Christmas is almost here and what better time to reflect on how good it is to still be here enjoying the Fourth Quarter of my life. Like most people, I see what I refer to as “quotes on life” almost every week and they give me cause to pause and reflect for a moment what it means to continue to have the gift of life. I talk to my old “jock” friends about this all the time. When we were young men in our twenties and thirties, it was softball, basketball, and even football. We could run, slide, and jump.  We were forever competitive and thought that would never end.  However, it did, gradually and unrelentingly and now we golf or walk or hike or whatever. I asked these guys, “If you could do it over differently, would you.”  Every one of them answered with a resounding NO!  For all of us, these are precious memories of our youth and we will never let them go. At this time in our lives, priorities change, our bodies change, and even our minds change, but we press on because as Winnie the Pooh says, “Today is my new favorite day” and it is because it is right there, in front of us to do with as we please. Good friend Laurie Black sent me a Hallmark card when I was going through a rough health spot and the message was, “Even small steps will get you where you’re going.” How poignant is that as we continue our march through life in the Fourth Quarter. 

So where does, “Don’t Wait” come from?  It’s a great story and it comes from none other than Diane Taylor who happens to be a very good friend of mine and is, without doubt, the most selfless person I have ever met. I won the marriage lottery as anyone who has spent time with the two of us is well-aware. In January 2022, she offhandedly (who am I kidding, I knew this was well thought out and was to become a reality), suggested that maybe we should take “everyone” to Disney World while we are still mobile and able to do so. I asked for a definition of everyone and by that she meant Jennifer and her crew which totals five, Gordon III and his band adding four more, Ryan’s trio, Diane and me for a total of fourteen. I mentioned that famous word “money,” got “the look,” and that was the end of that and thus the planning began. 

I’m aware that the Allies worked long and hard to devise a plan for the Normandy Invasion on June 6, 1944 but our kitchen table began to take on the look of Churchill’s War Room as the months passed leading up to “the trip” which believe it or not took place from November 20-26 and yes, that is over the Thanksgiving holiday. Every family got their own room at the Wilderness Lodge and we stayed on the Concierge Club Level, had Genie Plus and Lightning pass options for quick access to rides, the Memory Maker for photos, and the Park Hopper so we could go to more than one reserved park each day. Our group ranged in age from almost 4 to almost 77 (ouch) and a good time was had by all.  Sure, we made adjustments as the only day we could get reservations where turkey was served was Monday at the Liberty Tree Tavern so that’s what we did. On Thursday, we were able to get reservations at the Italian restaurant in Epcot. Nothing says Thanksgiving like pizza but no one complained, we said a prayer, and that was that.

There was something for everyone–rides, rides, and more rides. Jennifer, Gordon, and Ryan all inquired about the cost of this grand adventure and we told each of them, “Poof and the money will be gone but the adventures made this week will last a lifetime,” and they will.  The point of this story is what was mentioned at the outset, “Don’t Wait” because none of us knows what tomorrow will bring. We had not gotten together as a family since 2018 and as we live in Texas, Ohio, and Illinois, I do not know when it will happen again so we made the decision not to wait but to grab the bull by the horns and as Nike would say, “Just Do It.”  Everyone could do their own thing and over six days we laughed, we joked, we rekindled old memories and made a whole bunch of  new ones.  

While traversing the four parks, it was abundantly clear that there were literally thousands of people who had simply waited too long and were having extreme difficulty just getting around much less attempting to navigate rides or mass transportation from park to park. For all of us, the day of limited mobility is “out there” down the road; we just don’t know when so if in doubt, “Don’t Wait.”  

