented time of isolation, technology afforded us a way to keep in touch.  However, with all the quick access to so many, are we closer?  We “Fourth Quarter” individuals certainly will never forget those dates in our lives when current events flashed across our tv screens.  I wonder what will be next?   

Diane and I were visiting son Ryan, his wife Margaret, and their 4 and one-half (I’m told the one-half is important when you’re four) son Dan. They do lots of game playing and pretty much the same games we played as kids—Old Maid, UNO, Go Fish, Chutes and Ladders. As I watched these games being played, I decided that Dan should be in Las Vegas playing Blackjack or whatever they play out there, as he wins a stunning 99 to 99.5% of the time. It’s incredible. All of a sudden he goes from certain defeat to a stunning and even more sudden victory. The kid’s parents just can’t seem to win.  It made me think of Diane and me and our kids and we experienced the same scenario 40-50 years ago with them. Amazing. 

A little research was in order and it took some time to find, but there in the Taylor family archives was a story from the Summer 1992 Western News that made me smile as it poignantly tells my story about “letting” our kids always win and at what point in our lives do we let maturity and Father/Mother Time make us able to be mutually competitive with our children. What follows is my story and every time I read it, it makes me smile. Hope you will too.

Change is Inevitable, So Enjoy It

Western News, Summer of 1992

I must be getting old.  Recently I spotted a young man at Macomb High School wearing a letter jacket with the number ’94 displayed on one sleeve.  My mind raced (sort of).  “Ninety-four,” I thought.  “What happened to the mighty Hinsdale Red Devils of the Class of ’64?  Are we really 30 years older than today’s high schoolers?”

A look in the mirror confirmed my fears.  Where did those deep creases across my face come from, and how did I get so many chins, and what happened to those once clear blue eyes that used to twinkle with mischief and anticipation?  Who put those bags under my eyes, and why am I 5-foot-11 when I used to be 6 feet tall?  And, for heaven’s sake, what is this gray hair doing on my temples?  It occurred to me that, just maybe, I had arrived at, dare I say it, MIDDLE AGE. 

I guess I should have recognized the signs.  Things like being the parent of children 21, 18, and 12.  Or upcoming college tuition for a daughter and a son in the same year.  Or making a less than celebrated move from leftfield to rightfield at the request of my softball coach.  Or my net game in tennis disappearing—not diminishing—but disappearing.

But the most obvious clue that middle age had arrived was when I lost in “driveway” basketball.  You know.  You defeat your children year after year playing one-on-one at the hoop you put up in the driveway to prove to yourself that you still have it.  I never lost to Gordon Taylor III.  I was bigger and stronger.  I was a man; he was a boy.  Even if he was the ace three-point shooter on the Macomb High School boys’ varsity basketball team, I could still psyche him out when the game was on the line.

Then it happened.  I stood in the driveway prepared for our usual mortal combat and something changed.  I was the same, 46 years of sinewy muscle and raw talent ready for my annual triumph.  What was different was Gordon Taylor III.  I looked toward the front door and out he loped—all 6’3” 160 pounds of him.  He looked different.  He was different.  He was relaxed, confident, poised, self-assured.

What had I created?  What happened to the cannon fodder of past years?

The rest is history.  It was UGLY, painful, degrading, and sad.  Even Gordon felt bad as he patted me on the head, led me to the front step, sat me down, brought me a coke and oxygen, and said, “The King is dead, long live the King!”

I knew then that the torch had been stolen, er, passed. 

There are other signs that my life is changing.  Staying up for the evening news is a challenge, contemporary music makes me ill, my mind says yes but my stomach no, and quiet nights at home are times to be savored and enjoyed, not dreaded. 

Where is all this going?  The answer is simple.  Change is inevitable.  When he was on campus last year, Bill Hewitt, the former CEO of John Deere said, “The only constant in the world today is change.”

Think about that for a moment, and it should help you rejoice in the past, enjoy the present, and look forward to the future.  I realize I will never be younger than I am today.  That can be a threatening thought or the impetus to motivate me to enjoy every minute that life has to offer.  I choose the latter course.  I hope you do too.   

