Discovering happiness in the moment

Bailey out and about and enjoying life at Chuck E. Cheese's.

Bailey was vegging out in her car seat, savoring the memory of the tasty milkshake she had just devoured. All was good until I told her we were headed back to her house and she made it screamingly clear that she had other plans.

We can stay out another 10 minutes, I told her. No, she bargained, three more minutes. Bailey, thankfully, has yet to master the ups and downs of time!

She had spent the morning with her Bubbe at synagogue, chatting and playing and sort of praying -- see what I did there?! After chowing down on a bagel and a handful of cookies at the Oneg, Wendy and Bailey drove to a nearby Lakeshore Learning Store where I met up with them for a little arts and crafts adventure.

We then stopped briefly at one of the ubiquitous fast food spots nesting in our little corner of the world and had a sugary snack: a vanilla milkshake for Bailey, while Wendy and I shared a root beer float. Yummy!

Avi, Pops and Bailey sharing a little Kodak moment.

A few moments later we were headed home when the screeching and bargaining began. Bailey and I eventually made it to a lake in her subdivision where, she said, she wanted us to stop and spend a little quality time sitting on a bench and watching the world go by.

And that's pretty much what we did. It was hot and humid, I was tired and more then ready for an afternoon nap, and Bailey was just a tad snappish, wallowing in her toddlerness and wanting what she wanted -- now!

A day later, not only had I forgotten the heat and humidity, my weariness and Bailey's momentary lapse into childhood churlishness, but I found myself happily thinking about our short adventure at the lake and wondering when we'd be getting together again.

The image playing out in my mind was bathed in a golden glow, a cool breeze whisking away the summer heat and mosquitoes. The real stuff -- Bailey pointing out a couple of turtles sunning themselves on a rock and a raft of ducklings enjoying an afternoon snack -- seemed both casual and intimate, a slice of life of a slice of life. Add a soundtrack filled with a gentle melody heavy with strings and I'm thinking we have the centerpiece for a coming-of-age blockbuster.

I mention all this simply to make the point that happiness sometimes is hidden away in the moment, but almost always surfaces in our memories.

And this is what I remember most.

As we sat quietly chatting about this and that, enjoying the day and the moment, I glanced down at Bailey and realized she had quietly reached over and was holding my hand. It was a sweet and innocent gesture of trust and unconditional love. And it's one of the best perks of being a Pops.

Beautiful day filled with joy, sadness -- and light

The lovely Miss Wendy and I spent much of Sunday enjoying the gifts of spring. All is abloom here in the Land of Cotton, a colorful mosaic of dogwood trees and towering pines, azaleas and crape myrtles, tulips, impatiens and zinnias – and that’s just my front yard!

We got off to an early start, strolling along the walking path that parallels the Chattahoochee River; sharing the turf and beautiful day with bikers and joggers, fitness freaks and families; friends, lovers and solitary souls all looking about, watching one another watch one another.

We then zipped over to Alon’s for a leisurely late brunch. It seemed a few dozen other folks had the same idea at just about the same time we did. But the service was quick and efficient, the food plentiful and delicious and the ambiance upbeat and cosmopolitan.

The special spring vibe I was feeling could have stalled out once my lawn mower kicked in later in the afternoon. I was back to whacking away at weeds, a chore that can easily turn the sweetest day sour. Spread out, it would seem, as far as I could see was a ratty carpet of dandelions and crabgrass, moss and clover. My mood was growing dark and then I spotted my neighbors.

Ed was getting into his car, his wife Gloria hugging another neighbor from across the street before climbing into the passenger seat. Wendy walked out onto our driveway, looked over at Ed and Gloria, then looked my way. Neither of us said a word but there was much being communicated – a lifted eyebrow, shrug of the shoulder, then a casual shifting of the arms and hands.

Together we began walking next door, sorting out what we might say. Gloria was diagnosed with a stage-4 brain tumor just before Christmas. She has been undergoing treatment at Emory. The news recently from her doctors has been cloaked in that language you hate to hear. The very best they’ve been able to offer is a less than hopeful momentary reprieve.

So Ed and Gloria are off to Chapel Hill, chasing the possibility that Gloria might take part in an onerous clinical study. It’s the sort of thing you do when there really isn’t anything else left to do. Wendy and I wished Gloria all the best and let her know that we’ll be thinking of her and that, of course, she has all our prayers. There was silence and tears. I like to think also there was a moment of comfort.

We said our goodbyes and they drove away. I returned to my puttering lawn mower and looked back across my yard. It shimmered warmly underneath the afternoon sun, a field grown darkly green, lush with promises of tomorrow. The words of the poet turn out to be true.

“We cannot hold a torch to light another's path without brightening our own." And so it goes.

Bernadette Peters, Elaine Stritch and me

On that first day of the New Year when all about many folks are coming up with special new ways to change their lives, I decided that perhaps this year I’d work on my Bucket List – hey, I’m not getting any younger. I’m still figuring out those wondrous things I hope to do, see and accomplish before all goes dark, but the one word that has come to mind as I go about this task is “unique.”

Without much effort, I stumbled into a “unique” opportunity while visiting the Big Apple with Miss Wendy earlier this month. It was a quick trip and our only plans were to eat at as many delis as possible and see as many Broadway shows as our budget would allow.

We ate our way through a couple of iconic Broadway spots – Carnegie, Stage – and a lesser known little brother, Ben’s, hidden around 38th and Broadway. We feasted on the expected – hot corned beef and pastrami, matzo ball soup and mushroom-barley; a little chopped liver, some kugel and a bit of cheese cake the size of my carry-on bag. The delis were nice; but, well, not particularly unique.

We spent three nights in the city and managed to work in three shows – “Mamma Mia!”, “The Lion King” and “A Little Night Music”. The picks were a mix of spontaneity, availability and budgeting. Ultimately, I think, they proved to be a euphonic blend of music, theater, Broadway kitsch – and one incredible moment.

Just in case you’ve been hibernating for a decade or so, “Mamma Mia!” is a high-energy musical focusing on young love, old dreams and the music of Abba! The theater was packed with European tourists and foreigners from New Jersey, clapping and cheering to such songs as "Dancing Queen"; "Honey, Honey"; "Knowing Me, Knowing You"; "S.O.S.", "Take A chance On Me" and "The Name Of The Game".

The theater lights, sets and costumes – white latex jump suits and sparkles, all mixed together with a touch of Kiss – offered up a festive vibe that made for an exceptionally entertaining evening. But was it unique? Well, not really.

I certainly was familiar with “The Lion King” story – saw the film years ago. But I was pleasantly surprised by the creative use of puppetry and costumes and the hypnotic blend of dance and music; sort of an afro-centric opera and ballet. But it was very Disneyesque – I’m thinking A Small World on steroids – and I had trouble investing much emotional energy in the production.

