This past spring one of my readers left a comment regarding my very short piece entitled - Neither Elections nor War Destroy Animosity. Sorry for my delayed response, but here it is.

What I wrote is high-lighted in bold below. Her comments are in italics.

“. . . it starts with each one of us respectfully listening to, and learning from, each other - one small step at a time.” I clearly understand the truth of this, Mark, and find it easier said than done. One small step at a time, indeed. I DO have moments of patience and generosity toward one of my family members and am working on it. Other times I just want to flee from his unfathomable ignorance or hit him on the head with a large mallet for being so very stupid. And I am not a violent person, by any means. sigh...

First a disclaimer - though I’ve never met this woman, I consider her to be an intelligent, insightful, compassionate, friend - not to mention a gifted writer. I am not in any way putting her down, especially since my thoughts and actions frequently parallel hers.

But on a good day . . . I step back,

becoming less of a participant and more of an observer. We’re not talking one- upmanship here, we’re talking curiosity. After thousands of years’ worth of failed attempts at trying to convert people to our way of thinking, we’re instead attempting to better understand that “other” person.

The following cannot be overstated - people rarely change another person. They merely enable others to look at an issue from a different angle. “I never thought of it that way,” is the “Ahaaah” moment that we’re after. It is that tiny fissure which can weaken the rigid perspectives that ensnare so many decent and compassionate people.

We’re not blasting a tunnel here though. As Michalangelo would say, we’re merely liberating that which is trapped within the stone.

And lest we think that this only happens in one direction across the political spectrum, we are wrong! On a good day most of us are open, not only to the talking points, but to the facts that surround them. At least temporarily, offering another the benefit of the doubt there, can start us off in a healthy direction.

I was recently humbled by a quick fact check of a ridiculous political ad. I “knew” it was pure B.S. As it turned out, the numbers within that viral ad were actually legit - they just failed to reveal the broader context, and in so doing slandered a seemingly sincere and altruistic candidate.

Respectfully doing a relevant fact-check in real time can significantly impact a conversation’s outcome. On the other hand, a blatant disinterest in facts is a clear indicator of intransigence and/or apathy. Options at that point are to either explore for other areas of common interests or to navigate our way toward the door.

Regardless of the magnitude, any affinity or bond generated has the potential to break through destructive stereotypes.

On a good day, I make every effort to keep the emotions in check

- both mine and that of my conversational partner. Years ago, I volunteered as a community mediator in a small city in upstate New York. After half a dozen training sessions, we were pared with an experienced team member to help “warring” individuals communicate with each other.

While focusing on respect and uninterrupted expression, we encouraged participants to then rephrase what the other communicant had said. Merely hearing those words come out of their “opponent's” mouth, frequently changed the conversation dynamics. On a good day, we witnessed not only the healthy exchange of ideas but also the unearthing of hidden agendas - made possible once a drama-free, safe environment had been provided.

The tenants of a successful mediation are clearly applicable to those of productive conversations. Utilizing open-ended questions help us move our focus away from the prevailing emotions toward the facts.

For example - “I can see why some people might believe what you just said, but please share with me the evidence which you have based your comment on. I’m sure we both want to work from facts and not hearsay.”

Being mindful and respectful of emotions is key to avoiding the tendency for controversial discussions to degenerate into fruitless arguments.

On a good day, I recognize that the “ignoramus” in front of me may be the most intelligent person in the room.

If I had the same life experiences, background, education and indoctrinations as him or her, we’d likely be on the same page. I’m afraid that by “looking down” on a person for whatever reason, we give ourselves permission to discount their perspective.

We all have our weaknesses. But everyone deserves respect and each of us can offer the kindness of a listening ear. To quote my reader, it is “one small step at a time, indeed.” But if it’s in the right direction, I see that as a win-win!

Thank you all for being here and for your efforts to bridge the gap.

Leave a comment

Only when we better understand the roots and perspectives of the “other,” can we touch divisiveness and move our focus toward the ties that bind us.

To admit that I have a love-hate relationship with AirVenture, the largest annual gathering of aviation enthusiasts in the world, would make me a heretic in the flying community. I’ve attended parts of the one-week-long Oshkosh extravaganza multiple times since my wife, and I moved to Wisconsin in 2019. Unfortunately, over the years the net effect has drifted toward sadness.

I truly enjoy being surrounded by airplanes and the comradery as a half a million people from eighty countries, gather to celebrate the fact that we humans get to FLY ! The more than century long trail of creativity and innovation is astounding. That would include everything from the $10k powered paragliders to the F-35A which can exceed the speed of sound going straight up.

That one fighter jet is the sum total of decades worth of technological advancements within a program with a projected lifetime cost of $2.1 trillion. That’s 12 zeros y’all! This fighter jet model is particularly special as it is certified to deploy the B61-12 thermonuclear gravity bombs. Each one of these weapons are three times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb which incinerated a hundred thousand people back in 1945. “We’ve come a long way, Baby”

Though I clearly admire the courage and commitment of individuals who strive to protect our country and its freedoms, the forever wars of the 21st century are considerably more complex than that. It is the seemingly limitless reverence for the US Military and the blanket approval of its worldwide conquests which flies in the face of any hope that our country would ever evolve in a meaningful way.