“Don’t Wait” has a more searing connotation for Diane and me.  In the past months, we lost two dear friends in the short period of 58 days. We all are occasionally faced with the dilemma, “should I go visit so and so or not” particularly when there are serious health issues involved. With Dave (77), a life-long math teacher and ultimate baseball guru to many young men, his sister-in-law called and said, “He’s not well, we just put him in hospice, he is on morphine, and maybe you could stop by next week.” Diane hung up the phone, and the next day we drove to East Peoria to see our dear friend because Diane “had that feeling.” Why wait?  When we got there, I told Dave to “wake up dammit, we drove 81 miles to see you.” His parched lips made a smile, he opened his eyes and said, “You know I love you guys.” Then he closed his eyes again. The next day he went to meet his Lord. Diane made a great call and we got to say goodbye in person to a man who gave me my first college job as a Seal Hall desk worker in 1965, and who was an athletic mentor to both our sons.

With Pam, Diane and I concurred that something just wasn’t right during our more recent conversations, so we began calling Maine where Pam and husband Fred live. Pam and Fred are 1970 graduates of Western Illinois University and both are former WIU Alumni Council Presidents.  We were driving back to Macomb on I-88 by Dixon when Diane finally got through, and we had a delightful conversation with our dear friend who was having some balance issues but otherwise fine. That was Monday morning; she passed away suddenly on Thursday. Why did we keep calling? I don’t know why, but we did and thank goodness. “Don’t Wait” was somewhere in the back of our minds and without knowing the sad future that lied ahead, we got to say a fond and memorable goodbye to the best of friends. You get the point, regardless of the issue, when you are in the Fourth Quarter, you really don’t have the luxury of procrastinating on matters that involve those most important to us. We are here enjoying the day given to us but we have no idea what tomorrow will bring so, if possible, best to be proactive and not delay “keeping in touch.”  We’re certainly glad we did. 

As the holiday season is upon us, it goes without saying that it can be a time of stress but also a time of opportunity. Famous poet laureate, Maya Angelou said, “Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud” and Christmas is the perfect time to bring a little sunshine into someone’s life who could use the good cheer you could provide so go visit a friend and “make their day.”  

I am not suggesting that the holidays are always a time of fun and good cheer as each of us is dealing with “something” which is the way it will always be as someone once said, “Life is just one damn thing after another until it isn’t” and then it doesn’t matter.  Yet, the mind is an incredible machine and within it we hold endless possibilities if only we will take advantage of them. As I type this, I need to remind myself of what I just typed as I am as guilty as the next person of sometimes seeing clouds where if I looked a little harder, I could find rainbows.  All of us are on this road of life together but why is it that for some it is a long descent into oblivion and for others more of a jaunt down the “yellow brick road?” My guess is it has a great deal to do with attitude. Abraham Lincoln, who carried the weight of a nation on his shoulders, once surmised, “People are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”  He was correct. 

Some of us embrace or at least enjoy our golden years while others become bitter and unhappy. Isn’t life too short to waste your time focusing on regrets of what could have been. Instead, spend your time with positive, nutritious people who make us better for having known them. I have two people in my universe who make this point every time I see or talk to them. One wakes up in the morning, every morning, puts his foot on the floor and says, “Good God, it’s morning” and the other wakes up, puts his foot on the floor and says, “Good morning, God.”  The difference between these two men could not be more striking but there it is for everyone to see. I try and remember this little story every morning when my first foot hits the carpet. Surround yourself with people who make you a better person. 

The bottom line is to continue to keep a positive mental attitude, be kind to yourself and to others, and let the Fourth Quarter play out as it will in front of you knowing that you are the master of your own happiness and you determine if your days will be spent lamenting over clouds or spent looking for rainbows. I’ll choose the latter.

Best wishes for a joyous holiday season and a healthy, productive 2023 and remember, “Don’t Wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy early Thanksgiving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There you have it.  Life in a small town.

Eureka! Hooray! Yippee! PEG is no more. On July 5, 2022, Surgeon Dr. Ed Card “yanked” it out.  The Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastronomy is the medical way of saying “the tube.”  I went to Dr. Card’s office and waited to be escorted to the room where the outpatient procedure would take place. I was not sedated and no pain killer was needed.  I just laid back.  Ed asked, “Are you ready to do this?” YES!  No blood, no stomach contents spurting everywhere, just done, zip, fini. He put a gauze pad over the “exit” hole, and I was on my way. The tube is removed by external traction. The stomach wall heals within 24 hours; the hole in the stomach heals in a few days.  Amazing! 