It’s been playing at the Minskoff Theater for years – one of the largest venues on Broadway – and on this night several thousand European tourists and, ah, foreigners from New Jersey packed the place. It was fun and entertaining; a nice way to spend the evening. But was it bucket-listing unique? No, not really.

While walking through Times Square, just an hour after arriving in Gotham, the always lovely Miss Wendy and I happened to pass the Walter Kerr Theatre and I noticed that “A Little Night Music” was playing. We stepped inside and asked about tickets. Turns out the show was closing in three nights and only a few seats remained. The not so good news is that we’d be sitting in the last row of the balcony. The really good news is that the seats were affordable.

Did I mention the show was starring Bernadette Peters – yes, that Bernadette Peters – and the venerable Elaine Stritch. I knew nothing of the actual story, but the music and lyrics were by Stephen Sondheim. It seemed cosmic forces were pulling together to create a bucket-list moment and all Wendy and I needed to do was stumble into the theater on our last night in Manhattan.

Our seats were a bit odd, sort of like sitting atop stools, peering down into a shadowy abyss. But the production was divine and nothing at all what I expected. It Turns out “A Little Night Music” is a little romantic comedy, a bit of a farce filled with twists and turns about love, loss and the absurdity of life.

Desirée – that would be the Peters’ character – performs the show’s signature number, “Send In the Clowns,” with “an emotional transparency and musical delicacy that turns this celebrated song into an occasion of transporting artistry.”

Those are the words of Charles Isherwood, the New York Times reviewer, who also wrote last August, when Ms. Peters took over the role from Catherine Zeta-Jones, that he had never “experienced with such palpable force … the sense of being present at an indelible moment in the history of musical theater”.

Five months later, Ms. Peters was still managing to raise goosebumps when she took center stage. The theater seemed to go black for a moment and totally quiet as two slight chords hinted at the song to come – Isn’t it rich? Are we a pair? A single light focused on Desirée and Ms. Peters took full advantage of the moment and delivered yet again a memorable performance. Mr. Isherwood’s words remained true for our performance also.

"The halting phrases of the song suggest the overwhelming emotion Desirée is just keeping in check. Ms. Peters invests each brittle line with a full measure of feeling without losing the arc of the music or any of the delicate irony in the lyrics."

Looking about for a moment, I noticed everyone bending toward the stage, attempting to catch every word, inflection, bit of sound, light and magic hanging in the room. I knew that this instant was special, bucket-list unique.

The moment now is a memory, something Wendy and I will always have and share. Ms. Peters offered us – and thousands of others over the last several months – a poignant look at one side of the human condition. Guess I can check “Memorable Night on Broadway” off the list.

Bernadette Peters (photo above) sings “Send In the Clowns” during a recent performance of the Stephen Sondheim-Hugh Wheeler musical “A Little Night Music.” Credit: The New York Times

Taking a cab and hoping for the best

The lovely Miss Wendy and I were bouncing about in the back of a cab recently, minutes away from LaGuardia airport, headed toward Manhattan. At least that was the plan. It was cold and the ground was still covered with the remnants of a blizzard that had left the region paralyzed for days.

Our driver seemed a cipher – pale and quiet; a little frazzled, but focused; neither pleasant nor rude. I could see his name on his hack license, prominently displayed on that plastic thingy separating us from him. It was long, foreign sounding and oddly devoid of vowels.

We were zipping along surface streets and I expected at any moment we’d find ourselves on the Grand Central Parkway, swinging to the north before making our way via the Robert F. Kennedy Toll Road into Manhattan, just south of Harlem around 125th Street.

But after only a few moments, I realized we seemed headed away from the parkway and Manhattan, touring sections of Queens that seemed a million miles from our destination. We rode through residential areas filled with row houses, passed schools and parks, then slowly threaded our way through thoroughfares clogged with motorists going nowhere.

Our driver seemed to be circling at times, working his way block by endless block away from our destination; accelerating up one street, quickly hanging a left, then bizarrely backtracking along yet another maze of aging buildings and seedy shops. Wendy and I shared worried glances, hoping our cabbie knew the region like the back of his hand and was working his way along a cosmic shortcut toward the emerald city, just the other side of the Hudson.

More realistically, we feared we were simply being taken for a ride – a really long and expensive ride. In the past, given the unpredictability of traffic in the New York City area, the trip from LaGuardia to our Midtown hotel generally took around a half hour and cost $40 or so. We were already nearing $25 and it seemed we were much closer to Coney Island then Times Square.

I was just about ready to break the silence in the cab when, magically, traffic began to move, one last row of industrial buildings fell away and hope hung heavily on the horizon. Off in the distance I caught sight of the Queensboro Bridge and I happily realized that our driver was, in fact, a cabbie extraordinaire.

We said goodbye to Queens and zipped into Manhattan at 2nd Avenue and 60th Street, a good 60 blocks closer to our Midtown hotel then if we’d taken the more traditional route. A short 10 minutes later, after weaving through cross-town traffic and zig-zagging our way around the south end of Central Park, passed the Plaza Hotel and Carnegie Hall, we pulled to a stop at the Park Central Hotel on 7th Avenue.

The cost? Even including a generous tip, I handed over less than $40 – trust me, a bargain. And the moral of this little tale? Stuff happens, and sometimes it’s good!

Discover your passion and have a great year!

The old gives way to the new today, and once again we have been handed a clean slate, another year to embrace, enjoy and conquer. It's amazing how we manage to invest so much meaning in the passing of a moment, believing that some sort of cosmic force will draw a curtain around last year's missed opportunities, misdeeds and failures, allowing us a second chance to capture our hopes and dreams.

And yet, there it is – a splendid, sparkling gateway that beckons and fills us with hope. It's been that way for eons, no different today than when earliest man raised himself on his haunches to watch the rising of the sun each morning, and feel the warmth of its rays on his back.

This year a young boy will shout with glee as he and his friends play at life. He will dash after sunbeams, supported by the love and care of family and friends.

This year a teenage girl will become a young woman, filled with compassion for the world and a healthy belief and understanding that by reaching out to others she fills a wondrous need in herself.

This year a man and a woman will spot one another across a crowded room and the static of life will become calm and momentarily filled with music. They will embrace and whisper their love, and the burden of life will become a bit lighter.

This year people will finally manage to find their dreams and reach their goals: books will be written, fortunes earned, friends found and weight lost.

For all these boys and girls, men and women, this will be a year of joy and miracles. But, sadly, for many others, the New Year will be filled with pain, misery and loss. That this is the way of life makes it no less troublesome for those in agony.

Sometimes life becomes too much, a dark and lonely place. There are no answers. Hope no longer lingers on the horizon and troubled souls feel tossed about by the capricious winds of fate. But off in the distance there is light; perhaps dim, just a blip against a cloudy sky.

Poets and philosophers offer up this thought, echoing the constant truths found in the world's great religions. Life's secret is a conundrum that has to do with time and intent, the willingness to be calm and explore the soul – and the realization that belief can overcome doubt, faith can vanquish despair, and that life was meant to be lived with passion.

