Journal

On the face of it, the promises being made by most of the current presidential hopefuls of free college for everybody seems charitable. Not necessarily wise, perhaps, but generous nonetheless. For it to be plausible, it needs a lot of thought and revision.

The current burden of student loans seems a nearly impossible hurdle for students with baccalaureate degrees who can only find work at McDonald’s or its equally low-paying competitors. (How the college loan situation got so out of hand needs to be addressed, its inequities corrected.) Those with Master’s Degrees and Doctorates seem either to be training more college grads to become hamburger flippers or delivering meals for DoorDash for commissions and tips. In my day, PhDs drove cabs, which have been displaced in recent years by unmarked cabs called Ubers.

See how far we’ve come?

There is due cause for concern that by footing the bill for college we will create an even larger workforce for fast food franchises and other various branches of the service industry. While it may be admirable to have highly educated workers, the effort might be wasted on those students not opting for careers in the hard sciences or technology, for which there is currently a great demand.

The scramble for degree programs in social sciences and the arts is basically over; in some places, certain disciplines are even being phased out of existence as funding dries up for liberal arts programs.

What’s at the root of the problem are the politicians’ all-inclusive promises.

“Everybody goes to college for free,” seems like an accident waiting to happen. (There is significant evidence provided from the fallout of the GI Bill of Rights following the Second World War. Many returning vets who weren’t capable of attaining a higher education, made the attempt because the program was free; the opposite may also be true, however, in that many a capable person without funding could attain academic success.)

As hard as it is for many a parent to admit is the fact that not all high school grads are college material. While they might be motivated to fully enjoy Thursday nights chugging pitchers of cheap beer and the early morning hours praying to the porcelain prince in preparation for a weekend of non-stop partying, they might not be prepared to comprehend James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, spend long hours problem-solving in the chemistry lab, or sleepless nights grappling with the notion of philosophical realism.

As they should, a lot of parents have really high hopes for Dick and Jane’s future. Many of those parents, however, are too invested with their own dreams for their offspring. Many of those dreams were once the parents’—now being passed along in the hopes of fruition on somebody’s part.

I knew a man once who had a son who was going to be a professional baseball player. The kid didn’t know about such plans but that didn’t seem to deter Pops. At the time, the kid was in the first grade and couldn’t quite grasp the notion of base running. When he fielded ground balls, he seemed to be a living imitation of a croquet wicket. He didn’t really even like baseball, but Junior was MLB bound because that was what Senior wanted—a dream deferred by one generation.

Senior didn’t get his wish and he might be somewhat disappointed now that Junior is succeeding as a research chemist rather than as a shortstop.

Other parents are so results-oriented in thinking of their kids’ futures that they have no regard for simple realities. For instance, precious little Johnny has all the brain power of an over-ripe turnip and his parents don’t have enough money to donate a wing of the new law building at Yale to guarantee both admission and a degree. Clearly, Johnny’s future is not on Wall Street, but in politics.

It is both ludicrous and unbecoming that society places values on what it is that people do rather than who they are. That in itself may well lead to unhappiness in the workplace.

On my first trip to Ireland, Geri instructed me to never ask what a person did for a living. The Irish seem to think more of themselves than to be defined by their labors—no matter how grandiose or menial they might seem.

Seeing somebody’s real value is probably easier to do in a small town where everybody depends on everybody else doing whatever job it is they do. I think we must appreciate workers of every stripe more than allowed by the compartmentalization seen in the big cities, where people live in neighborhoods defined by income, vis a vis, their working class.

Pete Buttigieg, the Mayor of South Bend, Indiana, is perhaps the smartest, most articulate guy to run for political office since Adlai Stevenson, the former Governor of Illinois who lost landslide bids for the Presidency to Dwight Eisenhower in 1952 and 1956. Mayor Pete told a wonderful story at one of the debates about an Asian woman who couldn’t qualify to teach elementary school, so she became a doctor.

One would never see that in this country. We tend to place doctors on pedestals and treat our teachers as if they were babysitters who have the nerve to whine about having to spend their own money on crayons and construction paper. Of course, doctors are on a lower pedestal than, say, a right fielder who bats .253 and makes $17 million a season.

If doctors were successful only one-quarter of the time, we’d not risk ever getting sick.

What’s missing from the free-college equation are alternatives to the four-year programs offered on campuses with a Depression-era Quad surrounded by ivy-covered buildings. When politicians say “college,” the assumption is four years of study. And when politicians say, “free,” they are failing to mention that for such a program to work, the admissions process would have to be rigorous and not everybody could be admitted.

A handful of states, Tennessee being among the first, are offering free tuition to students attending community or junior colleges and technical (trade) schools. The results in that red state include a higher high school graduation rate which is indicative of that program’s motivating participation.

Why politicians on the campaign trail don’t generally speak of associate degrees and trade-school diplomas is anybody’s guess. Maybe careers that don’t take place at a big desk in a corner office and involve a lot of paper-shuffling aren’t very sexy. That attitude results in subliminal job-shaming. But the reality is that as a society we need men and women who pursue vocational careers as much, if not more perhaps, than we need traditional college graduates—many of whom choose working in the trades anyway. (There are no shortages of English lit majors swinging hammers, sociology majors toiling in small-engine repair, anthropologists creating desserts in three-star restaurants, CPAs raising goats to make organic chevre.)

While every job is clearly important, it is likely that on any given day an individual will need the services of a mechanic, plumber or electrician more than those offered by a psychotherapist.

The point is that most of us realize our limitations at an early stage of life and act accordingly. For instance, I once dreamed of being an astronaut. When I realized that I had little aptitude for science, suffered from claustrophobia, and was terrified of both heights and flying, I abandoned that dream for one of becoming a professional basketball player. I wasn’t particularly well suited for that, either.

A major consideration in all of this is to determine the satisfaction and pleasure one gets from work and build on that without regard to social status.

Community colleges should be restructured to provide a core curriculum of liberal arts study that is a requisite for any academic major and mandate that those institutions be attended before a transfer to another college for degree study.

Technical schools should also have programs that include basic extensions of high school study in the liberal arts, with emphases on communications, finance and business management.

And rather than looking to increased tax revenues to finance the free-college plan, let’s get rid of athletic scholarships—a misnomer if ever there was one—and the let the NFL, the NHL and the NBA pay for what in all reality are their farm systems.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Even early tastes of winter cannot diminish the beauty of autumn. While spring may offer the promise of renewal, it is fall that provides a sense of timely reflection—a gentle lead-in to the harsh dormancy of winter.

I like the colors of fall—brilliant shades of yellow and red that soften over the weeks to muted tones of burnt amber, ruby and gold. The leaves fall into a lush, deep-pile carpet to cover lawns and gardens, sidewalks and streets. It is a satisfying melody played by shuffling through the leaves before they are damped by early snow. The sun usually shines bright through patches of clouds this time of year and my little dog, a snow-white Bijon Frise, digs his nose deep into the leaf piles, coming up for a satisfied intake of the cool fresh air that we know will grow colder as the calendar pages turn.

Sunday is the best time to enjoy this wonderland; the other days seem to pale by comparison. Sunday mornings along the banks of the Yellowstone River move at a slower pace. Few are on their ways to work, getting in that run or breath-taking power walk before the clock strikes a certain hour. We’re slowed because we can be. We can stop to visit with the friends and neighbors we meet during this respite from the wearisome world. We take the time to watch a piece of driftwood from far upstream float by our stand on the gravelly bank.

Buddy and I prefer the quiet. He sniffs out of an inherent curiosity, joyously taking in the wonders of a world of myriad aromas sensed only by him; in contrast, my breaths are labored and concentrated, my focus on the inhalations and exhalations that must be taken at a measured pace, in a prescribed manner.

It is only in the last couple of years or so that I’ve had to think about breathing.

