Giving Oxygen

Recently, I listened as a friend recounted a jarring adolescent experience. After my friend finished, another listener reacted to the story with a comment that struck me as flippant, even mildly dismissive. My friend didn't outwardly appear to be put out by the comment, but the scene has re-played in my head ever since.

I think it was Stephen Covey (author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) who I first heard say that listening deeply to others is like giving them oxygen. When I hear someone sharing a story about their pain, a trauma, or even adolescent discomfort, my initial instinct is to lean in. More than a few times, I've heard others ask, "What good does it do another person if I sympathize with them?" Of course, the answer is it does no good at all. The past is past; pain cannot be undone.  

But that question ("What good...?) always strikes me as beside the point. A better question might be "How can it hurt me as a listener to let someone tell their story?" Good listening often requires little response; it costs nothing to be silent. And silence after someone has told their story is preferable to drawing glib conclusions, making judgments, problem solving.

What kind of listener are you? I have an old friend who I've heard tell stories of mistreatment he endured as a young boy in school. Each time he tells it, the pain of the memory is apparent. I hope I've been a good friend by giving him the oxygen he needs.

The Posse Delivers Again

Among the first thoughts I had upon finishing The Rest of Our Lives (2025) was how fortunate I am to have several discerning readers in my life. Yes, I could've somehow stumbled across Ben Markovits's charming, well-crafted novel on my own. But isn't it equally likely it might have escaped my attention if not for the sharp eye of one of my reading posse?

"All that was thirty-five years ago. At a certain point with these family dynamics, you'd think the statute of limitations would run out."

Throughout this captivating quest are sharp observations like that. Tom Layward's first unplanned stop on an impulsive westward bound trip - after dropping off his daughter at Carnegie Mellon - is a visit to his brother Eric in South Bend, Indiana. How often do you reflect on family dynamics, the sibling division in particular? And when did you most recently wonder about that statute of limitations? For me, that observation landed with a thud. Except in my case, over sixty years have elapsed with few answers in sight. 

"Real money but not like philanthropy money, where you can spend the rest of your life playing with world problems."  

Markovits also has a sly and edgy sense of humor - as both that sentence and the one concluding this post amply demonstrate - and an almost unerring sense for the way ordinary people, particularly those struggling through crisis, tell their stories. The numerous phone conversations Tom has with his wife Amy while on the road felt so real that sometimes I felt like I was eavesdropping on a couple in therapy. 

If you're looking for an immersive and thoroughly contemporary reading experience, end your search. Pick up The Rest of Our Lives. After you race through it and thank me, I'll pass on your gratitude to the reading soulmate who directed me to this incisive and taut winner.   

"When you talk to crazy people, they're all expert in their particular brand of craziness."

We're Patiently Waiting

Given the in-between years don't have the cache of the milestones, I'll permit a bit of wiggle room about what you send our way tomorrow when my wife and I celebrate our 43rd anniversary. However, being that no rubies - or the monetary equivalent - appeared on our doorstep (or in our bank account) three years ago on our 40th, this post should be your guide about our 45th on September 17, 2028. Sapphires, please. Those sapphires needn't be blue; save those for our 65th anniversary. But bigger is better. And please: No complaints about the timing; you've got two full years to save.

In the meanwhile, what precious stone - or its monetary equivalent - is crossing your mind that is commensurate with your esteem for your favorite blogger and his better 2/3? Bitcoin = a non-starter. But we're otherwise reasonable people. Given the longstanding tradition, something more lavish than rubies but not quite as lush as sapphires seems about right, wouldn't you agree? 

Although we'll be gone for the day celebrating, that needn't interfere with your generous gesture. Our bank routing number is available upon request and there's always Amazon. Be sure to insure. 

Gushing, Continued

I realize I've gushed before about the gifts this blog has given me, but I trust you'll indulge me this time because today's gushing is about you, my readers.

Most recently, a reader fairly new to my blog paid me the highest possible compliment. Without any egotistical prompting from yours truly, this person - in a group setting - encouraged folks to enroll in a campaign I use that sends an e-mail to folks each time I publish. To say I was humbled by this promoting of my work is insufficient. I was speechless. Imagine, if you are able, a speechless Pat.

A few weeks before that incident, I was searching through my blog archive for something. And, as has often happened in the past, I was struck anew by several reader comments on posts I hadn't read since publishing them, in some cases, years ago. Those comments - insightful, vulnerable, and funny in nearly equal measure - reminded me, again, how fortunate I've been to have readers, not all of whom are related to me, faithfully commenting here for many years. I've repeatedly thanked all of these folks - bless their hearts - for their stalwart support. But I can never say thank you too many times to them or to any of you, frequent, infrequent, or have never commented aside. 

Just knowing you're out there energizes and sustains me. Thank you, again.

922 to 23

Current tally? 922 to 23. 

Though there's no chance my new grandson will ever catch up, I recently decided that for as long his time is being tallied in months, that's reason enough for me to do the same. Besides, doesn't saying I'm 922 months sound dignified? I'll let you do the math. 