Why I smile when the weather turns ugly

I couldn’t help but smile a bit while watching weather reports play out last night, filled with horrid news of freezing temps, rain, sleet and dangerous driving conditions across the Land of Cotton. It was late afternoon when I heard the first reference to “black ice,” and knew it was only a matter of time before traffic became a slip-sliding affair.

I was right. The evening was still young when the show I was watching on the tube was interrupted by a frazzled meteorologist, yelling that the sky was falling and warning motorists to drive with caution. He then urged anyone not needing to be out and about to stay home – safe, toasty warm and out of harm’s way!

I smiled again, tossed another log onto the crackling fire in my den and, well, sighed. The warning offered up by the harried guy on the tube was, in fact, good advice. And for the first time in three decades I was going to be able to ignore the weather and not worry about losing my job.

I’ll explain. Back when I was working for that place with the printing press in the basement, each year when the days grew short and a chill filled the air, a memo from headquarters was tacked onto a bulletin board in the newsroom.

I forget the phrasing, but essentially the point of the note was to outline company policy, that when the weather turned ugly – ice, snow, sleet, heavy rains, tumbling temperatures – employees were expected to find their way to the office.

And that’s what I did. While the rest of the world it seemed was warm and safe in bed, I slid my way into work each winter for years, inching slowly across treacherous roads and interstates covered with ice and show. The good news is that as often as not the roads were empty and my sliding about often seemed like some sort of bizarre game or cosmic joke.

It was me against Mother Nature and since I’m still around, I’m guessing I won! Now I can sit back and relax in my comfy chair, remembering warmly all those frigid days when the landscape was bleak and yet another deadline was resting just beyond the slate-gray horizon.

When I get up today – noonish has a nice ring – I might venture out for a cup of Joe, then pick up my morning paper in the driveway. I’ll be thinking of my friends and former colleagues at that new place in the ’burbs as I read about the bad weather.

Covering Mother Nature can be dirty work and somebody has to do it. Nice to know I’m no longer that somebody.

Roads across the Land of Cotton (photo above) were covered with ice late Wednesday as a cold front blasted its way across the region (AJC).

Priceless ring reminds us all of special woman

It’s blue, dark and lovely, and surrounded by diamonds filled with fire. The 18-carat, oval sapphire is probably worth more than the GNP of some small countries. Given its history, however, I’d have to agree with most of the commentators and bloggers around the world who are calling it priceless.

If you’ve been in a coma for the last day or so then it’s time you learn that Prince William plans to wed next year, finally popping the really big question to long-time girlfriend Kate Middleton during a recent safari in Kenya.

Instead of dropping by the mall and picking up a ring at Kay Jewelers, he opted instead to seal the deal with the engagement ring his pop – that would be Prince Charles – slipped on Diana’s finger when the world, for many of us, was still young and fresh, and love was in the air.

Of course things soured a bit over the years for the royal couple – William’s mom and dad. But the ring is still precious and filled with memories. In fact, the beauty of the piece is only surpassed by the sentiment offered by William when explaining to the media why he decided to go with second-hand goods.

His mom, once the Princess of Wales, is a fading memory for most of us, but still a vivid part of Williams’s life. He wanted Diana in some fashion to be part of his and Kate’s big day and, in a fashion, continue to be part of their life once they are married.

So the ring will be a link, a very special piece of jewelry that will connect the happy young couple to the woman that once upon a time captured the heart of the entire world – well, most of it. And, hopefully, they will live happily ever after.

Dry or not, it's just plan hot in Phoenix!

I’ve been taking cold showers and ice baths, but I’m still a little fried. The problem is the lovely Miss Wendy and I made the mistake of visiting our wonderful niece, Arlene and her hubby Jason over the weekend.

They were delightful, a special couple who enjoy life and one another, surround themselves with friends and family and do everything possible to make sure their special guests – that would be me and Wendy most recently – lack for nothing.

There was just one problem. They live in HELL! Well, some people call it Phoenix, but the devil apparently is the demon with his hand on the thermostat here and he likes it hot! We managed mostly to stay in the shade or underneath one of the ubiquitous water misters that can be found in front of restaurants, retail stores, shopping centers and theaters – just about anywhere people congregate.

But being the adventuresome sort, Miss Wendy and I still managed to keep our cool, at least long enough to visit such touristy sites as Old Town Scottsdale, kitsch and tchotchkes with a western accent; Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter home, nestled in the foothills of the McDowell Mountains, surrounded by the Sonoran Desert; and Sedona, a picturesque little community that also has its own kitsch and tchotchkes, but also some of the most spectacular and breathtaking scenery in the world.

Did I mention it was hot? Why, yes, I think I did. It was on our way back from Sedona when I realized just how heated up things get in this part of the world. Jason, Arlene, Wendy and I managed to stay busy playing a few roads games – don’t worry Arlene, I won’t tell anyone that you managed to come up with the name of a body part for every letter in the alphabet.

Thankfully we made it back to Phoenix before we started trying to name the states and capitals again when I happened to notice the temperature. It was well after 5 in the afternoon and finally it was starting to cool down. If I recall, it was 102 – that would be Fahrenheit – and still hot enough to easily fry and egg on my bald noggin. And, yes, I know it’s a dry heat!

I’m told that in another few weeks the weather will actually be pleasant and the area will fill with tourists. I figure, however, that Wendy and I still came out ahead. Fall visitors might be able to walk around without melting. But they won’t have Arlene and Jason to show them the sights!

BREATHTAKING: The views around Sedona are spectacular (photo above), a land filled with a harsh, natural beauty that seems touched by the hand of God.

It's the lovely Miss Wendy's special day

The lovely Miss Wendy turns a lovely 62 today and I’ve been lucky enough to share, well, many of those years with her – we’ll be celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary in November.

We’ve managed to celebrate her birthday in a variety of ways – surprise parties and a few that were planned; festive meals with family and friends; small, intimate dinners for two! Each was special, a nice memory that collectively, I think, define what we call life. And it’s been a good life that remarkably can only get better.

We’ll gather again today with a few special friends and much of our family – they’re friends, also – to offer our cheers and love to a woman who has always been sweet and gentle and kind.

For whatever reason, my much better half has decided to stay close at my side, balancing out my introspective and world-weary nature with a disposition filled with laughter and smiles, good words and good works and an attitude that always – and I mean always – views the glass of life not just half full but spilling over with joy.

It being my nature, I’m inclined to say, “bah-humbug” at such an upbeat personality. But it’s the lovely Miss Wendy’s special day, so I openly proclaim myself a lucky man and promise to smile, well, until it hurts. Truth to tell, her smile and warm embrace of life – and me – is a present I receive each day.

So happy birthday, Miss Wendy! In my book, you’re lovelier than ever.

YouTube video shocking, funny -- life affirming?