In dog years, Buddy is much older than I am and I’m not sure I like the active comparisons. He still prances and runs, jumping on and off the couch with style, grace and ease, and he rolls about the carpet with admirable zeal. I, on the other hand, have not pranced in years (if ever, really); I stand up from a couch using both hands like a ski jumper uses poles coming out of the starting gate; if I find myself on the floor it is not by choice.

In all fairness to me, Buddy does sleep considerably more than I do.

I don’t know what Buddy thinks about as we make our way together on Sunday mornings. Probably not much. His life is sensory and reactive, any gleaned information a mere product of repetition and his genetic imprint. His cognitive skills are suspect at best. He seems uninterested in the day’s news. I am slowed by age, my senses still sharp, but my reactions only as quick as I can turn a somewhat arthritic neck. I’m not complaining, mind you. Walking is faux exercise; retention the goal.

I have a friend who has lived in this little southwest Montana town his entire life. When he ambles through familiar neighborhoods, he is haunted by childhood memories. Friendly ghosts meet him at every corner, he says. Every street and alley that served as a passage to some long-ago destination has become a private Memory Lane, each house a home to a part of his life. I’m envious, knowing that for me Thomas Wolfe was right: You Can’t Go Home Again. It’s a different story for those who never left.

My years here represent about one-third of my life. I have no childhood memories belonging to these streets and schools and the downtown that have become part of my very being. My childhood is left frozen in time in Chicago; the next batch of memories divided unevenly between New York and Los Angeles.

Some of my earliest memories of here were made before I had a dog I cared to walk. I’d walk alone on Sunday mornings and enjoy the tolling of the church bells.

THE MEMORY IS A FAULTY PART of the brain, frequently exaggerating the actual events or burying the unpleasant. Hubris and humility are intimate; hyperbole, their happy companion. We remember most fondly what we want to and express it as we wish. And so it is that I remember there once being more church bells than can be heard today.

Unlike the noon whistle heard in many a small American town, the church bell’s chime is a call to worship, arguably a more noble call than the siren that announces lunch. Our bodies aren’t always hungry at noon; our souls need tending at any hour.

I’ve never answered the call of a church bell, although I enjoy their peals as if they were a symphony of resonant brass playing in some distant hall. In my faith, a shofar is blown to announce that God is ready to listen to prayers and pleas. The sound of the shofar varies, determined by its player. A church bell’s sound was determined when the bell was hammered from bronze by skilled artisans. Time doesn’t change its key.

I doubt there are many bellfounders left. Too bad. It seems like a worthy craft and calling, one inspired, perhaps, by a greater good—not unlike building the spires that reach so majestically to the heavens from European cathedrals.

What I find appealing about the Christian tradition is one deeply ingrained in the imagery of Norman Rockwell. His work was exemplary of an ideal that was empathetic, inclusive and diverse—for the time. People we knew as archetypal characters graced the covers of The Saturday Evening Post. The themes were often simple, but they celebrated complex stories, among them the freedom to worship and the enjoyment of companionship and family, the pain of a scraped knee, carefree skaters on a frozen pond. There always seemed to be more than met the eye.

In my mind, I often see what seems like a Rockwell painting in motion. Families newly defined by the times make their ways through the streets. The elderly with their walkers; a pair of women clutching each other’s arms for balance and strength; a young couple with only the future in view. They make their ways to the churches made of bricks or wood, their interiors pulling one’s eyes from the entry to the stained-glass imagery designed to invoke piety and devotion.

There are songs and readings in those houses, announcements, prayers, a homily and a benediction. There is an offering and perhaps communion is offered and accepted by the deserving. The congregants shake the minister’s hand on the way to coffee and donuts in the church basement.

I consider myself a pious Jew who is convinced of the spirit of God if not the existence. The first Commandment of our 613 mitzvot demands a belief in God, and the second that He have no competition in the form of other gods; the rest prescribes the way to live as a Jew, from business dealings to grooming to diet. We don’t believe strictly in an afterlife and therefore are expected to do good for its own sake. Try as we might, we are fallible; our failings human and therefore profound.

I’ve spent much of this week thinking about the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, which began last Sunday. At sundown on Tuesday begins Yom Kippur—a day of fasting, prayer and reflection as we atone for the sins and transgressions of the previous year. It is the holiest day on our calendar and it demands attention. I went to the Yellowstone River for a private Tashlikh, a tradition that asks us to cast our sins to the depths of the sea. In time, my sins will settle in the Gulf of Mexico.

And today my thoughts are about Tony, whom we lost just one year ago. When he died, he was thirteen—the age of a man, according to my faith. I miss him, as do all who knew and loved him. None will ever understand why he left us, and I wonder often about the future he will never have. I imagine it as fine and productive, full of warmth and love. I had stories to tell him, and I wanted to listen to his. I weep for what was lost.

These days have emerged as an untidy convergence of sorrow and regret, gratitude and hope; there is an ongoing need for solace, respite from the rigors of life.

My temple offers views of snow-covered mountains, the sounds of the river in motion, the wisps of woodsmoke from warming fires spiraling from red-brick chimneys, people walking at a snail’s pace to take it all in, kids zooming by on their bicycles and skateboards. The pews are the benches and retaining walls scattered about; the altar a stand of cottonwoods where the river parts. This is a vivid expression of life, framed by trees in an arboreous cathedral. It may or may not have anything to do with religion or a greater being, but it is valid to seek answers in their expressions. It is an acceptance of faith no matter how defined.

There is great spirit actively at work. To take an hour for quiet contemplation or to sit quietly in a sanctuary to sing a hymn, greet a stranger or friend with a heartfelt smile, think about the needy and the infirm, or say a prayer for peace is a blessing. A mitzvah.

And to walk among the bowed flowers and the fallen leaves of a bright autumn, to cast a sin to the river, to listen to the world’s soul in the wind, to be included in the next year’s Book of Life…each is a blessed reward.

A morning walk seems in order.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Before another day goes by that might signal the end of Democratic party politics as we know it and are stuck with Jim Carrey, his sister Mariah Carey and baby brother Cashen Carry as our presidential triumvirate of candidates, I’d like to offer my two-cents worth of whatever I might have two-cents worth of. (I can hear the snickering and I think it’s rude.)

The first thing is that the triumvirate idea of governing ended as a dismal failure in Rome some 60 years before the birth of Christ, or so I’ve been told by many reliable sources who might actually have been there. What I’d like to know is how did the Romans know to count backwards? And how did they know when to start?

Anyway, the history of ancient Rome can only be accessed now on Amazon Prime, which many of us refuse to buy into for religious reasons. But the slate itself is what will lead to our chanting “We Want Hillary” as we learn that the Carreys have the political acumen of an escargatoire of garden snails and are from Canada.

I like Bernie Sanders. A lot. And if we should ever colonize Mars, aka the Red Planet, he’s the man to lead the masses to establish an egalitarian utopia with a climate that has neither air nor water. (At least there won’t be any bankers or insurance agents.)

I like Andrew Yang as well, but that’s only because he wants to give me $1,000 a month, which I could really use.

Actually I do like Bernie, who is currently in second place in the polls. He reminds me of me, back when I was 18-to-22 and could fly anywhere in the world on standby for half price but still get the Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes that was served on every flight on every airline, unless you were a vegetarian, in which case you got turkey. Not to wax too nostalgic, but back then cocktails were free and you could smoke.

I was a product of my time and because my political aspirations were pretty much limited to specific acts of arson and promoting the use of the word “liberate” rather than “steal,” I didn’t care about grooming myself for a political future, or, come to think of it, for any future at all. Doris Day explained everything—in song, no less—about my generation to our parents’ greater generation with a simple, “Que será, será,” to which my father would always answer “Là que la gare,” which means “where is the train station?”