Today, all three kids have departed Macomb creating families of their own. The basketball pole, rim, and net remain and for whatever reason, every five years or so I faithfully cut down and replace the old net to be replaced by a fresh new one. Occasionally I will find an old basketball, pump it up, put on a pair of shorts, and shoot for a while. For me, it brings back pleasant memories of days gone by and certainly some of the most precious ones. I regret none of it, not even when the boys both went from the vanquished to the victors. Hmm, let’s see. Dan is four (and a half) and Gordy Taylor is 77. We could lower the basket to five feet or so and maybe I could entice him to engage me in a game or two. I’m smiling and I like my plan.

The Fourth Quarter moves on.

Gordy Taylor is not a deep thinker or much of a scholar, but the guy does read a newspaper and a couple of magazines. Recently, while watching a daily news/commentary tv program, guest David Brooks talked about an article he wrote, “How America Got Mean” that will appear in the September edition of The Atlantic Monthly. I am a bit of a “Brooks fan” and enjoy his Friday night editorial segment on the PBS News Hour.  Brooks is an opinion columnist for The New York Times and often seems to “speak to me.”  I enjoy his writing.

The thrust of his article was that Americans have lost their moral compass and are no longer taught how to treat others with kindness and consideration and that we are becoming sad, alienated, and rude. Specifically, he supposes we are lacking elementary social skills like character formation and building friendships. Brooks mentions a study where the use of words often used in popular conversation were analyzed and that words like honor, courage, bravery, humility, and other words of virtue are used less today than when we were growing up. Social media in all its various forms has made us more political and to an extent has replaced religion, the family, schools, community organizations, and workplace in making us the people we are today.  Brooks relays talking to a restaurant owner who has had to eject a customer for rude and cruel behavior once a week which never used to happen.  A head nurse at a hospital told him that her staff are leaving the profession because patients have become so abusive.  In 2020 hate crimes rose to their highest level in 12 years.

Could this be true and sadly, to an extent, it appears it is with the general public.  A  large segment of the population seems to have allowed that “devil on one shoulder” to be over riding the “angel on the other.”  And then I thought about the readers of this blog and our friends and family and I said, “Wait a minute, not the people I know.  I can see your faces, and we have been taught to show up for one another, to reflexibly do those small and big acts of kindness, to reach out to help others in their time of need—simply stated to be present.”  

Diane and I have been recipients of many acts of kindness where people have “shown up.”  In 2010 when I was diagnosed with base of tongue cancer, friends and family called, visited, drove me to radiation treatments, sent letters, offered guidance, prayed, gave books, encouraged us, and many more gestures.  I had visitors travel short and long distances by car, motorcycle, train, and even a small plane—thanks Frank!  Friends Frank and Mary Stanley sent individual food portions to Diane, so she could eat more nutritious meals since I had PEG, my first feeding tube.  Boy, no meanness during that time.

At a Blackhawks hockey game in 2018, Diane took a tumble down the metal stairs resulting in TWO broken ankles which resulted in extensive surgery.  We didn’t even get to hear Jim Cornelison sing the national anthem!  However, Rush Hospital was close by.  Claude Monet had his series of haystacks; over the next three months, Diane had her series of toe to knee casts on both legs.  First the hospital, next a rehab facility near Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, and finally a hospital bed set up in our main floor family room in Macomb!  Friends and family began to “show up” for the Taylors.  Just a few examples of acts of kindness and unselfish gestures and caring for Diane:  hand-built ramp (thanks Barb & Matt McRaven) because she couldn’t walk into our home, prayer shawl from our Methodist church, minister visits, presents that made her feel comfortable, special blankets & sweaters, lotions, gift certificates.  Our neighbor, Greg Mason, installed a hand railing in our powder room. 

Diane has said many times, “Gordy is an excellent caretaker, cleaner, washer of clothes but not exactly a cook except his homemade delicious Taylor fudge.”  But she couldn’t get stronger on fudge alone.  No problem having nutritious meals!  Diane’s good friends, Barb McRaven and Jill Bainter, set up an app called Meal Train for others to sign up to bring us a meal a day.  WOW!  No shortage of kindness acts for us.  She was not ill; she was bedridden and couldn’t walk from her January tumble to the middle of March.  Approximately 30 people brought over delicious meals.  They would stay awhile and visit which was welcomed.  Another of her friends, Cathy Null, was in Florida but still arranged for us to call Vitale’s for a carryout dinner. 