A friend recently sent me a link to a video on YouTube, one of those home-grown efforts that show a few folks dancing. The mega-video site is filled with a gazillion such mini-movies -- cats and dogs doing tricks, kids singing and teens dancing; clips from popular TV shows and concerts, Broadway hits and blockbuster films.

But this video (link below) was different -- strange, a little bizarre and a bit shocking. It features a family -- a Holocaust survivor, his daughter and two grandchildren. They apparently spent time traveling through Eastern Europe recently, visiting some of the most hellish sites every created by the Nazis.

And at each place -- Auschwitz, Dachau, the Jewish ghetto of Prague -- they dance about to Gloria Gaynor's funky pop hit, "I will Survive"! The photography is okay, the editing lame and unsophisticated, the choreography and dancing really -- and I mean REALLY -- bad.

Did I mention that they're essentially dancing on sacred ground. Yes, I think I did. And I guess that's the point and the issue that will rub some people the wrong way, while serving as an affirmation of life for others.

I fall into the latter group, the affirmation of life camp. After only a moment of shock, and a few more moments of getting over the Elaine-like moves of the dancers -- you know, Elaine on Seinfeld -- I started to understand the celebration that was taking place.

The survivor -- and I have no idea what hell he lived through and witnessed -- has managed to live a full life, decades I presume that have been filled with joy and happiness and, obviously, a life that has connected him with the kids in the video. So when they boogie out in front of the "Arbeit Macht Frei" sign at the entrance of Auschwitz, it seems to me they are both thumbing their collective noses at the dark memories of the Nazi war machine, while celebrating the life of this special man.

I've been to several of the places in the video, heard first-hand accounts from survivors and walked through the killing fields of the region. I've felt anger over what happened in these places decades ago and hatred for the monsters who brought such darkness to the world.

But I've never smiled when thinking about the Holocaust, never quite so appreciated the amazing miracle of life that the survivor community embraces. This video -- silly and amateurish -- is filled with love. So take a moment and check out the video right here, have a little laugh, then say a small prayer for the six million who didn't make it.

ICONIC IMAGE: Infamous sign (photo above) outside of Auschwitz in Poland, the Nazi death camp where at least a million Jews were murdered, reads "Work Makes You Free".

This trader knows how to attract a crowd

Miss Wendy and I had finished our Sunday walk – a grueling 6 mile jaunt along the river to celebrate our and the nation’s independence – and were dashing by a local grocery to pick up a few odds and ends. The minute I walked into the store I could see that something was up.

Off to the left in what market aficionados would call, well, aisle 1, there was a huge crowd, cheering and taking photos, everyone in high spirits. Grocery shopping can sometimes be fun, but buying a quart of milk and a loaf of bread brings with it only so much joy.

It took a little jostling and maneuvering to find a slight break in the pack of people, but I managed to peek over and between a gaggle of arms and shoulders and spotted a dozen or so kids around a large table. The youngsters were eyeing huge slices of pie topped with mounds of whipped cream.

The tension in the air was palpable as a guy sporting a flower lei around his neck raised his hand, counted to three, then blew a whistle. Without hesitation or encouragement, the kids dipped their heads and commenced to lap up the gooey mess with gusto.

And, as they say, the crowd went wild. Welcome to Trader Joe’s!

It’s not every supermarket that would take over a corner of one of its busiest aisles for a little fun and games. But that’s what this place is all about. I’m never disappointed when I visit.

The place is filled with the usual sort of stuff – that quart of milk I mentioned earlier and bread. But it’s also got fried rice laced with mushrooms and risotto in its frozen section, exotic brands of coffee and store brand cookies that are delicate and tasty. Trader Joe’s also has a small kosher section, its steaks and brisket – and this certainly is a subjective call, but I’m the one doing the writing here – of better quality than that offered by specialty shops and other nearby chains.

It also features an assortment of ethnic goodies under private labels that are whimsically named – Trader Jose’s (Mexican), Trader Ming’s (Chinese), Arabian Joe’s (Middle Eastern) – bought directly from local and international small-time vendors.

I imagine that if you spend time at the store and work behind the scenes, Trader Joe’s is possibly filled with the same corporate and bureaucratic nonsense that you’d find at other large enterprises. But the employees either manage to hide their angst or actually enjoy working at the place.

They run around the store, casually dressed in jeans and sports shirts, smiling and greeting customers, ringing bells and often giving out special prizes – congratulations, you’re customer 72 today, here’s a bar of chocolate!

On Sunday, the vibe was upbeat and fun. About the only person around who seemed at all irritated by the holiday festivities was me. I wanted to join the youngsters as they licked their plates clean. When it comes to pie, I don’t mind a little public humiliation.

Special day filled with special meaning

It’s a red, white and blue sort of day – the Fourth of July and time to celebrate our freedom.

For years this special day has meant that me and the lovely Miss Wendy were out of bed and out of the house before the sun had even thought about rising in the east. We weren’t alone. There’s a certain madness in the Land of Cotton on Independence Day that has nothing to do with history, national pride, beer or BBQ. Well, maybe beer! Let me explain.

In the early 1970s, a few folks had the idea that it might be really fun to get together on July 4th each year and, well, run down Peachtree Street. The first years they gathered together, only a few hundred hearty souls made the trek. Each year a few hundred additional nuts, I mean joggers, joined the celebration.

By the time I caught the bug in the early 1980s, The Peachtree Road Race had grown to a staggering 25,000 runners, become an Atlanta institution and the largest 10K road race in the nation. Those stunning numbers seem oh-so tiny these days, now that the annual trek through Buckhead from Lenox Mall to Piedmont Park has grown to 55,000 men, women and teens, attracting elite world-class runners and weekend joggers.

The first year I entered the race I had been running for six months or so, had gone from a sluggish, wheezing pace of 15 minute miles to a reasonably decent pace of eight minute miles – not great, but certainly respectable. The good news is I managed to run The Peachtree for the next dozen years or so. And I was nothing if not consistent. My pace never slowed. It also never got any better.

In those early years when the testosterone level in my body still had me suffering with alpha-male syndrome, I was out on the road at least five days a week, doing sprints and speed work at a track in my neighborhood, spending hours each weekend pounding the pavement for 10, 15, sometimes 20 miles.

I managed to lose 25 pounds, occasionally knocked a few seconds off my racing pace, and began running longer distances – half-marathons and, eventually, full marathons. But then something strange happened. Independence Day rolled around about five years after I had begun running and I was back on Peachtree Street once again.

Miss Wendy and my darling daughter – why, let’s just call her Nerual … yes, that would be Nerual Natevel today – were at their usual spots, waving signs and flags, shouting for me and the other runners as we made our way up a smallish hill toward the end of mile 5 of the race.

It was a splendid day, the sun still low on the horizon and the sky a deep blue. Thousands of runners filled the streets, thousands of spectators and volunteers nearby on the sidewalks and curbs. A local radio station had set up shop in the area, a disc jockey shouting nonsense and playing the theme from Rocky.