Dad either had trouble with French or was delivering a subliminal message that nobody got.

And speaking of girl singers from the 1950s, his answer to Patti Page asking, “How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?” was, “Who cares? I don’t want a dog.”

Bernie, who is currently leading in the polls, did everything he needed to do to bring himself to the verge of the Presidency. Born in 1941 in Brooklyn, New York, his family enjoyed the basics that his working-class father could provide—food, clothing, soft vinyl slipcovers for the sofa—but never such luxuries as yoga mats, Venetian blinds or matching prayer shawls. He spent his early life worrying about the fate of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, the Jewish Bonnie and Clyde who dealt in state secrets rather than bank notes. (You might have missed the movie version, The Spies Who Left Us, that starred Sir Laurence Olivier and Charo, with Michael J. Pollard as the Lindbergh baby and Soupy Sales as the dour executioner, Smiley; it led Roger Ebert to briefly give up film criticism for a life as an organic farmer in Wisconsin.)

He also worried about inadvertently eating pork somewhere other than in a Chinese restaurant on Christmas, and about his bar mitzvah because he couldn’t find the Hebrew translation for “single-payer healthcare” to use in the ritual address about becoming a man.

“What is a man, I ask you,” the 13-year-old Sanders intoned in that distinctive voice he still uses, his arms flailing at thin air, his glasses slipping down his nose, “if he has to pay for his own college education because the one percent wants him to fail in a free-market economy that isn’t even free-market because it’s run by the ruling oligarchy of Wall Street, banks, insurance companies and Big Pharm?”

The congregation, led by Rabbi Seamus O’Rourke (now, there’s a story), pelted the bar mitzvah boy with the candies that were supposed to be saved until the end of the ceremony to be tossed gently at his feet to wish him a sweet life.

“Faith and begorrah,” said the Rabbi.

“Oy,” answered the congregants.

“Revolution now!” shouted Bernie as the authorities put him in shackles.

Bernie, who is now third in the polls, was a political activist from the beginning. He toiled endlessly to rid interior paints of lead, which ultimately cost his father his job as a paint salesman and led the young Sanders to flee to Chicago in a Flower Power Volkswagen bus decorated by LeRoy Nieman. It was in the Windy City where his far-left-of-right-but-not-too-far-right-of-far-left political activism would help set the stage for many, many things to come. Just ask him.

In 1968 he fled to Vermont, where he became the first Jew to lead over-night wilderness treks. His wilderness business, called Oy! Vich Vay?, failed after reports of Republican hikers falling to their deaths in the Green Mountains. Bernie then threw his yarmulke into the ring of every political office in Vermont that became open—thirty-seven in all—until finally winning the mayor’s office in Burlington with the campaign slogan, “A vote for Bernie is a vote for nobody else.” To this day, pundits have no idea what in the hell that meant but agree that it wasn’t even catchy.

After his stint in Burlington, a town named for a famous coat factory, Bernie, who is currently leading in the polls, continued his political career by keeping his constituents guessing about his political affiliations while insisting his supporters call him Comrade. In the early going he was a Whig. He abruptly switched to the Labour Party during a trip to England. Then he became a Democrat before becoming an Independent who sat in on Democratic caucuses. Briefly, he sponsored the resurgence of the Merry Pranksters.

The people of Vermont then sent Bernie to Washington as a senator. While it was Bernie’s lifelong dream to be a senator, it was actually Vermont’s wanting Bernie, who is frequently described as “pushy,” just to leave the state. At the behest of his spiritual guru, Wavy Gravy, he abruptly changed parties and became a member of the Socialist Labor Party, then the Communist Party, and finally the Modern American Whig party whose mascot is Mr. Magoo and whose active members regularly host pancake breakfasts for homeless lobbyists on Washington’s K Street.

Along the way, he decided that he liked shellfish too much to remain Jewish, so he joined the Unitarian Church whose symbol of faith is a helium-filled Mylar balloon in the shape of a question mark. While most Unitarians would prefer you were a vegan, they really don’t care what you eat as long as you chew with your mouth shut.

Most of us who couldn’t find a barber in the turbulent ‘60s can identify with Bernie, who is currently fourth in the polls. His hair, like ours, has turned white. Most of us own a comb, however. His clothes come from Good Will and don’t fit too well, and his ties have color only because he spills a lot of food on them.

But Bernie is nothing if not sincere. He truly wants the ninety-nine percent to have everything the one-percent has, short of yachts, private jets, Swiss bank accounts and summer homes on Cape Cod, and he’s willing to let us pay for it.

Bernie, who is currently second in the polls, is in an uphill battle for the Democratic nomination against Joe Biden, who has forgotten why he’s running, and Elizabeth Warren, who never forgets to remind us why she’s running. There are several other candidates as well, though most of them are really just grandstanding to secure a Cabinet post and a furnished townhouse in Georgetown.

I really don’t know why, but I just don’t think that Bernie, who is currently leading the polls, has much of a chance.

My money’s on Wavy Gravy. On the other hand, I sure could use that $1,000 every month.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

With the current state of the world in a collision course with destiny, which makes no particular sense but nevertheless seems always to be the case, it is time to put the television remote control down and spring to action. And by “spring,” I mean for you, dear reader, to jump up out of your over-stuffed La-Z-Boy® recliner with the built-in vibrating massage feature and two cup holders, and yell at the old white guys who’ve dealt you such a bad hand in what might well be your only lifetime.

Unless you answer telephone inquiries in India, there are no do-overs.

I will take it upon myself to point out to who ever is listening (or, in this case, reading) that not all of the world’s problems have been created by old white guys. Granted that many have been, probably even most of them, but certainly not all. Right now, I just can’t think of any that weren’t.

The same can be said about the solutions to those problems—they’re not all the doing of old white guys, either. Most of the ones that have been, however, have done little more than create new problems. It’s only fair to point out that solutions offered by, let’s say African-Americans, women and immigrants, typically are dismissed out-of-hand by old white guys who are desperate for approval from each other.

I am an old white guy and I take particular umbrage at being blamed for everything that’s gone wrong. As I reflect on the years it took me to become an old white guy, the only thing I believe I’m much responsible for is getting old. Staying white, or a guy for that matter, really weren’t options, just like those people with the “NATIVE” bumper stickers. Face it, Mr. and Ms. Native, your placement on this earth was an accident of birth and no, there are no specific entitlements just because you happened to be in the same room as your mother at the time of your birth. And unless you are an indigenous people, you’re not a native anyway.

So get rid of that bumper sticker and replace it with something meaningful like, “Great Music Isn’t As Bad As It Sounds” or “Die Packers.”

My position in the world has been to offer relevance to the irrelevant. Or something like that. Maybe. I don’t really know. What has been my role has pretty much been to stand alone on the sidelines, acting the part of a Greek chorus to offer comments—some of them rude, unwarranted or without merit—about the world. Nonetheless, it is imprudent to blame the messenger for the message. Although in my case it’s not because I write the comments I offer from the sidelines and am wholly responsible for their content which is intended for the sole private use of my audience. Any other use is strictly…oh, never mind.

For many months now, there has been circulating a picture of a bunch of old white guys sitting around a big table in a room adorned with American flags and the very same patriotic bunting they use at Yankee Stadium for World Series games. Notice that there are no ashtrays in sight and that everybody is drinking water from single-use plastic bottles. The significance of that is that the old white guys in question care deeply about their own health (no smoking) and not one whit about the planet (plastic). They’re all wearing despotic dark suits from the Soviet era and tariff-free Trumpian power ties from China, and each has that knowing smirk on his face that says to all the world, “white privilege.” Except for one guy off in the corner whose smirk seems to say, “bite me.” According to the picture’s caption, they’ve just made a big decision regarding women’s reproductive rights and are now discussing the meaning of the word “draconian.”