I get the point David Brooks is making and it is troubling. Vast numbers of us have lost our way, our ethical compasses have been broken, we are not the people we could or should be but not you and not me. We were raised at a time when the very words Brooks refers to as virtuous were part of our daily lexicon and either our teachers, nuns, priests, Boy Scout, Girl Scout, and 4-H leaders, pastors, fellow Rotarians, Kiwanians, YMCA volunteers etc. or some combination of the above were there to help us develop the character formation we possess today. 

I heartily agreed when Brooks talked about who we should be in terms of our societal responsibility. He quotes a writer who addresses the topic of what is expected of the young minds who attended the Stowe School in England who said the teachers were raising future citizens who were “acceptable at a dance but invaluable in a shipwreck.”  In other words, people with a modicum of “social polish but who will know how to show up in a time of crisis.”  Those words reverberated within my mind, and I thought, yes, those are the people I know, I care about, who are part of my 4th Quarter of life. 

Are we judgmental? I assume to a degree.  However, we are also caring, responsible, prudent, and honest. We try and do the right thing by setting a visible example of how to live a life of meaning and worth to our children, grandchildren, and now I’m told, for some of you, great grandchildren.  David Brooks makes a salient and significant argument, just not one that is germane to my subset of the world’s population and for that, I am grateful. My universe is inhabited by individuals who treat others with kindness, consideration, and compassion.  To answer the question “Do We Measure Up?” YES, we do!

I was the “alumni guy” at Western Illinois University for 28 years and wrote a column “Across the Miles” in our quarterly alumni publication. People seemed to like these little vignettes on life or at least some of them and over the course of time, I’ve edited a few and turned them into blog entries. Recently, Diane suggested that some should be reprinted in their entirety. What follows is one of the articles published in the summer of 2005.  For those of you who are grandparents or hope to be grandparents someday, this is dedicated to you.

I got the call from 32-year old Jennifer Ann Taylor Stevenson on Friday, October 17, 2003.  Jen asked, “Dad, are you sitting down?”  Gordy, “Yes.”  Jennifer, “I have some news.”  Gordy, “What’s up?”  Jennifer, “I’m pregnant.”  SILENCE.  Jen, “Dad, are you there?”  Gordy, “Yes, Jen.”  Jennifer, “Are you happy?”  Gordy, “Jen, you’re only 12 years old!”

We chatted a bit longer, and I slowly regained my composure.  As seconds moved to minutes and minutes to hours, my new moniker began to slowly register with me.  During my life, I’ve been many things:  paperboy, stock boy, gardener, resident assistant, best man, son, husband, son-in-law, teacher, teammate, father, and alumni guy at Western.  Well, forget all that.  From now on, for the rest of my days, I will be known as grandpa!

How did this happen?  About five years ago I was in high school with no prospect that I’d ever leave this world having had a date, much less, leaving a sense of progeny behind.  It seemed like last year Jennifer was a junior high cheerleader, a few months ago, she was in college and certainly she’d gotten married only last week.  Thirty-two years had flown by in the blink of an eye and now our daughter was going to be a mother.  I can’t speak for other men, but over the years, I’ve defined myself in many ways but never did grandpa enter my mind.

Luke Allen Stevenson was born June 21, 2004, in Corpus Christi, Texas, and Grandma Diane arrived there three hours after Luke—pretty good timing.  When Diane was organizing and planning Jennifer and John’s wedding six years ago, she remarked that she had been thinking of our daughter’s wedding day since Jennifer was about five years old.  I think Diane has been waiting for her role as grandma since all three of our children were born, sort of like the “circle of life” concept.  You should see Diane’s face; it actually glows when she’s with Luke.  She carries at least a dozen photos of him with her all the time.  With Jennifer’s pregnancy announcement, Diane immediately started shopping in the baby department.  Diane now earns frequent flier miles because of her Texas jaunts; it is difficult for her to stay away. 