Given what the little man is already up to at 23 months, I'm guessing he'll finish undergraduate school in under 240 months and have at least one master's degree by month 252, vs. when I got mine at the 576-month mark. Other milestones? If he follows in his mother's footsteps, he'll be walking down the aisle at somewhere around 402 months. His first child? If he follows his grandfather, he'll be about 470 months; his grandmother = approximately 416. Owning his first home? His Dad was about 476 months when he reached that milestone. My guess? He'll beat both his own Dad and your favorite 922-month-old blogger who was 403 - or thereabouts - before he was able to cobble together a down payment.

Now for the fun part with no parallels comparing my favorite 23-month-old with his mom or his dad, or his grandmother and Mr. 922:

* His first hit recording, using no AI or sampling, highly influenced by the playlist his grandfather began curating for him at birth: 216 months

* His first book published; a collection of essays featuring his inspirational family, especially his grandfather: 276 months. First novel: 12 months later. Main character modeled after: Care to guess? 

* His first Oscar, for supporting actor: 336 months. The role: A musician, bookworm, writer (mostly blogs), film devotee, social justice advocate, environmentalist, dashingly handsome, unnecessarily modest, devoted to his family.

With some luck, I've still got another 120 months to be by the side of my beloved 23-month-old as he begins what is sure to be a fulfilling life. 

The Death of Sweet Mister

After struggling to find a way in, I decided on bullet points as an effective method to capture the impact that The Death of Sweet Mister (2001) has had on me. If one or more of these don't persuade you to give Daniel Woodrell's disturbing modern-day masterpiece a try, I've missed my mark today.  

* I'm sure I'll never again read a coming-of-age novel as searingly rendered as this.

* I will not suggest this novel to any book club I belong to nor use it as a selection for my own club because hiding my disappointment over anyone's lukewarm response would be difficult. My partner of forty-eight + years - one of the most discerning readers I know - will be reading it soon to ensure the two of us can discuss its undeniable brilliance. I know she'll get it. 

* I'm literally dumbfounded this novel escaped my radar for twenty-five years. How has it not been included on any of the numerous "Best of the 21st Century " etc. lists I routinely run across? How is it that no fellow bookworm ever recommended it? How did it escape getting at least one major literary award?

* One hundred years from now, Daniel Woodrell's work - arguably anchored by this jewel - will be the way smart readers understand the Ozarks. As surely as Anne Tyler owns the suburbs of Baltimore, Dennis Lehane owns the streets of Boston, and William Faulkner is Mississippi, readers in 2126 will turn to Daniel Woddrell in order to live and breathe rural Missouri.         

I want to continue, badly. But to keep this post to my normal length and to avoid alienating any reader with hyperbole overload, I'll stop now, almost. In the thirteen years I've been using Goodreads, this is the first novel to which I've given five stars within minutes of finishing. And Daniel Woodrell - on the strength of The Maid's Version, Winter Bone, and now The Death of Sweet Mister - has taken slot #37 on my destined-to-never-be-completed list of 100 most cherished authors, i.e., writers who have hit it out of the park three times in a row. That list - along with the remaining bullet points left out of this post - is available on request.

p.s. Thanks to the owner of Farley's Book Store in New Hope, Pennsylvania for recommending The Death of Sweet Mister to me. Readers - Isn't it hard to imagine life without small independent bookstores?     

Take Two, With Joy

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 116,799 To Go

In one of those weird mysteries that routinely occur in the blogosphere, several weeks back an anonymous reader stumbled across the relic above, published a little over ten years ago. I didn't give the mystery much further thought until a few days back when a significant event in my personal life prompted me to reflect on the precious commodity of time.

Using the same set of assumptions I developed back in 2016, the number of waking hours left to me are now approximately half of what they were ten years ago, i.e., 58,400. In addition, unless I exceed the optimistic number of years I gave myself back in 2016, there will be no third iteration in this particular blog series. Apologies for the morbid exposition.

Here are a few things at the top of the agenda for my 58,400:

* Lots more of the big three. Specifically, more public jamming with other musicians who enjoy playing jazz, continuing to expand my repertoire, creating and teaching music classes until I run out of ideas, i.e., hopefully, never. With literature: Seeking out more fellow bookworms and new authors, continuing with the canon, exploring the back catalog of my ever-growing-but-never-to-be-reached list of 100 most cherished authors. Movies? More documentaries and foreign films. With all the others - continue paying attention to the art of screenwriting to help me improve as a writer. 

* As much travel as my body and budget will permit. Highest priority: The remaining U.S. National Parks. 

* Family - especially that little man who currently lives in L.A. - and friends. 

Leftover hours after the above? Lots of writing and reflecting from the bell curve. Which reminds me: What will bring you joy in your remaining hours, number aside? 

 

Now

Grief defies easy explanation.

Tears switch to laughter, sadness is soothed by memories, pain is eased by hugs. Life feels irrevocably altered; life continues.   

"How are you doing?", well-meaning people ask.

"As well as can be expected", is the best I can offer now. Tomorrow? Grief defies easy explanation. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Not Today