I’d like you to look closely at that picture. Take your time. Do you see me there? Of course you don’t, and it’s not just because I no longer own a dark suit or power tie.

In all manner of self-defense, I am just an old white guy without the wherewithal to tell anybody what to do with their dinner leftovers let alone their bodies. I learned that lesson the hard way when a woman I used to know asked if I thought she looked fat in a particular dress and I answered honestly.

How we got to this sorry state has a pretty clear history, actually. Some white guy, probably in Mesopotamia or Omaha (as it turns out, this part isn’t so clear after all, but there was a river and some rocks and gang-like graffiti), told somebody with darker skin to do something and the darker-skinned guy said “OK,” in a language that is no longer spoken. The white guy, whose name was Moshe, then asked somebody with long hair and a curvy shape to make him a sandwich, which she did, but not before putting out a tip jar. As he sat outside the entrance to his cave eating his corned-brontosaurus on rye (with a little side of creamy cabbage slaw and a crisp dill pickle) he determined that he was in charge of all things.

Nobody argued with him because nobody else wanted the job, which gave rise to the popular phrase that we still hear today: “Let Moshe do it.”

But just to make sure that his newly found position in life would be secure, Moshe, whose name has become synonymous with “old white guy” or in Yiddish alte kaker, hired a bunch of his friends to create something engraved on stone tablets that would keep everybody in line for the next few millennia. If you were ever curious about the origins of religion, well, there you have it.

While there are countless examples of old white guys being, in the vernacular, old white guys, I like the example shown by the subway train that ran late. It’s a parable for our times.

It wasn’t the engineer’s fault that the train ran late, even though the engineer was an old white guy with a debilitating meth addiction. Well, it was actually his fault but that messes up the story and we all know that facts should never stand in the way of a good story. More to the point—remember, this is a parable—is that it’s the fault of a whole society of old white guys who created the policy that was supposed to provide efficient urban transportation so people who work for old white guys could get to their jobs and not cause the economy to collapse, which would force old white guys to find jobs that entail actual work.

See? Me, neither. Symbolism only goes so far, and that “meth addiction” part really throws a lot of people off. So does the concept of morality.

I’m also not sure if what I wrote was really a parable. It might have been a fable. Your call.

Well, my time is about up and I have no idea how to close out this week’s observations of life in these United States. Alas, there are so many things to worry about and so many actions we can take, yet the burden seems so heavy, the effort so tiring, the results so iffy. Woe is us!

There are at least 749 people of various sizes, shapes and colors vying to move into the White House and fire Trump’s interior decorator. So far, they’ve all promised to wrest control of the world from the clutches of old white guys, including Bernie and Uncle Joe who are, you guessed it, members of the Fraternity of Old White Guys themselves.

Even Beto and Mayor Pete have weighed in on the issue by reminding potential voters that they’re not yet old.

My take on the whole thing is just to “let Moshe do it.”

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

It’s been said that the Chinese visited a curse upon the world by condemning us to live in interesting times.

Much like every Chinese restaurant fortune cookie’s message should be completed with “in bed,” the “curse” in my case is completed with “in Montana.”

Montana is a popular destination for travelers from around the globe, including New Jersey. The recreational opportunities are vast—from fishing and hunting to hiking and camping, and myriad other activities that take place in the great outdoors. We have golf courses and scenic wild rivers, two national parks (Glacier and Yellowstone) that are full of bears, wolves and mountain lions; and bison who would just as soon gore you as look at you.

There is also drinking. Lots of drinking. Bars—most of which have casinos—tend to outnumber churches—few of which have casinos. (Clergy folks should take note of this.) We also have several ski hills, with a day on the slopes typically celebrated at a bar with an only-in-Montana apres ski six-shot throw-back. (See photograph above.)

A lot of the bars have live bands with fiddles and washtub bass, kazoos and whatnot. And there’s line dancing to country songs by local bands who like to argue the merits of Hank Williams, Sr., and Garth Brooks. For that reason alone, guns are not allowed in several of the better bars.

But rock bands are in plentiful supply, as are jazz and classical. We also have live theater, great book shops and libraries, several universities and colleges. We’re a little short on art museums, but there are plenty of private galleries that feature local artists who do not paint bugling elk on black velvet.

I’ve lived here for twenty-seven years and have met a lot of tourists, most of whom want to move here. Because they are on vacation, they see Montana for all its fun stuff. Because many of them seem incapable of crossing a street without directions, they assume that Montanans must spend every waking moment with either fly rod or rifle in hand. At the very least, they think we spend an inordinate amount of time sitting around waiting for the next spectacular sunset over some nearby mountain while we knock back a whiskey ditch with a micro brew back.

They grow apoplectic when we inform them that mostly we work.

“Sort of like you must do back home,” we explain.

“I sell insurance,” Captain Tourist announces.

“OK, then, not like you do back home.”

Writers of almost every stripe have captured Montana in print, perhaps none more eloquently than John Steinbeck in his 1962 book, Travels with Charley.

“For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection,” he wrote, “but with Montana it is love, and it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.”

My love affair with Montana began when our little family bid farewell to Los Angeles and trekked north. Our quests to find someplace new that we could call home were mere flirtations—playful tugs at the senses. Montana was love.

Having spent the first twenty-five years of my life in the Midwest and East, I had grown accustomed to the change of seasons. I always favored autumn, when change is at its most visible—the brilliant hues of ever-changing color that tell you winter is just around the corner.

Montana has four seasons but I never expected one could experience all four of them in a single week. Granted, the leaves only turn once a year, but the temperatures vary without regard to the wall calendar. A 50-degree drop or rise is commonplace. A few weeks of minus-20 is to be expected. “It’s good reading weather,” a rancher once told me. “Curl up by the fire and read.” It can snow in any given month—and will.

We have winds that blow as hard as a Category 3 hurricane. We just don’t get the television coverage. When a Category 3 hurricane threatens Miami, the entire focus of the evening news is people nailing plywood to their windows. If a freight train gets blown off its tracks up here, there might be a picture in the local paper.

Politically, Montana is a solidly red state, with Trump having had a 21-point advantage over Hillary in the last presidential election. In keeping with our odd political history, we have had 16 years of Democrat governors (Brian Schweitzer and Steve Bullock, the latter of whom is wasting his time in the current presidential race). Both chambers of the state legislature are solidly Republican.

We have a centrist Democrat in the U.S. Senate (Jon Tester). Senator Steve Daines and Rep. Greg Gianforte are stupendously wealthy men whose idea of public service seems to be hiding from the public. Both are staunch Trump supporters who like to bring the Trump boys here to shoot rodents. “Little game hunting,” you could say.

Montana’s political past includes sending the first woman to the U.S. Congress. Jeanette Rankin was elected in 1916 and was one of 50 who opposed our involvement in World War I. In 1940, she ran for a second term and won. She was the only representative to oppose declaring war on Japan in 1941.

And then there was Mike Mansfield, arguably the most progressive congressman the Beltway had ever seen when he took his seat in the House in 1943 to serve the first of five terms. He then spent 16 years as a Senator before becoming Ambassador to Japan.

We love Montana on many levels, not the least of which are the politics—which are always entertaining—and the accompanying sideshows like the Freemen, a group of malcontents who claimed to be pretty much against anything that reeked of government except, of course, for the farm subsidies they received.

Then there was the state legislator who had run on the anti-government Tea Party ticket and sponsored a bill that would have banned the wearing of yoga pants. Seems like a long way from thinking the government is too involved in our lives.

And no Montana story would be complete without the mention of the Unabomber. Ted Kaczynski lived in Lincoln, Montana, in a cabin without running water. People who knew him said he smelled bad. He bought lots of pipe from the local hardware store. Nobody asked why.