While Diane helped out the new parents initially, I remained in Macomb and discovered that my “new” name would be revealed when, at a very public event, WIU President Al Goldfarb, with a twinkle in his eye, and mischief written on his face, announced to the audience, “It is my pleasure to introduce to you tonight’s speaker Grandpa Taylor.”  Ha! Ha! Ha! What happened to Gordy Taylor the athlete, the fun guy, the jogger, the gardener?  I wondered what was next for me.  Over the past 59 years, I’ve traveled through several of life’s stages.  My path has been pretty traditional:  baby, child, high school, college, married, family, and career, I’ve buried my parents and know some sort of retirement lies ahead, and now I’m a grandparent.  I was almost afraid of this new phase, and then I met Luke.

Let me assure you, life is good, life is reaffirming, life is full of promise and hope.  Luke is one year old.  He does more than eat, sleep, cry, piddle and poop.  He crawls, he’s ready to walk, he possesses a winning smile, and his presence literally fills the room.  He’s yet to meet a stranger; the world is his to explore and unravel, and his curiosity knows no limits.  I initially feared the arrival of grandchildren would define my mortality but have found instead that they help us more clearly define who we are, who we want to be, and why.  The arrival of Luke makes the lives of all the Taylors and Stevensons richer, fuller, and more meaningful.

I’ve learned a few things in the past year.  Jennifer is our first born, our own personal experiment in parenting, and now she has a child of her own.  It is fun and enlightening to watch Jennifer, husband John, and Luke interact as a family.  The trials, tribulations, ups, downs, laughter, and tears are being repeated by the next generation as the Stevenson family travels the path of life.  I’m proud of Jennifer the parent.  She may not have known it at the time, but she clearly paid attention to her mother as it relates to the care, feeding, and nurturing of a young life.  Luke Stevenson is truly loved.

When Master Luke comes for a visit, the “arrangements” are extraordinary—stroller, cribs, Pampers, food, toys, pacifier, soaps, lotions, and lots of attention.  I once commented, “Is Luke coming for a visit or is it the King of England or the President of the World?”  Make no mistake about it; grandchildren are our legacy.  Last year, good friends Everett Heap, 96, and Cline Toland, 81, passed from the local scene, but while they are clearly gone physically, they endure and even thrive through their legacies—their extended families.

My hope for Luke is that he lives a life that makes him proud of who he becomes.  As he navigates what lies ahead, it would be terrific if he can have some laughs, maybe serve as a role model for others, and leave the world better for his having spent time here.

This is a part of the rich legacy of Western Illinois University.  We learn from the past and build for the future.  Those who came before us left us a foundation on which to build, and we shall leave our mark for those who follow us.  I now have a new identification—grandpa—and I like it.  Don’t be surprised if you see me and my little buddy, Luke, exploring the world together.  It is in the order of things.  As Linda Ellerbee so poignantly notes, “And so it goes…and so it goes….” 

Luke—honor student, academic all-state in track—starts his freshman year this fall at Texas A & M University at Corpus Christi.  We are very proud of Luke, our oldest grandchild.    

In the beginning, The Fourth Quarter sort of had a cute ring to it–catchy, breezy, and with an athletic bent.  I still feel that way, BUT as time passes I realize that this writer is finding himself deeper into that last quarter of my life. That, in and of itself doesn’t bother me much as these are just descriptive words. What does concern me and from which there is no escape are the physical manifestations of the aging process. We all have them to one degree or another and I hope that for a good deal of time moving forward, they remain just that, a nuisance.  

We all have family, friends, and acquaintances with whom we share life’s journey and over time more folks are exiting our proverbial train of life then getting on board. Today, as the Amtrak train sped through Macomb, I got to watch it pass by as the gates went down and I thought it prudent to put the car in park as it did so. And then I thought for a moment about a good friend who had exited my train many years ago, long before he reached The Fourth Quarter. And then again, by his standards, Harry Gianneschi had crammed more living into his 65 years than some folks do in 100.

His story exemplifies the old adage that “It’s not how long we live, but how we live, that matters.” Like me, Harry was a graduate of Western Illinois University and a year older than me. He went to York High School; I went to Hinsdale.  Both schools were members of the West- Suburban Conference, so we always jousted about which school was best. I pretty much owned him on that one. We both ended up teaching at WIU, he in the Speech Department and yours truly in Management. We played sports together on the same teams in the local community and made quite a pair. In basketball, neither of us ever wanted to take the ball out to the other as certainly you would never get it back as whoever took the in-bound pass would surely shoot it.  Harry was cool; he knew it. He was a handsome man, a cross between the swimmer Mark Spitz and the actor Omar Shariff.  He never let on but had a sense of presence that made him comfortable in any situation. Harry was the first person I knew who wore white baseball shoes instead of the traditional black. He said they made him a better player. He was wrong.  However, they looked good on Harry. 