As the music blared and the crowd cheered, I spotted Miss Wendy and Nerual off in the distance, waving hello and shouting encouragement. For an instant time slowed and if there was music playing, it was the theme from Chariots of Fire. I had one of those epiphanies that gurus atop mountains offer up to their followers or therapists hunt for while you rehash your childhood. Why, I had already won the race, in fact winning really wasn’t part of the equation any longer.

It was Independence Day and all of us here were free, sharing the bounty and enjoying the gifts – life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness – promised by our forefathers. I continued to run for years, but with a different sort of passion. The joy came in the running, spending time on neighborhood trails, mountain paths and distant cities, often left alone with my thoughts, occasionally sharing the moment at races with hundreds of others.

The icing on the cake was always knowing that when the training was done and the race completed, Miss Wendy would be waiting for me at the finish line and that, ahhh, Nerual was happy and safe in the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”

HOLIDAY HAPPENING: It's hot and humid in the Land of Cotton in July, but these runners and thousands more take part each year on Independence Day in a bit of madness called The Peachtree Road Race.

Gambling for fun and very little profit

Turns out that Miss Wendy has a little gambling jones, a bit surprising since my lovely wife has never been to Vegas, doesn't particularly care about card games and thinks the perfect trifecfta is an afternoon of shopping at three different shoe stores!

On a recent cruise to the Caribbean, we stumbled onto a smallish casino on our large-ish ship and spent a few minutes checking it out. My son-in-law, who is apparently familiar with the pleasures of Vegas and the massive casinos on its iconic strip, tried to explain the yin and yang of all the one-armed bandits in the room.

The more he explained the less I understood. The slot machines were whirring and purring, numbers flying about and colors blinking. It was information overload and none of it made much sense. I certainly couldn't figure out how you went about winning -- or losing.

We were heading for the exit, passing packs -- gaggles, herds, colonies, clusters -- of excited folks playing craps and roulette, poker, blackjack and other such games of chance, when we happened upon a Rube Goldberg-ish type contraption that caught Miss Wendy's attention.

It had at least five playing positions, was filled with quarters and, in a bizarre sort of way, was somewhat mesmerizing. After all, there were all those glittering quarters just waiting for someone to take them home.

Let me explain. The machine, creatively known in the trade as a "coin pusher", is something many of you have probably seen in arcades or at county fairs. It's essentially a large container, made up of two tiers, both filled with quarters. At the back of the contraption, on each level, is a metal arm that is in constant motion, moving a few inches back and forth. You drop a quarter into one of three slots strategically placed at the top of the coin pusher. If you're lucky, the coin plops against another quarter, then is pushed a bit by the mechanical arm, which causes several of the coins to fall to the bottom level, pushing a few more coins into the exit bin.

Slot machines -- all those bells and whistles, blinking lights and whirling numbers -- are an enigma. But the coin pusher seemed so simple, so easy to maneuver and outwit. The quarters were spilling over the edge, just waiting for a little push and the clinking coins would spill, literally, into your waiting, trembling hand.

Right, when pigs fly!

Miss Wendy rummaged through her purse, found a handful of quarters and dropped one into the slot. It clanked its way down to the first tier and did absolutely nothing. So, too, the second and third coins. But the next quarter gently nudged up against a heap of change, then slowly spilled onto the next level, unleashing a small torrent of coins into the exit slot. If you were keeping score, we were now even -- $1 had been entered into the machine and 4 quarters had been spit out.

Miss Wendy was hooked. She suggested I get some more quarters to feed the machine and a few minutes later I handed her $5 in change. For the next 15 minutes or so the demon was upon my lovely wife as she fed the mechanical beast, first down a few quarters, then up, then down, then ... well, I'm sure you get the idea.

The bottom line? The house always wins and this machine is a mechanical engineer's dream. It always looks like it's ready to deliver, but the bonanza is always just another quarter away. In the three days that we walked through the casino, I only saw one person walk away from the coin pusher a winner.

And Miss Wendy? Let's just say she spent a happy hour or so over several days having fun.

COIN PUSHER: Rube Goldberg-type contraption (photo above) looks like it's ready to deliver, but is always one quarter away from delivering.

How I spent my summer vacation

It was just a moment of a delightful weekend, a few days of living the good life in the Caribbean aboard a floating city that offered food, adult beverages, entertainment, more food, a bit of gambling, more food and, well, more food.

The special moment came very early one morning just a few days ago, a slight rocking of the massive ship somewhere between Nassau and Miami, waking me from a sound sleep. I crawled over to a nearby window, pulling back the curtains in our stateroom and glanced out at the ocean -- black and deep, a bit of white froth here and there and a brilliant carpet of light reaching out to the distant horizon.

I was still in that daze of wakening, a bit befuddled but mesmerized by the dancing moonlight that glimmered magically across the water and my mind. I sat propped up on a pillow for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, watching the show.

I had taken full advantage of the day -- eating and drinking, reading and resting, even attending an energetic, if somewhat cheesy song and dance production by a group of not-yet-ready-for-prime-time entertainers. That's what I and the lovely Miss Wendy had paid for, right?

That seemed to be the case, at least according to the marketing folks at Norwegian Cruise Lines. But they were wrong and once again life had offered me something better -- a transcendent moment.

Okay, there were also towel animals, a sort of squishy looking seal -- or maybe it was a walrus! It was waiting for Miss Wendy and me on our bed, a little gift from our cabin steward that, arguably, was covered by the cost of the cruise. Nature offered up the other gift for free.

A footnote. There was also one additional gift. Miss Wendy and I had the opportunity to spend this special time with two special people -- our daughter Lauren and son-in-law Josh. So we had it all -- food, booze and entertainment, a transcendent moment and time with family -- and, yes, even one squishy, wrinkled seal thingy. Priceless!

GIFT FROM NATURE: Okay, so this isn't my photo. But if I had a camera handy and, well, a tripod and the gift for snapping perfect pictures, this (photo above) is just about exactly what I saw from my stateroom.

The Song of Norway -- sleek and beautiful!

Booking a cruise for later this summer had me waxing nostalgic for the first cruise I sailed away on years ago. It was 1976, I'd been married a whopping six months to the lovely Miss Wendy and we decided to vacation in the Caribbean.

I have absolutely no recollection how we went about choosing a cruise, but apparently we made some really good choices and ended up booking a week aboard the Song of Norway. Our good friends Linda and Barry -- who have remained our good friends for nearly, gulp, 35 years now -- decided they could deal with a holiday also, and joined us on our adventure. Then again, perhaps we joined them!

The ship and trip remain a vivid memory for me, but the Song of Norway, one of the premier ships of the Royal Caribbean Cruise Line once upon a time, has seen better days.

The painful truth is we've all seen, ahhh, better days. Age has a way of catching up with each of us in one fashion or another and certainly the once beautiful and sleek Song of Norway now comes off a distant second when placed up against the behemoths that cruise lines feature today.

