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

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

Spring 2001

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Western News, Summer 1996

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before I begin, Diane and I want to reach out and thank everyone for your kind words of love and support over the past 7 months.  Please know our intent has been to educate, share, and maybe provide some food for thought as we all continue our individual journeys through the fourth quarter of our lives.  

I told myself I wouldn’t do this again, but I am—writing about my health journey.  My intention was to put all references to me and my health in the “that’s over” bucket, but things did not work out that way.  Fortunately, what follows is, by and large, good news. Since I last wrote, I have had an epiphany of sorts, and it relates specifically to this life in the Fourth Quarter paradigm. It simply is this—we are all there or getting there and there is no turning back. Try as I might to set the clock back to the “Gordy Taylor of yore,” it just isn’t going to happen and my 78-year-old persona is not returning, and Father/Mother Time will simply not let me do so.   

Brief positive update—right knee seems to be in good shape (can’t say the same about the left one), right shoulder is working, totally off oxygen, adjusting to life with the feeding tube (PEG), and finally made it to Marco Island. So, why tell you all this? This is the “epiphany” part. I can now do what I did prior to “coming apart” seven months ago but just not with the same vigor and careless abandon that was my lifestyle before this latest “health episode.”  I am now walking again but my body says, “that’s good Gordy, but take it slow and come back gradually.” That is a difficult reality for me to digest but the old “pep” is simply not there. Diane reminds me (I need this from time to time) that recovery from pneumonia and sepsis can take up to six months or even longer.  I just passed the two-month mark, so I’m working on listening to my body and not my forty-year-old mind.   

There is a message here not just for the Taylors but for everyone. It is to remind ourselves that it is important to not postpone until tomorrow those things you can do today as today is the here and now and for some of us, tomorrow might not ever get here. Diane and I took that lovely Viking Danube River Cruise to Prague, Vienna, Budapest, and realistically, that will be our last overseas adventure as my marriage to PEG will preclude any such trips in the future.  We are glad we didn’t postpone taking that trip because, had we done so, it would never have happened so keep that in mind as you gaze into your crystal ball. Take the trip, see the kids and grandkids, go to a Final Four game, visit Wrigley Field or see the Green Monster at Fenway Park, call that friend you’ve lost touch with, or anything else that might be lurking out there on your bucket list.   

I will even be so bold as to suggest that tonight or tomorrow or simply soon, that you enjoy a quiet meal with your spouse, parent, significant other, or anyone else important to you.  Yes, Diane and I still “eat” together if you can call it that but it’s just not the same. I sit there and pour “product” as we call it, into PEG and Diane prepares “dinner for one,” and we are together.  But we are not sharing a steak or pizza or whatever. She eats and I “pour” and frankly it’s dispiriting.  

Part of the bonding experience and joy of being together was having a glass of wine before dinner.  Diane occasionally still does this, but the definition of occasionally has changed dramatically as there is something void and stale about sitting there sipping on a glass of wine while your partner “pours product.”  Is this a big deal in the grand scheme of things? Of course not, but still, it takes away from a shared pleasure that had become a fixture in our lives.  However, a trip to St. Jude’s in Memphis would provide some striking perspective.  Yes, Gordy and Diane, it could be so much worse.   

Message is simple—enjoy each day as it comes your way as the future remains the great unknown and today is a gift in the here and now. On a humorous note, people have suggested I pour wine directly into PEG.  I could do so but it misses the point of bonding together, so I have quickly learned to do without.  

We were watching tv the other night and a commercial for the weight loss product Ozempic flashed across the screen, and I laughed aloud.  Diane asked what I found so humorous about a commercial; I replied that I had discovered a “weight control” product all on my own—PEG!  I can control precisely how many calories I ingest in a day.  See, there is a positive aspect even in the most mundane of circumstances.  

As we all continue our mutual journeys through the Fourth Quarter, the advice I’ve mentioned before that Clint Eastwood gave as to how he continued to age with grace and vigor on the eve of his 90th birthday continues to ring in my ears. His response to the question was “Don’t let the old man in” and that is precisely what I intend to do. I hope you do too.   

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.