The questions to be answered are what just happened and why did I decide to do it. Diane, of course, is part of all this, but like everyone else, in the final analysis the removal was pretty much my decision. This medical situation all started on July 28, 2021, when PEG was surgically inserted due to a severe case of silent aspiration bacterial pneumonia which was all recounted in Blog #21. When I reread it, the prognosis was grim in terms of the reality of life without a feeding tube. The Northwestern Medical Center in Lake Forest did what they felt was necessary and in retrospect, I can’t find fault with their diagnosis and recommendation moving forward. Yet, medicine is not always a precise science and there are multiple variables that impact on any given case. I am no exception. 

For about five months, I was the model patient but when visiting with six other doctors in Macomb, Springfield, and Burlington, Iowa, during this time, they all seemed to concur that maybe PEG just wasn’t mandatory. I had taken a couple more “swallow” tests; there was modest improvement, not total but better than back in July, 2021. Gradually I began to take a sip of water and actually swallow it and not spit it out. Then it was a bite of food until I was comfortable eating a meal a day and finally dining with Diane at night. I continued to take product via PEG in the morning and at lunch.  

Time continued to pass, more visits with doctor friends, a couple of PEG accidents when the tube cap/stopper became dislodged for one reason or another with the contents of my stomach spilling out all over the bed sheets down to the mattress pad, or all over me in the grocery store, or wherever it decided to grab my attention and let me know it was still with me.  It became abundantly clear that no doctor was going to say without reservation, “Take it out, you’ll be fine” as there is risk involved with any decision removing PEG.  But still, the consensus was there and I had to decide whether I wanted to live the rest of my life with a feeding tube or am I prepared to “roll the dice” and hope there is no recurrence of pneumonia. I opted for the latter course of action. I’ve decided to take my chances and live my life as I always did before this bump in the road, looking to the future with anticipation and not dwelling on the past. Of course, if I get pneumonia tonight and die tomorrow, please remind me that I’m an idiot.

I didn’t make this decision idly; I’ve been coming to this decision over the past three months. I had become comfortable with PEG and knew that I was ingesting nothing but nutritious fluids day after day. There was even a bit of the Stockholm Syndrome in all this; whereby, you become attached to something that you wouldn’t normally consider e.g. Patty Hearst when she was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army.  Yet, every day, I’d look in the mirror and there it was, PEG sticking out of my stomach reminding me of my connection and attachment to her. So far, I’m enjoying my new found liberation from the constraints of the past year and believe Diane is too. After all, she is the one who put in the monthly orders for product, had to endure the clutter caused by my new life, and pretty much eat alone most of the time.  

I am prepared as best as I can be for what lies ahead. The doctors tell me that if I get pneumonia again, go immediately to the Emergency Room, and begin IV antibiotic treatment.  This should work pretty well unless I’m in the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, or walking through the south of France. Oh well, I’m an optimist and confident Diane and I will figure out whatever comes our way.  The past twelve months have seen us deal with pneumonia, PEG, (raging Restless Legs Syndrome, severe back rash, and “balls of fire”—Blog #21—associated with my treatment at Northwestern) and a cancer scare but here we are, ready for whatever lies ahead. Goodbye, PEG. 

What follows will lack in fun and folly but occasionally one finds it necessary to address reality as plays out in front of us and there is simply no denying what’s happening. Part of this is surely a function of my getting deeper into my own personal 4th Quarter, but I fear there are other forces at play. As for the former, a week does not go by anymore when I am not told of the serious health issue or even death of an acquaintance, friend or loved one.

