THE KID SISTER

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance”.  These lines (from Ecclesiastes 3:4) apply to all of us.

I am but one voice writing in this wilderness, but I do wish you many times of laughter and lots of time for dancing. Surely each of us will weep and mourn. Right now Joan and I, and many others, are in sorrow over the passing of Mary Anne Miller Scott. You may not have known her, or even known her name, just as I don't know your own dear friends. But we do know the qualities that make a man or woman special. We also understand why at one time or another we will all mourn the loss of a particular person.

Mary Anne was pretty close to the ideal when we think of a “kid sister”, and all the good qualities that go with that definition. Her older brother, Paul, was a semi-legend in the financial world during his own lifetime. She was not intimidated in any way by his prominence and remained very close to him. Paul in turn was totally proud of his sister, respected her as a confidential adviser and treated her as an equal at every turn in the road. We should all be so lucky to have such a sibling relationship. Mary Anne was honest, kept confidences, was always there when she was needed, retained her sunny disposition even as she faced one physical setback after another as the years rolled by.

In a storybook romance that started when Mary Anne was a 9^th grader she had a first date with Parry Scott, the captain of the high school football team who was several years older. They sat together in his car for over four hours talking. The die was cast then and there. After both finished college they married and raised a wonderful family.

Life goes on. Paul Miller passed away, then Scotty died. Mary Anne fought the good fight until she couldn't fight anymore. Now the three of them are together again.

The special Miller big brother/kid sister relationship and the Scott's storybook romance have left us with warm wonderful memories.

For these, we thank them most sincerely.

HOW I BECAME A JEWISH MOTHER

If you think of Mel Brooks and his routines about “Jewish Mothers” (JMs), you'll get the picture in a heartbeat. Mistresses of the guilt trip, JMs are capable of putting sons and daughters into mental dungeons for supposedly failing to appreciate a Mother's Love. Several Jewish mothers are among our intimate friends. But they are far afield from the portrait Brooks paints of their concern about every single thing that touches the lives of their offspring. Along with large dollops of “don't worry about me, your mother, it's YOU that I cry over.”

We have a brand new great-granddaughter, Huntley, who caught a cold. She is a Manhattanite, albeit a very young version of that species, and as yet unaware of Bloomingdale's, Grand Central and Central Park. Huntley caught a cold somewhere, we suspect from her wonderful working mother who insisted on balancing business and imminent delivery right up to the moment that contractions kicked in. (The courage of today's young working women will surely be the topic for another column, but for the moment Baby Huntley is the focus.)

Many a parent or grandparent takes comfort in the “out of sight, out of mind” philosophy – as in what you don't see or don't know allows you to stay in a sea of serenity. Not so for me in Florida.  I worry about every one of these 1358 miles between our house and Huntley's crib. My Wasp wife, no Shamrock she, as well as the Jewish (and all other) mothers in our gang, take a pragmatic view of situations generally. And specifically in the case of my attempts to micro-manage health concerns when her mother and grandmother are right there in the NYC scene watching Huntley like the two Mother Hens they are. Ah, well. Such is life.

I also wondered if Mel Brooks has a routine centered on the plight of males who are parents, grandparents or great-grandparents whose sole role in the miracle of birth seems to be limited to one-liners during Happy Hour.

LOVE COMES ALONG

Watching television while eating dinner is hazardous to your health.  For starters most TV fare is enough to make you lose your appetite. Plus, it's insulting to the person who prepared your meal. This said, many of us violate such warnings from time to time.

We Two were watching something or other on the tube when an ad came on showing a child with one arm. This was followed by one youngster after another with serious physical handicaps. Some were missing a leg or part of an arm. Some of the children were on crutches, or artificial limbs. Jarring. Why would they show these poor kids with all of their disabilities, especially during dinner hour? Who wants to see such imperfections in a culture consistently hammering “perfection” in all things? Instinctively viewers would want to turn away.

Which is precisely why such sad realities have to be shown. So that we can't deny them.