We seem to have it all here in the Last Best Place, the Treasure State, Montucky. We have traffic jams with cattle, and drivers who seem to have learned to drive on a two-track—kind of a rutted, unpaved driveway that pass as rural byways. They have no idea what a turn signal is and they will park anywhere.

Geri once wanted to buy some pajamas for our son and was told that Montana boys sleep in their underwear. Her quest for some feathered mules at the local discount store was met with “We don’t sell livestock here.” And she was pleased that somebody had complimented her on her outfit, until she learned the outfit was the vehicle she was driving.

And what makes Montana a very treasured state are the people who seem to always care for each other.

But if you should come to stay, please close the gate behind you. Thank you.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

For many years now, I have gone to bed each night as a 34-year-old and awakened in the morning to be greeted by some white-haired geezer staring back at me from the other side of the sink. This stranger has kept on aging while I have steadfastly (stubbornly, some might say) maintained my youth or, at least, my youthfulness. I don’t recognize the son-of-a-bitch in the mirror who brings no joy, and I wish he’d leave me the hell alone.

But he won’t. He is as insistent as he is annoying.

I understand that I am not alone in this matter and that it is a phenomenon (is there a better name?) that besets most men approaching dotage. We stumble along at an imagined and more desired age until a reflection in the morning light proves us otherwise. No amount of rage directed at the dying of the light will save us.

A few weeks ago I followed my regular nighttime routine of retiring to bed as soon as Stephen Colbert had completed his litany of Trump jokes. It’s fitful going these days—tossing and turning before reading the same 20 pages as I did last night and the night before that—drifting off to a sleep interrupted a couple of hours later to answer nature’s rude call. Morning keeps irregular hours these days. On the day in question, however, I arose around 6:15 and soon found myself staring at a 68-year-old guy in the mirror. Overnight—without consult or permission—my true age had doubled.

I grumbled at him and gave him the finger.

If there’s one thing American advertising has promoted without letup is the idea that we don’t have to grow old. Like most advertising it is, of course, a lie. But the creams and lotions, hair dyes and weight-loss programs, the preponderance of exercise machines and the care-free runs on the beach keep hope alive in the search for the impossible.

“Forever Young,” promised the Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan, 78.

My quest of the apocryphal, I decided, would be superficial and therefore begin with a serious assessment of a wardrobe in a sorry state. My fashion sense dates back to my youth and has not kept up with the times.

Like many boys in the Eisenhower Fifties, I dressed in pants that had an elastic waistband and no fly. Mine were usually corduroy and had prophylactic knee patches. The cuffs were rolled up or down in accordance with my height, frequently leading my father to ask if I was expecting a flood. My shirts were subtly colored tees with neither message nor team affiliation. Because I had flat feet, I wore thick-soled orthopedic shoes that were black leather and weighed a lot more than the high-top Keds my classmates wore.

Clearly, I qualified as class nerd (though that word had yet to be coined), for which I compensated by quoting Henny Youngman (“Take my wife, please,” I deadpanned near the swing set) and telling Myron Cohen stories (“So bring me the fly,” says the baker, “and I’ll give you a raisin.”). What else was I going to do on the playground? I had a well-developed Yiddish accent and shoes that were not made for active play.

Dungarees are what my mother called blue jeans and I wasn’t allowed to wear them. She believed that they belonged solely within the purview of farmers which we certainly weren’t, unless you consider growing marigolds in flower boxes as farming. I was intrigued by the name she gave them and at some point I began wondering if that name had anything to do with its root: dung. And if so, what does “aree” mean?

Blue jeans became my casual, go-to pants when I started buying my own clothes. They were cheap, durable and even looked good with a sports coat or blazer, provided you could pull off such a look. Then, of course, came the inevitable weight shift of middle age. As the belly extended, the rear end ebbed accordingly; blue jeans became ill-fitting—baggy in all the wrong places.

Until moving to Montana twenty-seven years ago, I wore a suit almost every day. My wife says I would change from wingtips to sandals on weekend beach days, but still wear the suit. I don’t recall that. I do remember bringing my briefcase, however.

I thought about going back to wearing suits and started checking online for outlets since the stores where I live only sell jeans that fit men 34 years and mostly younger. I found a suit that struck my fancy until I saw the price tag of $7,654. Granted, it was marked down to $1,700 but my thoughts about wearing suits again abated. After all, I once paid just $500 more than that sale price for a brand-new car.

Then I discovered that there are many companies which have started little clubs to keep today’s gentleman well-dressed for any occasion. Like Dave’s Fruit of the Month Club, the garment dealers send you a new outfit—complete down to the shoes and belt—every month. I’ve never had a dozen pairs of shoes at one time, which is what you have at the end of the club year. And who needs 12 belts? Even if you win a buckle for sitting atop a bull for a full eight seconds, they don’t give you the belt. Just the buckle.

I did go so far as to fill out one of the application forms for a company called beingfleeced.com. A survey asked if I was used to spending on “$50-$100, $101-$200 or $201-more” for casual blue jeans. Two things jumped to mind, 1) I’ve stopped wearing jeans, even the casual ones, and, 2) jeans used to be cheap, especially the casual ones. If there was a third question, I’d ask what defined “casual.” If any of my rancher friends are wearing $201 blue jeans, I want their farm subsidies to stop.

Then the survey asked which stores I frequented. I recognized some of them as being in places I rarely get to—like Milan, London and Paris. I can’t imagine why Costco, Goodwill and Ross Dress for Less weren’t mentioned.

I decided to forgo the club route and go for whatever kind of look I could assemble with chinos and tees, albeit not the body-clinging black tees that muscle-bound TV news correspondents wear these days. For the record, Roger Mudd would not have worn such garb. If you’re wondering who Roger Mudd is, you’re probably wearing designer blue jeans.

I found out that some of those t-shirts are made from merino wool and cost about $60 each. I then found out that not only are they expensive, you can apparently wear one every day for up to a month without washing it. For some reason, I just don’t find that to be much of a selling point.

For many years during the Awkward Era between the Big Bands and Rock n’ Roll, I shopped for my clothes at a place on Chicago’s Maxwell Street by the name of Smoky Joe’s. I’m not sure who their target audience was, but all of my musician friends shopped there. It was the only place on earth, I’m sure, where a 16-piece band could get outfitted with turquoise lamé tuxedo jackets off the rack. What wasn’t lamé was usually sharkskin or sequined. Everything they stocked at Smoky Joe’s was shiny, including the gang colors sold from the backroom.

A couple of doors down was Flagg Bros. There you could buy what we called “Puerto Rican fence-climber” shoes in every color under the sun. You could also get high-heeled, blue-suede Beatles boots.

So, if you happen to notice some old guy climbing a fence in your neighborhood in a shiny suit coat with pointy-toed patent leather shoes, pay no attention. It’s just somebody running away from that stranger in the bathroom mirror.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

It could be argued that the focus of American presidential politics shifted from substance to style with the advent of the televised debate in 1960. That first one, staged in Chicago just two months prior to the general election, pitted the politically savvy Vice President Richard M. Nixon against the apprentice Senator John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts.

Few remember first-hand the content of that debate. After all, if one were of voting age in 1960, that person would be at least 80 today. But the history books tell a story of the two men almost mirroring each other’s ideas and goals, with equal emphasis on national security, the ever-looming threat of communism and Soviet domination, U.S. military strength and a domestic agenda that promised an unspecified but assuredly brighter future for people of all shapes, sizes and colors.

In sharp contrast to the 2016 Republican debates in which even Ben Carson seemed to blush as Donald Trump and Marco Rubio showed more interest in penises than policies, Nixon and Kennedy were cordial and pleasant. The fence that delineated their parties was crossed easily and regularly. Privately, they probably expressed a certain contempt for each other, but they acted like gentlemen on the public stage. Following his opponent’s opening statement, Nixon said, “I subscribe completely to the spirit that Senator Kennedy has expressed tonight.” No doubt his advisors and speech writers were pulling out their crew cuts backstage.