Larry Toppert, proud alumnus of Western and member of the TKE fraternity had lunch with buddies one day and suddenly died the next. Here was a man full of zesto and good cheer and boom, he’s gone. Dave Rodgers lived in Seal Hall at Western Illinois University when I did. He was a couple of years older and got me my first job as a desk worker and then helped me secure a position as a resident assistant. Dave was a mentor to both our sons and had a 40-year career as a math teacher. His real claim to fame was as a baseball coach and the baseball complex in East Peoria is named in his honor. He had a positive impact on countless young men over the decades and taught them not just how to play that game but also about how to live the game of life.  Diane and I had lunch with him in November and the three of us laughed and told stories, and it was one of those times when you are grateful for the people who really touch your life.  Soon after that, Dave’s health took a downward spiral; Coach Rodgers died late last month, another friend gone too soon. For both Larry and Dave, the 4th Quarter has ended, and it can’t help but make me conscious of the “tick tock” that plays in the back of my mind. 

To continue the baseball analogy, Peter Golenbock says it well in Whispers of the Gods, “Even today, on the dark slope of life, I cannot hold a 1950s Topps card without feeling, in a sensual way, the heat of a Bronx sidewalk, the thrill of fanning the cards to see ‘who I got,’ the taste of an orange soda and the smell and peculiar feel of the pink slab of bubblegum…I was young only yesterday.” It is both wondrous and cautionary that I somehow got from there to today. I can still remember how we used to take duplicate cards of long forgotten baseball heroes of yesterday and attached them to the spokes of our bikes to make that fluttering sound. Of course, our parents would holler at us and say, “You are ruining your spokes and the tires on your bike and your mother and I are not paying for a new bike.”

Our landline phone just rang and, yes, we still have one.  Our phone has been the same since September 1970.  It was a voice from my college days. I asked, “What’s up, good to hear from you.”  He replied, “I am in the hospital and they are trying to stabilize me so I can have quadruple bypass surgery tomorrow and I wanted you and Diane to know.”  Jeepers, we go back 58 years and were freshmen together at Western. I feel myself going further into the 4th Quarter. In spite of my health missteps in 2021, Diane and I are pretty lucky as last summer’s “adventure” turned out to not be as serious as we feared at the outset. With kids and grandkids all doing well, we feel lucky every day of our lives which leads me to the second segment of this melancholy discussion on life.

Complaints about “my world” are pretty scarce these days. Yes, I am ready for PEG—our acronym for the feeding tube–to be removed one of these days but by and large Diane and I feel blessed. Almost 54 years of marriage and the “magic” is still there and beyond that and family, nothing else really matters much. Yet, and suppose there is always a yet or an except for or wish this hadn’t happened, there are things on the national scene that seem more troubling than when we were younger. Diane and I watch the evening news most nights and things seem to get more depressing with each passing day. David Brooks, noted columnist for the New York Times does a segment on PBS national news on Friday nights when Jonathan Capehart and he analyze the news of the week. Recently, Brooks commented on the “rising tide of menace” that seems to permeate the country these days. There is a humbling of the national spirit as we sustain repeated blows to the nation’s morale. What does that mean? It means racism that puts entire ethnic groups under threat, feelings of angst when we just want to go out and buy groceries. As parents of children, it means fear of sending your children off to school wondering if they will come home to you at the end of the school day. It means watching the news and hearing that a ten-year-old girl, a victim of the Uvalde, TX, school shooting, could only be identified because she was wearing green Converse All Stars gym shoes. Imagine that, the AR-15 made her body totally unrecognizable as a human being.

I don’t pretend to know all there is about Roe v Wade, but the whole abortion/right to life issue has become not simply adversarial but now includes not just protests, but violent protests.  The cultural wars are becoming more and more acute and divisive. Our spirit sags as we try and figure out what to do to combat COVID in terms of vaccines and boosters and even more boosters. It means paying outrageous prices for fuel to propel our cars which has an overarching and profound effect on those least able to afford it. The same goes for the entire inflation conundrum that drags everyone down in ways as small as buying a loaf of bread to mortgage rates that will soon make it increasingly difficult to buy a home. And what about infants who need baby formula? We never had to worry about that. There simply wasn’t such a problem years ago.