Harry got his Bachelors and Masters at Western and a PhD at Bowling Green. He became Alumni Director at Western before me then had a stellar career that took him to the University of Nevada at Reno, Winona State University, the State University of New York at New Palz and finally California State University at Fullerton. He was a gifted and beloved leader at each school and at Fullerton, the Gianneschi Center for Non-Profit Research was named in his honor when he retired in 2001.

It was Harry who encouraged me to finish my PhD if I intended to stay in higher education which turned out to be extremely good advice on multiple dimensions. We kept in touch over the years and on one of the rare days when I found myself sitting at my desk in the office the phone rang. Trusty receptionist Erma Cook used our finely tuned intercom system, meaning she hollered out from downstairs to up, “Gordy, there’s some guy from California on the phone who for some reason wants to talk to you.”  That’s how we did things in those days. It was Harry. He said, “Thought I should tell you before anyone else does, I just got diagnosed with ALS or in the vernacular, Lou Gehrig’s Disease.” We mumbled back and forth to each other and then hung up. This could not be happening to Harry Gianneschi—stellar athlete and marathon runner. 

Harry was diagnosed in the winter 2000 and left Fullerton with Pat, his wife, quietly in 2001. He thought it best for everyone to leave that way. That’s class, that’s the kind of person he was, that’s Harry Gianneschi.  Pat and Harry moved to Ormond Beach, Florida. I decided to fly down to see them.  Best buddy Bill O’Toole who was an RA with me in Seal Hall picked me up at the airport and we were off to Ormond Beach.  We met for lunch and the hours flew by as Harry shared his life lessons with us as well as some inaccurate stories about games in which he remembers scoring more points than me.  Again, his memory was not very accurate. To me, the measure of a person is not found on their resume but rather in the manner in which they lead their lives. Harry gets an A+ here. 

He talked about the people who influenced his life like the brilliant speech professor Jerry Banninga and Macomb natives Bill and Pat Heap who took the Gianneschis under their wings and provided support in the early years. He was a man clearly comfortable when the joke was on him like the night he had University President Leslie Malpass fly to an alumni event in Michigan, only to find out the dinner was the next night.  At some point I could tell my good friend was tired and the small talk was over and it was time to move on to more serious topics.  Dr. Gianneschi was about to drop some bombshells.

Sitting next to me was a 59 year-old man in the battle of his life about to tell me how lucky he was. Imagine that! I asked about the disease and Harry smiled. “Gordy, in a fashion, this disease has been a blessing. Had it never happened, I would never have pulled the career plug, never taken time to smell the roses. I’ve spent more time with Pat in the last year than in the previous ten combined. I now spend quality time with the people I love. Before, I never had time to read anything besides the newspaper; now I read books. I now pay attention to what really matters in life more than I ever did before.”  

I had a couple more questions that needed answering. I asked, “Do you ever wake up and ask why me?” He was quick to respond, “Never.” He elaborated. ” I never said ‘why me’ when I met and married Patricia Winter (as he held her hand as best he could) or ‘why me’ when our sons Brad and Matt were born , or when I became a vice president, or when I was having fun running marathons. I have had so many memorable experiences in my life and just this one bad break. I have no complaints.”  My jaw dropped as I looked at a man for whom I could have no greater respect. 

Time for that last question. “Harry, so you have any regrets?” He didn’t bat any eye; he didn’t hesitate. The answer was pure Harry. “Why, of course, I gave up that cushy alumni job at Western that you now have.”  And that was that.  Finally the time to say goodbye had arrived. We all hugged and then Bill and I were on our way. O’Toole and Taylor had both had an extraordinary day and learned what it means to lead a noble, transformational, and exceptional life.  The lesson from Harry is that you don’t have to live for 75 years to make it to The Fourth Quarter as long as the years you do live, are worth living.

OK, maybe there was one, but just one game when he scored more points than me. 

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.”