It was with those swirling thoughts that I headed over to a large concession stand for a late lunch, one week ago. World War II fighters and bombers flew in formation above as I placed my order for Tofu Teriyaki and a bottle of ice-cold water. After ten minutes of baking in the sun, I headed over to a picnic table Styrofoam container in hand. I looked down at my lunch receipt to discover that the kid behind the counter had added a 20% tip for entering my order into the computer.

The three bucks wasn’t the issue. The problem was that the young whippersnapper had taken away my freedom to decide whether I wanted to tip him for one minute’s worth of work, or not. The theme of this AirVenture gathering was an omnipresent - “250 Years of Freedom.”

So, I went back to the counter and waited until he was between the many customers. It was then that I grabbed his attention and let him know what I thought. I was direct and unloaded the experience from my perspective, but between my tone of voice and pointing finger, I was downright nasty.

At one point a manager sort came over and tried to placate me. She explained how I must have hit the 20% tip “button” on the computer screen by accident. That I wasn’t buying. I did concede that if it was an innocent mistake I’m sorry for even mentioning it, but if it’s a recurrent pattern, you know who to watch.

As I headed toward the outdoor tables, my disgruntled stomach reminded me that there’s always a price to pay when I act like a belligerent ass . . . so I put that big hairy tail between my legs and moved on - or so I thought.

I sat down with a friendly Vietnam Veteran and his thirteen-year-old grandson from Pennsylvania. We talked about the different kinds of “airplanes” that we each flew, and it became known that I, unlike the man in front of me, couldn’t fly with my wife because she died last year. The young man was clearly paying attention as they both lamented my loss.

We talked for probably a half-hour before they both headed off to watch the airshow. The most memorable parts of our discussion were two-fold. First the sophisticated levels of technology that were used to hunt down Russian submarines during the Vietnam War. And secondly, the fact that as they said their goodbyes the grandson made it a point to add - “I’m really sorry that you lost your wife.”

I was struck by the possibility that ten years from now that kind soul could be doing the unthinkable with the unthinkable.

Brewing Cauldrons and Grace

A few hours later, having seen dozens of airplanes and highly proficient pilots demonstrate their “Right Stuff,” I headed home with plenty of time to reflect on my wrong stuff! Hindsight was 20:20.

I realized I did almost everything wrong!

I didn’t ask a single question, not to mention open-ended ones.

I made knee-jerk accusations.

At no point did I consider that I might have instinctively hit the 20% tip button.

I NEVER GAVE A FELLOW HUMAN THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT.

And my - “Make America Kind Again” shirt screamed of hypocrisy!

Never did I consider the crappy experience the two people in front of me were forced to endure. They were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time as I vomited my pent-up anger regarding our nations misplaced priorities and our collective amorality which masquerades as righteousness.

I considered going back to apologize but it was too late for me to have any shot at finding the poor lad. For me, the message was clear. I have a lot of work to do. Regardless of which “side” we’re one, we are all flailing along through life to the best of our ability, with the cards that we’ve been given. Certainly, some of us are doing so with more kindness, than others. But that card is fully in our hands and therefore changeable.

Leave a comment

It’s very unlikely that any of us will ever comprehend the full impact that our words or actions have on another, although we may occasionally get a glimpse. And that should bring a smile to a guy named John.

He would be the archeologist who gave up his plans to help me, a stranger, find an overgrown cemetery in Jardine, Montana - the one where Emily and I had our first date fifty years ago. One where we would dig deeper into the mysteries of life than those bone fragments beneath us. It would be the same place where I would now cast a handful of her ashes.

John was on his way up the mountain to do some target shooting when he saw my thumb out and pulled over. Never in my years of hitch-hiking do I remember having to remove books from a passenger seat so I could sit down - especially while only a stone’s throw from Yellowstone, one of the largest, majestic playgrounds in the world.

Within fifteen minutes of reaching the mountain summit, we had, with some help, located the cemetery, and I had rediscovered the 120-year-old tree-trunk monument which Emily and I had admired. John gave us some quiet time together and I shed but a couple tears and a few thoughts as I dusted the nearby weeds, and wildflowers.

Upon returning to John’s truck, our conversation resumed as if I’d just mailed off a letter to an old friend. This might come off as cavalier, but as painful as the grief has been, on a good day I carry it more peacefully alongside me, as opposed to like an anchor, behind me.

Emily would have been all over the wide array of topics that we discussed. Between the time spent on the mountain and that shared over a great lunch at a local pub in Gardiner, we unearthed a handful of common denominators - the most remarkable being that of our mutual reverence for “Brothers Karamazov” and Dostoevsky, the author of that 145-year-old classic.

Though I read the tome back in the eighties, before John was born, it was refreshing for me to once again take in its wisdom. I was reminded that this was the first book I’d read which delt honestly with the ambiguity of following Jesus’ teachings as we live in a world where authority figures reign, while faith and reason are jeopardized if not sacrificed.