Yes, these are challenges to be addressed in this country but try living in Ukraine.  We are shocked, amazed, and disturbed to see the devastation.  Putin is systematically destroying that once sovereign nation city by city and building by building. And if the Ukrainians prevail as we hope they do, what will be left of the country once the Russians pack up their artillery and depart.  I have put off writing about all this hoping it would get better, but, alas, it hasn’t.  I don’t know if it will, at least in my 4th Quarter. This leads me to think about the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Quarters that lie ahead for our heirs.  Surely we can do better.  We must.

I have to be hopeful as other options are too stark and depressing. Last month we celebrated Memorial Day; this month we marked the 78th anniversary of D-Day. They interviewed two WWII veterans, both 100 years old, on Omaha Beach where some of the fiercest fighting took place in 1944. The correspondents asked both men why they did what they did and what they wish for the United States moving forward.  The responses of both men were succinct and to the point. “It was our job and we want people to remember why we were there and not to allow our efforts to have been in vain.”  Food for thought for all of us, including our political leaders who need to find a way to stop the rising tide and atmosphere of menace and return us to a nation of hope, of prosperity, and of good will for all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Diane.

---

OK, so I have a certain type of sense of humor.  I’ll admit to that as I’m reminded of it frequently BUT no one has ever walked up to me and smacked me across the face.  Goodness, couldn’t Will Smith have maybe taken Chris Rock aside and said, “Hey buddy, no more jokes about my wife.  She’s already got plenty to deal with.”  And that would have been that but instead world-wide TV coverage?

And then…

Diane and I have much enjoyed our time on Marco Island which will soon end, but before we leave, I want to share what has been churning up inside me for the past couple of weeks and, yes, part of it has to do with the infamous PEG. I continue to do my exercises to strengthen my swallowing process on a regular basis. Part of the exercise regimen has to do with sticking my tongue out and holding it there and another fun task is to say EEEEEEE very loud and “hold it there.”  I find it best to do these alone and consequently do them on my first walk of the day, generally at 6 a.m. when no one is out, and I’m less likely to scare the residents on this island where the average age is 65.  

The presence of PEG and related issues are beginning to wear on me.  Imagine if you will, looking down and seeing this protrusion from your stomach day after day for what is now 8 months. There is no way to get away from it and it is constantly there reminding you that it must be dealt with and respected as it controls much of your life. Every morning after my walk, I return to the condo and “prepare.” I open my Jevity 1.2 plastic containers and then get some very hot water which I pour down the open big syringe into my stomach. I can’t feel the hot water but use hot water in the event the tube, for whatever reason, has clogged up between feedings. Next, I pour the Jevity into the syringe which goes into the tube into my stomach. This process takes an hour. I repeat this two or three times a day; it is tedious at best.

It’s not so much the drudgery of all this but rather the complications that arise—the accidents. If I roll over the wrong way at night, my tube “plug” can become dislodged, and the contents of my stomach drain out everywhere before I wake up. This requires a total change in bedding–sheets, pillow cases, mattress pad, and the worst parts need to be “soaked” due to the acidity of what has drained out. The other day when I excited the car after dropping family members at the airport, PEG decided to become unplugged! Suddenly I looked down to see my shirt, pants, and underpants soaked with stomach contents.  I’m at the damn airport–what to do? I had no choice but to look for the nearest bathroom where I found a stall that had a hand dryer, so I stripped naked except for socks and shoes and stood there drying out my clothes for 45 minutes. I can only imagine what people in that men’s bathroom thought was going on in that stall. I now carry a spare set of clothes around with me in the car.  Yes, I can live with these small indignities but they certainly intrude on one’s day.