But in 1976 -- America's bicentennial year, you might recall -- when I still had hair, was 20 pounds lighter and had a thing for "leisure suits," walking aboard the Song of Norway was like entering a fantasy world.

The ship's innards were a maze of color-coded and coordinated hallways, lavish public rooms and expansive dining areas, bars, lounges and one tiny casino. Staterooms were smallish, but oh-so cute -- little bed, little bureau, little chair and itsy-bitsy bathroom. Interestingly, it all felt so big!

The one feature, however, that defined the Song of Norway was the distinctive sky lounge on the funnel, a circular bit of whimsy and charm that sat high above the ship, offering a delightful panoramic view of the sea as we cruised, and all our ports of call -- Puerto Plata in the Dominican Republic, St. Thomas and San Juan.

All this beauty and luxury seem, well, quaint today. Now ships boast shopping atriums that soar skyward in their bellies, theaters that can hold hundreds, and multiple dining rooms and lounges. Staterooms, while still tiny, often come with huge windows, even large balconies. There are wave pools and rock climbing walls, Jacuzzis, saunas and expansive exercise rooms.

It takes only a moment to crunch a few numbers to really appreciate the difference between the Song of Norway and ships today. The original Song of Norway was 18,000 gross tons and carried 724 passengers. The ship I'll be cruising on this summer, Norwegian Cruise Line's Sky, is actually small by today's standards at 77,104 gross tons, but can hold well over 2,000 passengers. Then there are the floating cities, cruise ships as big as aircraft carriers. At the top of the list is the Oasis of the Sea, coming in at a mere 225,282 gross tons and easily able to handle well over 5,400 passengers.

Somewhat like an aging dowager, the Song of Norway has fallen on hard times in recent years. She was sold to Sun Cruises in the mid-1990s and became the Sundream, her distinctive sky lounge and much of her charm removed as part of the deal. Over the next decade she changed hands several more times, cruising primarily around the eastern Mediterranean -- Israel, Cyprus, Turkey, Rhodes and Greece.

In 2006, the Dream Princess became the Dream, was anchored near New Orleans and served as a floating dormitory for students from Tulane University after Hurricane Katrina. That deal only lasted a year or so, but she has yet to sail into the sunset or been sold off as scrap metal.

Somewhere the Song of Norway rests silently moored to a dock, gently rocked by the movement of the tides. I like to think if you spot her in just the right light, you might hear laughter spilling from her decks and see glasses being raised in good cheer way up in her sky lounge.

After all, the Song of Norway is one of my memories and everyone knows that memories remain the stuff of dreams.

IN BETTER DAYS: Song of Norway (photo above) could be spotted easily by the sky lounge on its funnel, a lovely bar offering delightful panoramic views of the sea and ports of call.

Remembering my Dad on Father's Day

It was a moment in time, a second captured on film.

The details are hazy, of course, as you would expect. After all, I was only a toddler, still staring out at the world with a bit of wonder. My best guess is I'm around 4 or so in this photo. That would make my Dad around 40, twenty-two years younger than I am now -- a mere kid.

It was 1952, and my father was still getting over the emotional burden of World War II. He'd been drafted when the U.S. entered the war in 1941, a buck private who made his way to warrant officer pretty quickly, then was shipped off to the Philippines with an artillery unit from Georgia.

He never detailed the fight and all I really know about that time is that he returned home weary and sick. He had picked up some sort of bug, lost 40 or so pounds and, unfortunately, his appetite for life.

My father, like thousands of other U.S. servicemen, had been a lighthearted kid when the world went a little loopy. His youthful blush and zest for life was lost in the South Pacific and it would take a few years for Dad to right himself.

But William, called Bill by family, friends and strangers -- and there were very few strangers in my father's life -- was nothing if not a scrapper. By the time this photo was snapped, he was back in the game, fighting the good fight to provide for his family and capture the American dream -- a home in the suburbs, a car in the driveway, a lovely wife and handful of kids -- four boys at final count.

He had worked in a pawn shop before the war, so it was only natural that he would end up as a pawnbroker. It's a tough business, a job that can tear at your soul if you're not careful. He was careful.

Central Pawn Shop was a tiny place, probably only a dozen feet across in some spots and maybe five times that size from front to back. It was essentially a large, brick box that my father had made usable by creating a loft of sorts in the back. It was on this second floor where he kept the bulk of pawned items -- musical instruments and guns; tires and tools; cameras, record players and speakers; suits and leather coats. On the first floor, in a small, cluttered office screened off from customers and the rest of the store, was a huge safe that was pushed underneath a staircase. It was here where the good stuff -- watches and rings, gold chains and fancy jewelry -- was stored.

Dad's business was capitalism refined to its essence. If you needed money and had something of value, you could offer it up as collateral for a loan. Say you wanted $5 more than you needed to know the time. You might consider pawning your watch. You then had 30 days to repay the loan, plus 10 percent interest. So on a $5 loan, my father would make 50 cents. Of course there were plenty of customers who couldn't manage to pull together $5 all at one time, but didn't want to lose their watch. Each month they would show up with 50 cents, and a little notation would be added to the back of their pawn ticket extending the transaction for another 30 days. For some customers it would take years to pay off their loan.

It was this give and take, playing with nickels and dimes and people's lives that could rip away at your innards. On some intuitive level, my father understood this, managing to balance out his life by always giving out more than he took in, reaching out to family, friends and the community. He was, quite simply, a good soul and constant source of light.

Overstated? Not really. My father was the quintessential "people person", the guy who was always around to lend a helping hand, the consummate volunteer. He joined the Lions Club, selling brooms -- you heard correctly, brooms -- to raise money for the organization's national program to aid the blind; he was the adult supervisor for our synagogue's youth program, president of the shul's Men's Club and Commander of both the local chapter of the Jewish War Veterans and, eventually, the state organization.

He voluntarily raised his synagogue dues every couple of years, just because it was the right thing to do, and at the end of each month wrote checks to a dozen charities, once again because it was the right thing to do.

On Thanksgiving, he donated food baskets to the hungry and on Christmas he volunteered at area hospitals so Christian workers could spend time with their families. During the Jewish High Holidays, he was a volunteer usher. A few weeks later on Sukkot, he was the guy, kids in tow, who went out and chopped down pine branches (trust me, it's a Jewish thing) to cover the communal sukkah -- a sort of hut that is an integral part of the ancient festival.

Dad fancied himself an amateur thespian, joining the city's little theater group, at first only providing props -- hey, if you couldn't find stuff for a production in a pawn shop, you weren't really looking hard. He later took on minor roles -- the rabbi in Fiddler on the Roof, one of the gamblers in Guys and Dolls. He was horrid, but he was always loud, energetic and willing!

In the early 1980s when he turned 71, Dad managed to finally get serious about his volunteering. He quit his day job -- actually sold his business and sort of retired -- then essentially joined the local police department, helping out on its pawn shop detail. He still had a few hours each week to play around with, so he also began volunteering as a gofer at a local hospital. With those two gigs, a little travel with Mom and constant weekend trips to visit nearby family and friends, he managed to stay busy for the next decade.