This is a hard lesson for most of us to learn; but learn it we must. I began my own education starting with The Shriners. Like many another I know the Shriners from afar – watching them zipping around in miniature cars during parades - Fourth of July, Memorial Day and so on. There they are, middle aged and senior guys having fun. They pose no real danger to anyone and bring joy to the watching crowds, especially kids. But these eye-catching bursts of entertainment are just icing on a far more substantial cake. The story of the Shriners and the Shriners Hospital for Children is extraordinary.

Truly, their work is fascinating – unique research, outstanding medical care, and much more, addressing spinal cord injuries, burn care, cleft lip and palate among other challenges. The Shriners Hospital for Children carries out this mission “without regard to race, color, creed, sex or sect, disability, national origin or ability of a patient or family to pay.” And they bring love along. The vision of the Shriners is to “become the best at transforming children's lives by providing exceptional healthcare through innovative research, in a patient and family centered environment.”  Pretty darn impressive.

Equally impressive are the positive attitudes and smiling faces of youngsters under the care of Shriners hospitals. I urge you to go on line (loveshriners.org) to read more about the Shriners and the Shriners Hospital for Children.

AULD LANG SYNE

As the New Year was starting to come in, I am sitting in a favorite chair looking out the window thinking of yesterdays.

Auld Lang Syne.  I understand remembering old friends and good times.  I know too that life is a fragile thing and we have to get used to loss. This said, I still deeply miss Sweeney, Big Bill Brower, The Best Man and Sweet Willie Turner. Four Irreplaceable.

Jack Sweeney, Navy man through and through, yet always respectful of your own branch of service, and evenhanded if you had no service at all. Sweeney never belittled a person. He was every mother's joy, doubly so if you belonged to a generation further on.  Grandmothers and great-aunts just loved The Admiral with his white teeth and wall to wall smile anchored by deep dimples. When he smiled at the oldsters on his way back from the communion rail, he made their day.

Bill Brower, my co-presenter on many a broadcasters conference was a towering presence. But Bill underplayed being a towering presence as he led countless rookies along the path to becoming true professionals. He also mastered the art of talking without moving his lips. I could hardly keep a straight face as he said things to me, alone, even when we were standing side by side facing high ticket audiences. But when cancer was finally getting the best of him he looked directly in my eyes and said in a firm, loud voice: “Chick, if you're going to tell your kids how to live, you have to show them how to die.”

Paul Deronian, friend for a lifetime and my Best Man.  Always just a phone call away whenever I was facing a firing squad. Paulie was masterful at making average men and women fit right into his multiple friendships with the High and Mighty. His hallmark was courtesy and good manners to everyone in all settings, everywhere, at all times.

Sweet Willie Turner, was never really appreciated in his relatively short lifetime. Dutifully plodding away night after night marking papers in his job as a university math professor. When periodically freed from this tedious chore to pop a few, he unleashed his sense of humor and understanding of just how insane our world was, and is.

Many people, perhaps, could get used to missing guys like these.  But that doesn't include everyone. So I'll just stay sitting here thinking of them and whisper words of Auld Lang Syne. 

CHRISTMAS

One can make the case that “this season to be Jolly” is a code phrase for commercial madness.  It is surely that.  But beyond, or in spite of this, there is a loss of holy memory, generations of tradition and a whole lot more.  It's not just the department store sales craziness and the eternal playing of Feliz Navidad. It is the “something's missing” feeling.

One neighbor down the lane has a sign that reads “Put Christ back in Christmas.” At first I thought he was a religious fanatic.  But he's not. He is just an ordinary guy who urges passersby to rethink what this time of year is all about.  Nowadays, I agree with him.

When I was a little guy my brothers and I sat at our mother's knee while she read us the story of Jesus Christ and his birth long ago in some faraway place called Bethlehem. It had great impact on us then, and still has in spite of innumerable klutzy readings in religious settings by well-intentioned souls. So that's where I am coming from, supporting a sense of reverence trying to survive in a swamp of hucksterism.

Working in Manhattan for decades had me a goy among the Jewish crowd.  I had reverence for their traditions and holy days, Passover especially.  I respected too where they are coming from.