That night, television, though hardly in its infancy but still not an appliance in every American home (my family’s first one arrived in our living room in 1963), ushered in a new era in which image and media exposure has become essential to any political campaign. Marshall McLuhan, in his 1964 book, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, taught us that television, the medium, had become the message.

Twenty years later, Neil Postman would publish Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business that further demonstrates our society’s insatiable appetite for politics as entertainment.

To support the point, Nixon was considered the victor of that first debate by the radio audience. The majority of the estimated 70 million television viewers gave the victory to Kennedy.

While the radio audience listened to content, the television audience was treated to Nixon’s five o’clock shadow, the Lazy Shave makeup that clotted in the heat of the studio lights, and a pale gray suit that lent a ghostly look to an already haggard-looking man.

He was no match for the handsome Kennedy, whose tanned complexion (obvious even in black-and-white) seemed an elegant expression of carefree summers on Cape Cod.

Style clearly trumped substance.

CNN WANTS TO RETURN SUBSTANCE to the debate stage. Sort of. The venerable all-news network that Trump loves to hate will undertake such an endeavor on Wednesday evening when it devotes seven hours to its “Climate Crisis Town Hall.” The live program will give ten lucky Democrat candidates 40 minutes each to discuss the climate crisis—hence the name—with CNN personalities and a hand-picked audience of non-partisan participants who have pledged not to applaud, whistle, stomp their feet or show any unscripted emotion.

They have also promised to stay awake during this marathon that doubles as a fundraiser for a recently discovered family of endangered toads that lives somewhere in West Texas.

The show, being hyped as “more-than-just-redundant” and “more exciting than CSPAN 3,” will downplay the point that 96 percent of all Democrats agree fundamentally that we’ll all be living under water in 12 years unless we start driving electric cars, quit using plastic straws and begin replacing our lawns with hemp. Immediately, if not sooner.

The show begins at 5 p.m. (ET) with Wolf Blitzer interviewing former Housing and Urban Development Secretary Julián Castro. In an effort to be all-inclusive in these divided times, Blitzer will conduct the interview in Yiddish, with Castro answering in Spanish.

At 5:40, Blitzer continues his gunslinger approach to television journalism with businessman Andrew Yang, who will be badgered by Blitzer for again not wearing a necktie. Yang then will offer his host $1,000 just to shut up.

Erin Burnett will show her deft skills as a television news personality when she turns her interviews with California Sen. Kamala Harris (6:20) and Minnesota Sen. Amy Klobuchar (7:00) into shameless promotions for her nightly show, “Erin Burnett Presents Erin Burnett’s OutFront with Erin Burnett.” Actually, both Harris and Klobuchar have a lot to say about climate change that the audience will never get to hear. Then again, if you’ve heard one story about the polar ice cap, you’ve heard them all.

At 8 p.m., Anderson Cooper will remind former Vice President Joe Biden why he’s even at the Town Hall meeting and proceed to indulge the lifelong politician’s incessant reminiscing about riding Amtrak when it was steam-powered, back before we even had carbon emissions. For reasons that escape everyone, he will wax poetic about tiny feet. Biden will then remind viewers that he knows Barack Obama, but is uncomfortable calling him “Barry.”

At 8:40, Cooper will remind Sen. Bernie Sanders of his contractual agreement not to utter the words “revolution” or “one percent.” Bernie will then perform a rap song about smog (“Yo Dawg, I Sees Da Bern”). Cooper will beatbox as only a Yale graduate can.

Massachusetts Sen. Elizabeth Warren will go toe-to-toe with Chris “Fredo” Cuomo, whose father (Mario) was and brother (Andrew) is Governor of New York, but neither of whom were honored by People magazine as one of the 50 sexiest people of 1997. (For the sake of balance and fairness, I should note that Chris and I share a birthday, and that his father and I once hung out together with Dick Clark in Anaheim, California, talking about The Godfather and remembering that Morgana King was a truly fine singer. Weird, huh?) In honor of Warren’s controversial heritage, the Senator will communicate her environmental concerns—which are legend—via smoke signals. She’s hoping it will piss off Trump.

Demonstrating that he’ll do almost anything to get out of South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg, who is planning to dress in full desert camouflage, will spend most of his allotted time playing the concert grand piano and singing his favorite Edith Piaf songs, thereby evoking the sound of cascading waterfalls (which are in danger of disappearing due to the Ford Motor Company) and showcasing his ability to speak French. His set begins at 10 p.m.

Former Texas Rep. Beto O’Rourke will appear with CNN’s Don Lemon at 10:40 p.m. Beto, who discovered the aforementioned family of toads living in the natural squalor of West Texas while campaigning for the Senate against the self-proclaimed super-Christian Ted Cruz, will try to convince Lemon, who is inexplicably afraid of warts, to pet the little toad who goes by the name Mike Pence. Beto will also talk of his love of frogs, which he sees as kind of a French thing as long as there’s enough garlic and butter.

The evening concludes with the introduction of New Jersey Sen. Cory Booker at 11:20 p.m. Booker has indicated that his solution to climate change would be that we rid the planet of livestock—especially cows, whose methane-laden farts are destroying the planet at about the same rate as NASCAR races. Booker, despite his admitted weakness for chicken, is a vegan, which by definition labels him as untrustworthy, and he wants us all to do the moral thing and live on raw kale and tofu pizza.

Or chicken. Maybe. But only because nobody has ever heard a chicken fart. I could be wrong about that, actually.

Chicken poop, while lacking the necessary gases to matter much to the environment, is a known cause of ocular histoplasmosis, a fungal disease of the lung that moves to the eye and can cause blindness, as can many other things.

Now you see how the toads, Biden and the French figure into our ecological future. Or not. Invest in scuba equipment, just in case.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

If a musician’s direction to Carnegie Hall is “Practice, practice, practice,” the same could be applied to any number of vocations. After all, practice can lead one to the edge of perfection.

I have very mixed thoughts about the source of certain abilities in the loosely defined world of the arts. If God is invoked—as in “it’s a gift” or “it’s a God-given talent”—the door closes on further discussion. Such conclusions would, by strict definition, eliminate the need for “practice,” the talent and demonstration of same being an innate property of the individual that emerges like a butterfly from its cocoon. An argument more acceptable on its face might be made that the “gifted” part of the equation represents only a percentage of achievement, the rest being attributed to study and practice.

Along those same lines, it’s doubtful that Michel Jordan or Joe DiMaggio, to name but two, achieved their athletic success and fame because some deity deemed it so. I suspect that both legends spent countless hours on the court and on the diamond working toward their quests.

There might be some merit to a certain genetic disposition, but I believe such hand-me-down abilities are more likely to be environmental. My maternal grandfather was a newspaper writer and editor and when I came to pursue a similar vocation, it was widely assumed that I had “ink in my blood.” (I can assure you, I don’t.)

And yet, considering any environment in which a child might be raised, I can think of few examples of a child achieving the success of one of his or her parents in any of the creative arts. While some of that might be attributed to a simple fear of not being able to match the parent’s achievement, or the chance of being compared, it is just as likely that Rembrandt’s kid just couldn’t master the application of egg tempera to canvas—if he ever tried.

Of the twenty children J.S. Bach sired, only C.P.E., assumed the composer’s mantle of his father’s.

Aptitude is certainly worthy of consideration. Perhaps the hard-wiring of the brain, certainly a luck-of-the-draw proposition at best, provides a basis to steer some to science and others to the arts and letters. I happen to think it is exposure and interest that drives pursuit. But can the skills needed in the arts and letters be taught?