In the summer of 1997, Dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer. He died four months later, just a few days shy of his 84th birthday. Two days before his death, he rested on a hospital bed, centered in his den, surrounded by a cloth-covered couch and leather recliner, console television and wooden display cases filled with an assortment of tchotchkes. He was draped in robin-blue pajamas and sat listlessly on the edge of the bed, staring out vacantly toward the television and fireplace. The cancer had eaten away at his gut and trimmed off twenty pounds of fat. He looked haggard and tired, but surprisingly fit.

He was lost in that place where people go as death approaches, befuddled and depressed, in pain and straining for breath. He took little notice of my arrival. My youngest brother was in the room. My mother sat nearby. A hospice worker was fiddling with some meds and making small talk about his plans for Thanksgiving.

I was standing in my parent's house, in my father's den, watching him gasp for breath, listening to a hospice worker talk about turkey. It all seemed surreal, a world gone slightly askew. I could make little sense of what I was hearing and what was happening. Neither, apparently, could my father. He glanced over at the hospice worker, a look of puzzlement spreading across his face and slowly began shaking his head. And then he spoke. "I want to go home."

He mumbled the words again, and then again. "I want to go home." It was a plea, the words of a lost little boy, unsure of where he was and where he was headed. "I want to go home." They were the last words I ever heard him speak.

I like to think that my father made it home, met up with his brothers and sister, his parents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I also like to think that just behind his family were some of the thousands of people he managed to help during his life, strangers who had become his friends.

Take a moment and glance back at the photo at the top of this posting. See how my Dad is bending over, checking me out, a father in love with his son. That's what I remember most about my father, a man always reaching out, willing to do a little bending if necessary to make life better for other people.

I mourned his loss when he died a dozen years ago and now I miss him more than ever. He was my hero -- still is today.

MOMENT IN TIME: Me and my Dad (photo above) in the early 1950s at Central Pawn Shop. And, yes, I did enjoy the coke.

Something peachy from the Land of Cotton

The waitress, perky and wanting only to please, was asking what we'd like to drink. It was our big night out, a Saturday and time to relax, so booze seemed the way to go. The question, of course, is how best to take our poison.

I got no problem here -- Gin and Tonic is my default. Stan is a Scotch sort of guy and John is all about beer -- Samuel Adams if it's available.

Denise mulled over the possibilities, then took the easy way out -- a glass of white wine. Susan was obviously in a tropical-breeze sort of mood and ordered a Mojito. The lovely Miss Wendy knew she wanted something with a bit more zing than water with a twist of lemon, but what?

The restaurant was offering the usual mix of sugary martinis, cute names and garnishes at no extra cost, but when Susan opted for a Mojito, Miss Wendy apparently caught island fever also and moved in that direction.

There was just one special request -- could they make it with peaches?

Okay, so I know most of you are thinking that a Mojito is a euphonic blend of rum, mint and limes and, well, if you play around with it too much, it just isn't a real Mojito any longer. Au contraire mom frere!

When the drinks were delivered and we'd all taken an initial sip, Miss Wendy's Peach Mojito was passed around. Everyone agreed it was refreshing and bubbly with a nice hint of mint and jolt of rum. But it was the peachy flavor that made it special, just about perfect for a hot summer night in the Land of Cotton.

But, you might ask, how do you make such a drink if you're planning a party and want to get everyone sweetly smashed? And I might just respond with this easy to handle recipe from myrecipes.com. Enjoy!

NOR'S PERFECT PEACHY MOJITO

• 3 cups coarsely chopped peeled ripe peaches
• 1 teaspoon grated lime rind
• 1 cup fresh lime juice (about 4 large limes)
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup packed mint leaves
• 2 cups white rum
• 4 cups club soda, chilled
• crushed ice
  

PREPARATION: Place peaches in a blender or food processor; process until smooth. Press peach puree through a fine sieve into a bowl; discard solids. Combine rind, lime juice, sugar, and mint in a large pitcher; crush juice mixture with the back of a long spoon. Add peach puree and rum to pitcher, stirring until sugar dissolves. Stir in club soda. Serve over crushed ice. Garnish with mint sprigs, if desired.

Physicist Stephen Hawking's rules for life

The advice seemed simple enough. What made the bromides somewhat remarkable is that they were being offered by Stephen Hawking, the British theoretical physicist who generally stays busy dealing with such weighty matters as quantum gravity and black holes.

On a recent evening news broadcast, Hawking, who suffers with ALS, is confined to a wheelchair and speaks with the aid of a computer, was being quizzed by Diane Sawyer about life and the Universe when the interview turned briefly to more personal things -- family, his wife and children.

Apparently Hawking can be a very straight forward sort of a guy when it comes to parenting -- in a poetic, Einsteinian sort of way. He has three rules for living that he's shared with his children about life, love and work. He also shared the advice with Diane and her audience.

The harsh metallic tones of his computer-generated voice couldn't hide the human nature of the code -- spend time looking at the stars, not at your feet; if and when you find love, hold onto it tightly; always work, it gives meaning to your life.

Hawking's daughter Lucy, a lovely woman sitting at his side through much of the interview, chuckled and told Sawyer that of course there was much truth in what her father had to say, but "if you're always looking at the stars, there's a good chance you're going to bump into a light post" one day.

Such is the problems with bromides!

Since I've been thinking a bit about life and work over the last year, ever since I walked away from the place with the printing press that I called home for several decades, I found what he had to say about work, ahhh, interesting.

There seems to be two huge camps of thought on the topic -- work is good; it keeps you active and alive and, as Hawking says, provides structure and meaning to life. And then there are the folks who argue that life is about a whole lot more than work, that one's career is mostly about making money to be able to do the real things you want to do with your time.

There's a bit of sense in each camp and the worth of both views seemed to come together in my mind while watching the Tony Awards the other night. Most of the winners, breathless and filled with thanks, spoke about how "lucky" they were to be working in a field they loved -- acting, singing, dancing, directing, producing.

They all had managed to find a way to make money, doing what they were passionate about in life. I imagine that Hawking feels the same sort of passion for his chosen field -- astro-nuclear-fusion-cosmological-stringy-theoretical physics and book writing.

The challenge, it would seem, is to find that thing -- accounting, baking, lawyering, painting, counseling, gardening, teaching, selling, plumbing, governing -- you're passionate about and then figure out how to make a living at it. So at this stage of the game, I think my choices are writing, phtography, painting or drinking. I know what I enjoy the most and do the best. Now if only I can figure out how to handle the headaches and dehydration.

WORDS OF WISDOM: Physicist Stephen Hawking (photo above) offers up some good advice on life, love and work.

