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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”