My friend Richard Wheeler, whose eighty-plus published books might rival the number of books many have even read, addressed the issue:

I stumbled into the world of literary art accidentally. Stories were a way to make a buck and allow me to escape hamburger-flipping. I used to call artists artsy-fartsy, which betrays my prejudices. I think MFAs in creative writing are a stretch. Writing itself barely rises to the artisan level, and one needs no more than the “Chicago Manual of Style” to do a workmanlike job. Those with something to say don’t study writing or pursue art; they get out in the world and live hard and tell us about it. My views softened a little when I met artists I admire.

Writers don’t agree on the issue of whether writing can be taught. There is no shortage of MFA programs and writer’s workshops, seminars and retreats scattered across the country that attract thousands of would-be writers. How many they produce is another question.

I took a graduate seminar course in writing at the University of Illinois. Each week the students (there were maybe ten of us) would write a 750-word essay—typed, triple-spaced—that we would read aloud in class. Comments and criticisms were then offered. Many were dismissive and cruel. One’s moment in this expository sun felt like being the honoree at a Friar’s Club roast with insults that weren’t meant to be funny. Then the professor would collect the essays and type his own corrections, suggestions, criticisms, etc., and return them to us at the next session. All of this—a bleak fraternity of other fledgling writers, the unquestioned authority of the instructor—could easily have led to self-doubt, suspicion and a touch of paranoia.

AS A YOUNG DRUM STUDENT I used to play Buddy Rich’s recorded solos at 16 rpm and transcribe—note-by-note—his solos. I would then practice them—note-by-note—until I had them down pat at full tempo. I did the same with records featuring Elvin Jones, Max Roach and Art Blakey. I could have sat in for Gene Krupa on “Sing, Sing, “Sing.”

My imitation of these great jazz masters wasn’t meant as flattery. It was meant for me to learn as much as I could about the craft of drumming. It was meant to help develop my own interpretative approach (style) on the drum kit. Once the rudiments were mastered, it was time to break the rules.

As a senior at Interlochen Arts Academy, an instructor of English took an interest in my assigned essays and started encouraging me to pursue writing.

How does one become a writer? She had no easy answer, no text to reference, no list of do’s and don’ts, no set of rules and regulations. She supposed that exposure to literature couldn’t hurt and encouraged me to read, absorbing the styles and structures in books that I found appealing. She also gave me a hardback copy of Strunk and White’s “The Elements of Style.” (I still have it and keep it near at hand.)

At the time, I was reading D.H. Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, Herman Hesse and John Cheever, whose style and structure seemed almost unnoticeable in his masterful story telling. Cheever’s short stories hit home in a home I longed for. His patrician grace, the suburban alcoholism and misbehavior, the absurdity of it all. There was within a contemptibly admirable attitude.

Though not wanting to be John Cheever (although I admired his New England haughtiness) I did want to learn his solos at 16 rpm. I made it my job to type his stories—ten or twelve of them, I suppose—and pay close attention to every detail in his writing.

I don’t write short stories, but I took what I learned from typing Cheever and reading as much as I could to my chosen field of journalism, where writing frequently takes a back seat to reporting (as it may well should).

More than anything, writing, along with any of its creative cousins in the wide world of the arts, is a craft that is honed with practice and discipline. The necessary rudiments can be taught, but the rule-breaking comes later. That’s up to you. In the meantime, “Practice, practice, practice.”

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Judging from all of the activity around me—the multiple to-do lists taxing the strength of the witty magnets on the side of the refrigerator and all of the stuff piling up inside the front door—it would seem that we’re leaving this weekend on a polar expedition.

Which Pole? I haven’t the foggiest. But apparently, we’re driving there. In my daughter and son-in-law’s all-white GMC Yukon, no less, for which one needs a commercial driver’s license to operate and a step ladder to get in. The vehicle is built like a tank, has enough clearance to pass easily over the largest of roadkill, and gets the same gas mileage as an eighty-foot ocean-going yacht.

Either that or this is a ruse to keep me from learning that I’m being placed in a home for the bewildered.

Actually, we’re headed off to Denver, Colorado, for a two-week stay while the doctors at National Jewish Health try to pinpoint my expiration date. I’m checking in as an outpatient, but I was told to be prepared for anything, which I’m guessing doesn’t include an all-you-can-grab tour of the Denver mint or opera tickets.

To save money, we’ve reserved a hotel suite with a kitchenette so I can cook our evening meals. Geri seems oddly interested in what cookware we’ll need to take, despite the hotel’s simple assurance that there is everything we might need already in place. Of course, neither the hotel nor Geri have a clue about what I need to cook.

I like an oven when I cook (one would easily fit in the back of the Yukon), but I will have to settle for a microwave oven, which I only ever use to warm things. That’s okay. I’ll adapt. But Geri says that’s not a problem because Trader Joe’s, of which there seem to be two in our hotel’s neighborhood of Cherry Creek, have wonderful frozen entrees for the microwave.

There are two things working here that have me, well, bewildered: 1) If we’re going to be zapping our dinners for two weeks, why would I need any kitchen equipment at all? And 2), if we’re trying to scrimp a little on the food budget, Trader Joe’s is hardly the place to begin. I’ve eaten in two-star restaurants that are less expensive than Trader Joe’s.

The whole Yukon thing came about because the kids think we’d be more comfortable and much safer than in our Volvo, which could fit snugly in the back of the Yukon, along with the aforementioned oven. Geri thinks the Yukon thing is a good idea because if we happen to buy a couch in Denver, we can easily haul it back. It doesn’t matter much to me: dry, rain, snow, ice…I rarely go much over 35 mph anyway.

As much as my family loves to travel, we are not without our travel issues.

I first learned to travel light when I was a musician and had six cases of drums to haul around from gig to gig. A suitcase was just an added encumbrance and I could fit all I needed for a two-week trip inside my bass drum.

I’ve had my setbacks in traveling light, however, and there are flaws in the less-is-more view of life.

Forty years ago, Geri and I honeymooned in Hawaii. In addition to the classic blue, single-breasted blazer with brass buttons that I wore on the flight, I had packed a three-piece, beige linen suit with three dress shirts and a rather handsome selection of ties. One can never be too sure. After all, I had never been to Hawaii. Nor was I completely aware that honeymoons were tie-optional.

“You brought a suit?” she asked incredulously while changing into her island uniform: a bikini, beach jacket and flip-flops.

One year at Christmas, Geri and the kids presented me with a matching three-piece set of luggage. Each piece had several zippered compartments, some cleverly hidden. The two largest suitcases had wheels and pop-up pull handles. They were made from space-age materials and, empty, weighed almost nothing.

“Am I going somewhere?” I remember asking.

I couldn’t help but wonder why anyone would need three suitcases, unless you were moving.

I have traveled for upwards of three weeks at a time without carrying anything more than a stowable suitcase and a carry-on. Others are even more deft and accomplished in this area, traveling only with a fanny pack and a shopping bag from Kmart.

There’s a lot to be said for the old rule of thumb that says, in preparation for a trip, one should put all of those things he or she wants to bring on the bed and all of the money on the dresser. Then, take half of what’s on the bed and twice what’s on the dresser.

Not that anyone should be surprised, there are actual web sites devoted to packing. Some offer ingenious, yet really tedious ways to pack together underwear and socks into one small package that you can easily grab from your suitcase on the way to the shower. I’m not that OCD and I don’t know if I want to make my underwear-and-socks decisions that far in advance. (Like the late-President Bush, I like to wear funny socks to match my mood, which cannot be anticipated.)

The biggest packing controversy in the world of on-line packing seems to focus on which is better—rolling or folding. I employ both techniques. How would it be possible to adhere faithfully to just one?

I’ve found that clothing made of any material that can’t be easily washed in a sink and hung to dry overnight is nothing one should bring. Denim and flannel are parts of the enemy’s army. Granted, nylon undershorts are a bit slippery while sitting on the airplane, but hey, you only need three pair for weeks on end.