My personal hope is that we ALL pause and remember what is really worth remembering. And by the way, giving gifts is part of the tradition, just as those notables did when they visited that newborn lying in a manger. 

The Slippery Slope to Sexual Harassment

(He) “Moonlight becomes you; it goes with your hair. You certainly know the right thing to wear...”

 (She) Thank you, Bing.......We'll see you in court.

Bing Crosby directed these words to Dorothy Lamour in Road to Morroco, a very successful movie way back in 1942. None of us needs to be told that the times have been a-changin' since then. Nowadays men are increasingly wary of what they say to women. Tip-toeing is making a comeback.

Being High and Mighty is perilous if you are going to keep that frat boy mentality. Every day a prominent personality is in the news for alleged physical or verbal abuse of a woman. None of us takes this issue lightly. In the minds of many, including this writer, true sexual abuse of a woman is reason enough to justify the death penalty. Certainly the issue is worth another look, so let's do that.

Speaking about myself and many other men I know, males admittedly are not 24/7 the swiftest of God's creations. But in the main they are likable guys who mostly try to do good as they lumber along in this vale of tears. That's the premise. Second, the environment surrounding them is dangerous all by itself. Advertising in print and broadcasting hammer the same theme day after day: youthful female attractiveness. Beauty products are designed (and named) to attract the eyes of both sexes, but the gaze of women especially. From their earliest days women hear about “being pretty”.  As the years roll by they are urged to gain and/or retain their appeal to men. Stay young, avoid wrinkles. Theirs is a brutal test of time.

Magazines flaunt young women's appeal, partially clothed, or less than. Pin-up photos of a sexy someone adorned the foot lockers of men in the military and the dorms they returned to after service. It has always been so, but nowadays things have gotten totally out of control in an age of no restraint at all. Good manners, common decency and respect for womanhood have been lost to boorish behavior.  Who loses? Yes, women first and foremost, but really all of us get hurt.  Absolutely, women have to stand up, report and be more than brave in facing these idiots.  But gentlemen, you and I have to rally and protect all women. We have to change our mindset and think of every woman singled out for an indecent remark as our sister, sweetheart or spouse. 

The days of light-hearted flirtations are over. We are now in far sterner times. There should be some middle ground between recognizing attractiveness by giving compliments and being sued.  But I'll be darned if I know where that middle ground is given the wide range of opinion among ourselves, plus the vested interests from the left or right. And further, if there was a Citizens Code for Compliments, who would set those standards?

For decades we summed it up nicely in memorable music and words like “a pretty girl is like a melody that haunts you night and noon.”  But no one wants to sing that tune while doing time in the slammer.      

Football: Sport or Burlesque?

There are many issues that divide us here in this great country of ours. The big unifier is that we are all Americans, a force that can stand up to everything else. Our various opinions are protected because of that freedom.

Today, fellow sports lovers, our topic is Football and the issue of insane “celebrations” on and off the field.

When players shower and leave the locker room to re-enter the public world, we expect them to conform to generally accepted standards of conduct and decency. Which means, among other things, no spousal abuse, violence with or without weapons outside strip clubs and a range of other things that embarrass us all. Don't you cringe when the newspapers and broadcast media report yet another incident featuring a prominent athlete? Where is the sense of responsibility and accountability to society (including you and me) and especially to the young boys and girls who worship these “stars”?  Individual players, like the rest of us, have to step up and understand duty. For if we don't, the media will continue to play this same note time and again to our mutual shame.

The other issue is one that we, the football fans of the USA, have yet to clearly voice our opinion on. Is football truly a sport, albeit a very hazardous one, OR, is it an entertainment spectacle with pushing, shoving and tackling followed by giddy prancing and dancing in the end zone? To the fore rush those who say “that's my freedom to express myself”. True. But there are many ways to express joy and celebration that make sense. Executing antic behavior in the end zone is not one of them, at least after the age of 10 or 11.

A football player passing on bad “celebrating” examples to younger generations is (almost) as bad as the consistent spitting, spitting, spitting by baseball players. We NFL fans certainly have a right to object to it. If Roger Goodell is still in the job at the start of next season, write to the commissioner and tell him so.