Feasting, forgetting in world gone slightly loopy

Another weekend and another fabulous meal and evening out with friends. Life can be a pain at times, but it's how you spend your leisure moments that adds flavor to the journey. This time around, the lovely Miss Wendy and I spent a few enjoyable hours at McCormick & Schmick's with longtime pals Denise and Stan, Susan and John.

There was a small reality check that came along with the evening's festivities -- food, drink and general merrymaking. More about that in a moment.

McCormick & Schmick's is an upscale chain of restaurants started and based in Portland, Oregon that features fish and fishy products. In our little corner of the world, it's conveniently grouped together with several other trendy spots -- P.F. Chang's China Bistro and Brio Tuscan Grill. On two little acres or so, surrounding a watery lagoon, you can feast on Asian, Italian or fishy cuisine. It's a happening spot, one huge, bustling parking lot servicing all three restaurants, the structures neatly surrounding the picturesque lagoon.

We all met, smooched hello and were quickly ushered to a little alcove just off the main dining area, a perfect spot to spend a few hours away from the world and its global concerns -- economic woes, oil slicks, wars in distant lands and, ahhh, endless yard work!

The eating games began with one, well, actually two platters of portabella mushroom and goat cheese bruschetta, delightfully and tastefully presented with an olive-oil-infused garnish. While my friends drank a bit -- can you say mojito -- I amused myself with the restaurant's seafood and roasted corn chowder.

It was good, perhaps a bit soupy for my taste, but a nice way to fill a few minutes before beginning the arduous task of studying the menu -- it changes daily and there are a wide assortment of hors d'oeuvres, side dishes and entrees offered.

Cutting to the chase, the winning entree it would seem was filet of flounder freshly delivered from Georges Bank, Mass., encrusted with Italian Parmesan cheese and topped with lemon caper butter. Such was the choice of three of my dining mates. Denise opted for the tuna -- bait rare, thank you very much -- and Susan selected the soft-shelled crab.

I feasted on lobster ravioli, sauteed with baby spinach (I imagine papa and mama spinach are in mourning) and cherry tomatoes in a white wine cream sauce. C'est magnifique!

It was late in the evening, long after we had nibbled away at the remains of our entrees and were still enjoying coffee and our shared desserts -- a sort of Bananas Foster-inspired creation and chocolate cake-ice cream-Oreo crusted thingy -- that I glanced into the main dining area and noticed only one or two other diners, surrounded by a sea of empty tables.

Earlier in the evening, busy chatting with my friends as we made our way through the restaurant, I hadn't paid much attention to the surroundings. I recall hearing much chatter and the clanking of dishes and dinnerware. But after some thought, I also remembered that Miss Wendy and I had zipped up to the valet parking area with no other cars in front of us, made our way into the restaurant and had to wait for only one other couple to be helped before our party was seated. The place wasn't empty; but it certainly wasn't operating anywhere near full capacity.

McCormick & Schmick's, I fear, continues to suffer from a faltering economy, potential customers still hunkering down, waiting for a flag of victory to be raised on Wall Street or in Washington. Despite reasonably good economic news in recent days -- job losses are slowing, consumer confidence growing -- there's a wariness about the land that will continue to be part of our lives as long as the Dow keeps bobbing up and down like a cork in a troubled and uncertain sea.

Wall Street, even with the white-collar thugs who continue to run the place, remains a pretty accurate barometer about all things economic. So I think in coming months I'll start turning to CNBC instead of the Food Network when planning any future outings. It's the friends, after all, not the place that's important when getting together. And I think we can all drink to that!

YOU LOOKING AT US: Northwest King Salmon (photo above) take a well-deserved rest at McCormick & Schmick's before becoming entrees.

Hey, Mr. XM: This blog can be bought!

It was a small box with a simple on/off knob, a dial to control the volume and one to switch between stations. This was my contact with the world of music late at night when I was a kid -- and it offered up a bit of magic.

In the 1960s, rock 'n roll and Motown were punching it out, releasing toe-tapping, lyrically light bits of fluff that defined a generation. It was my little radio -- actually a radio I shared with my brothers -- that brought tunes into our home and lives.

We lived in a tiny tract house, maybe 1,000 square feet if you included the front porch. It was covered in shingles, painted pea green, and included three small bedrooms, one smallish bathroom, living room, separate dining room and den.

The six of us -- my parents and four boys -- lived atop one another for nearly two decades there, thin walls hiding absolutely nothing. I had my first real taste of privacy when I was drafted into the army.

Each night my brothers and I scrambled into bed, tossing scuffed shoes and dirty socks onto the hardwood floors of the rooms we shared. Each of us had a chest of drawers -- two in one room, two in the other. But that was just a resting place for our clothes. It seems odd now, remembering those years, that there wasn't a room that any of us thought of as ours. We often slept where we fell; sometimes three of us bundled into one double bed, while one of us stretched out regally in the other room, enjoying a night of relative privacy.

And there was the radio, crackling with static and the banter of a DJ, mixed with the hypnotic hum of a window fan in summer and the whoosh of a nearby floor furnace in winter.

There was also fighting and shoving, giggling and whispers, all played out to the rhythmic sounds of Aretha Franklin and The Kingsmen, The Rolling Stones and Beach Boys, Elvis, The Beatles, Wilson Pickett and James Brown -- The Godfather of Soul and, undeniably, the hardest working man in show business.

Can you hear it? Can you feel it? Can you, ahhh, dig it?

For years I couldn't. Music became mostly background noise in my life, a slight distraction when I was driving; a quiet melody at movies that filled time when the actors weren't acting; loud, irritating banging at weddings, bar mitzvahs and other such celebrations.

And then I got an ipod for my birthday a few years ago and rediscovered the magic. Now I carry around a music library that fits in the palm of my hand. Aretha, Elvis and The Beatles are once again part of my life. So, too, Bob Marley, Bruce Springsteen, Elton John, Joe Cocker, Judy Collins, Nina Simone, Reba McEntire, Dire Straits and Coldplay.

All this talk of music and musicians is on my mind today because I recently ratcheted up the magic, trying out satellite radio, courtesy of a new car and a three-month free offer from the folks at XM.

Aretha and the Beach Boys are all over channel 6. Elvis and Frank, thank you very much, have their own channels and On Broadway is filled with O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, and other such tunes. Nashville has a twangy, country spot, right close to Willie's Place and Bluegrass Junction.

There's also Liquid Metal and Classic Vinyl, Soft Rock and Cool Jazz. To be sure there's plenty that I'll never touch -- 1st Wave and Hair Nation, Octane, Boneyard and Lithium. Don't have a clue if such channels are offering music, beauty products or drugs.

The icing on the cake, at least for me, a guy who made his living playing with words and managing the news, is the all-talk channels -- CNN, Fox, NPR and BBC Radio 1. That's the short list since I've just about run out of letters of the alphabet. Now if I could just manage to cram my brothers into the backseat of my car, it would be like deju vu all over again.

And, no, the folks at XM didn't pay me to write this. Of course, for the right price I'd have no problem changing the name of this blog to This&That&XM. Just a thought!