When traveling by car or whatever the apt description of a Yukon might be, one can bring whatever one can fit into it. (In that sense, it’s like elk hunting: the six-hundred pound elk is way over there, my truck’s way back there. Forget it.) I don’t want to spend that much time schlepping suitcases and boxes from the car to the room. I’ll still travel light this weekend.

A great car-travel tip is to wear the most ragged, torn and stained clothing you can find (nobody’s going see you except fellow travelers you might meet at gas stations). Before checking out the next morning, neatly fold the old clothing and leave on the bathroom vanity. Leaving a note is optional.

Repeat as necessary.

Denver Sandwich

2 Tbs. butter
1/4 lb. diced smoked ham
1 small yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1/2 small green bell pepper, cored, seeded, and coarsely chopped
4 lightly beaten eggs
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 thick slices of generously buttered toast, white or wheat

Heat butter in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add onions and peppers and cook, stirring frequently, until wilted, 3-4 minutes. Add ham and cook, stirring frequently, until just golden brown, about 4 minutes.

Lower heat to medium. Pour in eggs, season with salt and pepper to taste, and stir gently. Cook until eggs are light golden brown. Fold in half and carefully flip over, cooking until light golden brown on the second side. Divide and sandwich between toast slices.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Admittedly, I might not be the most qualified person to discuss the vagaries of Christmas. It’s a holiday I celebrate culturally. (Hell, I’ll go to the opening of an envelope.) With its cheery yuletide traditions of bright decorations, joyous gift giving, trimmed trees and mistletoe hung in doorways to encourage sex, it’s a time of year that brings smiles to the faces of families as they gather ‘round the Norman Rockwell-like fireplace or settle in front of the Jumbotron in Dad’s man cave to fall asleep watching NFL football.

The politics of Christmas, other than that ridiculous controversy over saying “Happy Holidays,” is pretty much limited to what Garrison Keillor observed about how Christmas brings Democrats and Republicans together because there’s lots of deficit spending and everybody gets to cut down a tree.

As I recall from the song (much of my education, I’ve realized, has come from the lyrics of pre-rock-era songs) Santa Claus—aka St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Father Christmas—knows who’s been naughty or nice and then magically brings the latest cool toys to the good kids, and lumps of “clean, beautiful clean coal” to those whose futures might include periodic stays behind prison bars.

I used to believe…well, I wouldn’t call it a belief actually, that Santa got his information about the kids from the two or three minutes the kids spent sitting on his lap at the local shopping mall.

I was wrong. Well, I wasn’t wrong until 2005 when, unbeknownst to me, an elf who sits on a shelf took over doing Santa’s espionage work. The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition—something of a marketing phenomenon in the world of toys—is, as it turns out, an odd-looking, velvet-clad NSA agent whose job is seasonal, lasting between Thanksgiving and Christmas just like kiosk clerks selling calendars at the mall.

The Elf on the Shelf is a 2005 children’s picture book, written by Carol Aebersold and her daughter Chanda Bell, and illustrated by Coë Steinwart. Written in rhyme, the book tells a Christmas-themed story about how Santa Claus knows who is naughty and nice.

The short answer? Spies—an international network, no less—of moles who monitor every child’s behavior and return to the North Pole nightly to report to the Director of the Christmas Intelligence Agency, i.e., Santa. This could all change in the very near future because Mrs. Claus, whose first name is Beatrice—bet you didn’t know that—and who is tired of living in a gingerbread house on melting ice, is pushing for her husband to become Trump’s Chief of Staff so she can live in Alexandria, Virginia, and join a fitness club.

The book goes on to describe elves making their daily visits to children from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve, after which time they return to the North Pole until the next holiday season to make toys that no self-respecting kid would even want to be seen with. About half of the elves are sent to China to make the stuff kids really want. That might change if all this tariff stuff isn’t resolved and the high-tech elves will have to go back to carving anatomically correct Pinocchio puppets at the North Pole.

Because there have been more elf knockoffs than even Prada has suffered with its shoes and handbags, an unauthorized, cheaply made elf and a mimeographed copy of the story starts at around $3.99 and is shrink-wrapped. The real-deal Elf on the Shelf comes in a beautiful keepsake box that features a hardbound picture book and a small scout elf starting at around $799.00, with no money down and no payments for six months OAC. (Upgrades are available.)

Apparently, no child blessed with parents who’ve made the financial sacrifice to buy into the elf-on-a-shelf program goes unnoticed. Each child is scrutinized more intensely than Brett Kavanaugh was by the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Until learning only recently about this whole elf-on-the-shelf thing, I had never associated the word “insidious” with Christmas. Times change; stuff happens.

This has got to put tremendous pressure on the kids and raise their levels of anxiety to eye-popping levels. In earlier times, kids figured out that their most recent behavior probably mattered most. Now, some red-jacketed elf has mandated an actual time frame. And to prove to the children that this elf knows his stuff, he mysteriously moves from the shelf during the night and hides.

And there is the tie-in to Easter. Like the festively dyed egg, Elf on the Shelf must be hunted and found. And then be returned to his (are elves gender-specific?) observation post on the shelf every morning.

Here’s where it gets a bit confusing. Nobody is allowed to touch the elf because if they do Christmas is denied and the entire family is transformed into pagans—people whose beliefs were determined by superstitions, fears and lies—but who managed to have a good time anyway.

Dr. David Kyle Johnston, whoever he is, calls the poor elf a “dangerous parental crutch,” with much the same reasoning as what he terms the “Santa lie.”

The “Santa lie,” which could double as a golf term, stands alone, except for the story of Noah, as the biggest lie we tell our children, followed closely by the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, or the expected appearance each Passover of Eliahu before the coming of the “great and terrible day of Yahweh,” which involves high winds and wrath. (It’s no wonder Judaism hasn’t caught on better.)

I’m sure there are other lies we tell our children. In fact, I know there are, some more sustainable than others. Geri and I had our kids convinced for years that no car on the planet could move if the seat belts weren’t fastened. Geri made the kids stick out their tongues so she could see which one was telling a lie, which kept them wondering as they inspected their tongues in the bathroom mirror. “How does she know?” they asked.

When I was a little boy, my father told me that jet contrails appeared in the sky whenever an on-board toilet was flushed. Of course, he might not have known he was telling me a lie. We never talked about it.

Reindeer Stew (used without permission from Craft Beer at craftbeer.com)

2 pounds reindeer meat cut into cubes
1 pound turnips, peeled and diced
1 pound parsnips, peeled and diced
1 pound pearl onions, peeled
4 bottles of Tröegs Brewing Company‘s Mad Elf Ale
1 bay leaf
3 sprigs fresh thyme
1 cup dried cherries
2 Tbs. honey
Butter, salt, pepper, flour as needed

Open a bottle of the Mad Elf Ale and start drinking.

Heat a large dutch oven on the stove and melt butter.

Season the reindeer cubes with salt and pepper, toss lightly in flour. Brown the meat in small batches and set aside. Add turnips, parsnips and pearl onions. Cook five minutes using the vegetables to get the brown bits off the pan. Use one bottle of Mad Elf Ale to fully deglaze pan.

Return meat to pan and stir to incorporate. Add a bay leaf and a sprig of thyme. Add three remaining beers to cover the stew just barely. Bring up to simmer, cover and cook very gently for 1-1.5 hours, or until meat is tender. Remove from heat, remove bay leaf and thyme.

Open the last ale (they come in six-packs) and drink it.

Stir in dry cherries and honey, allow to cool and place in refrigerator until next day.

To reheat, warm gently on the stove and serve with mashed potatoes.

Don’t forget to garnish with a cherry for Rudolph’s nose!

Photography by Courtney A. Liska