And then…

I did use the title PERSPECTIVE so let me explain and amplify. My world is currently a bit topsy-turvy from what I am used to but life has a way of letting us know that maybe things aren’t quite as discordant as we imagine.  I encourage you to not take things for granted and to enjoy the hand life has dealt you.  Next time you are dressing or undressing and happen to glance in the mirror, imagine seeing a seven-inch plastic tube sticking out of your stomach and it is tethered to you 24/7 for goodness knows how long if not forever.  Self-pity is not particularly flattering and the realities of everyday living make us all face a world in which there are inhabitants who make that crystal clear.  Gordy Taylor is no exception.

And then… 

Recently, while walking the beach with Diane, we came upon a boy in a wagon being pulled by his mom. What the dickens was he doing in a wagon? I thought for an instant, “Get out of that damn wagon and walk so your mom doesn’t have to pull you.  The exercise will do you good.”  Thoughtless idiot!  As we got a bit closer, I realized he would like nothing better than to get out of that wagon and walk, and skip, and jump, and play but most likely he will never get to do any of those things. I thought to myself.  “Hey, Gord, I’ll bet he’d love to trade places with you; he gets PEG and you get to get pulled around in a wagon for the rest of your life.”  Of course I didn’t know the severity of his situation until I saw him up close but still, “perspective” and we all need to keep that in mind in terms of the countless people who enter and exit our lives every day. I’m confident that some of you reading this have challenges as well but for most of us, we sometimes just need to sit back and count our blessings realizing our lives are pretty darn good.

And then…

Take it one step further. Turn on the TV tonight and watch the national news just for a couple of minutes.  As we watch the horrors happening in real time to the people of Ukraine, our own problems seem pretty trivial by comparison. It is hard to even comprehend this is happening. It is 2022, not September 1, 1939, when Hitler and the German Army invaded Poland. Most of us are too young to remember those atrocities as they happened, but as members of the world community and students of history, we know they did. We were led to believe that this could never happen again. But they have and they are playing out in front of us. I am not a political scholar, but I know there is something terribly wrong with all this.  Let’s hope NATO and whoever can find a way to cease the carnage that seems to escalate daily. I grasp that Putin wants to recapture the Russia of pre-1991 and probably more but who in their right mind (probably the point) found it remotely acceptable to destroy hospitals, apartments, theaters, museums, maternity wards, schools, and homes to accomplish those objectives? 

This all seems so surreal. We are living our lives here while unspeakable terror is being subjected upon innocent people who simply want to enjoy the freedoms we all take for granted. Ukrainians don’t want to invade anyone; they don’t want to kill anyone (well, maybe one person); they just want to be left alone in their part of the world community. I assume that soon we will have an opportunity through the Red Cross or whatever to help these unfortunate people, but it all seems so senseless and unbelievable.  I suppose that’s because it is just that–senseless and unbelievable.  

This reminds me a bit of that iconic photo we all saw of the young girl running down the road in Vietnam, naked and burned from a napalm attack. Regardless of your politics or position on the war (which is what it really was even if undeclared), it made us feel awful and the photos we are seeing today of children crying and mothers saying goodbye to their husbands and sons makes us feel the same. Cities literally shelled and burned to the ground. After WWII we thought this would never happen again, but it has and is playing out right in front of us. 

The point of all this is again—“perspective.” Much like Humphrey Bogart said to Ingrid Bergman in the film Casablanca, “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”  The problems we face pale in comparison to what a nation of 44 million citizens in a country roughly the size of Texas is confronting today across the world from us. 

And then…

Diane and I became friends on Marco Island with a couple who “rent and run” like us each year in our building.  Upon their departure this week, I had the opportunity to ask Richard and Pat who are a bit older than us about any philosophies about life.  He didn’t bat an eye and looked directly at me and said, “Gordy, I have had health, wealth, love, and the time to enjoy it.”  Pretty nice if you can get it.

And then…

Tonight, if you have not, say a prayer for the proud people of Ukraine.

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

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

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

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

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

Lately, I appear 

To have reached that stage

When people look old

Who are only my age.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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