We talked about the fact that as a species, humans are so adaptable that we can rationalize almost anything. Consider the countless examples of where the most loving and compassionate from one country will brutally murder their counterparts from another, purely because the respective conditioning and patriotic fervor dictate that it’s the moral thing to do.

And then we wandered over to the insurmountable challenges of breaking away from our concrete encased belief systems. So much to digest beyond my bison-burger and his wings.

After an exchange of contact information, a couple pictures and an all-too-quick parting, we each headed off - him to his work and me to explore more of the park’s grandeur.

The following day I would snake my way through countless S-turns and assimilate the spectacular vistas which make Yellowstone such a treat to the senses - especially while on two wheels. Hiking down to Yellowstone Canyon would be the capstone of that last full day in the park.

Twenty-four hours later, I was headed home and glued to the interstate, racing through a steady flow of intriguing thoughts. One that stuck with me more than the others was that a phenomenally rich piece of literature works its way into the core of our being, much like a once-in-a-lifetime relationship.

Just as we eventually set down that masterpiece with an eye toward another, we can move our eye from a wonderful relationship toward another - knowing that it will not replace so much as complement the first, with differences and a new perspective added as a refreshing challenge.

Leave a comment

Emily and I had had the discussion. She was kind as always, but fading - “you can do whatever you’d like with my ashes because I won’t be here.” Having failed one chemo regimen after another, her faraway look was both haunting and liberating as she responded without conviction to my suggestion - “oh, taking some of them to Yellowstone, would be nice.”

It was with those thoughts and a few containers of ashes that I started the five mile hike up the washboard-like road to Jardine. It was in this old gold-mining town where we savored our first date fifty years ago.

The North Yellowstone gateway town of Gardiner fell out of sight within the first mile of switchbacks, being replaced with the majestic snowcapped mountains across the valley. The midmorning air was clear and warm with vitas wide open to the memories of young love and one beautiful soul.

With the town’s population of 78, it was not surprising that I would encounter several cars over my two-hour hike. Approximately two thirds of the way up the mountain I flagged down one car to ask if they knew where the old cemetery was. The young woman admitted that she’d never noticed one but was only in the area to clean a couple houses. She did hand me a much-appreciated bottle of cold water, her kindness adding a boost to my step.

Within fifteen minutes, a guy, on the way down to town, stopped to caution me - “there’s a black bear just off the road about a half a mile ahead.” I asked if it looked hungry . . . “no, but she has a cub with her.” Having once startled a sow with a cub while hiking in Yosemite, I knew to take his advice seriously.

By mid-afternoon, I’d reached a sprinkling of houses, a sign, “Jardine-elevation 6500 feet,” and most importantly the Bear Creek - which I vividly remembered. The stream was about twenty feet wide and with the recent snow melt, livelier than I’d remembered.

.

My future bride and I had traded our first stories alongside this over-sized creek and had worked our way eventually to the cemetery which was already overgrown back then.

With forks in the road ahead and little confidence that I’d ever find the remnants of the boneyard, I reached into my small backpack, pulling out the three containers . . . the last one reluctantly. With gratitude, sadness and a few words of adoration she was once again released, to become a part of all that is.

Having accomplished my goal or at least a close facsimile thereof, I started my long trek down the mountain trying to process the grandeur in front of me and the life that trailed behind me.

I don’t think I’d gone a mile when a pickup truck lumbered around a bend, and I instinctively put out my thumb. As the gray-haired guy removed his 7mm rifle and some odds and ends from the passenger side, he apologized for his two golden retrievers making such a ruckus and then “farting away” behind us. I got wafts of nostalgia thinking of my long-gone Shepard-Collie companion, Nero.

Tom was a friendly sort who had been a resident of Jardine since 1982. Initially a teacher in Gardiner, he had burned out within ten years but stayed on as a custodian, bus driver, grounds keeper, and maintenance guy eventually doing rental property and real estate work - thus the full load of freshly cut firewood behind the dogs.

Over the twenty-minute trip down toward Gardiner we exchanged a few highlights of our lives. Upon arriving at the pull-off where I had left my motorcycle, we pulled out the proverbial backhoe. It was like the good ole days hitch-hiking when I would spend hours with a stranger sharing life-stories, knowing that we’d never see each other again. The good, the bad, and the ugly surfaced, but shared vulnerabilities left little room for judgement.

At one point I did ask him if he happened to know where the old cemetery was in Jardine. He informed me that the old-timer who was responsible for building the roads to, and around the town, was buried there right after the spring thaw. He noted that the locals “cleaned up the cemetery” in his honor.

As a life-long bachelor and educated guy, I think he was happy to have an out of towner to talk to. But his work beckoned and I rode off into the sunset with a tiny thorn in my side.

Having had a light snack on the way up the mountain, my next stop was “The Old Saloon” which was built in 1902. It was conveniently located halfway between Jardine and the motel where I was staying in Livingston, Montana - sixty miles north of the park. With a genuinely rustic feel and recollections of my two years out west, the pub triggered thoughts of my pre-Emily days and some ancient dreams.

My mission having been “accomplished,” I treated myself to some fresh trout and a couple Moose Drool-Brown Ales which really hit the spot. Over the course of the outstanding meal, I noticed that the busy establishment served as many locals as tourists. Andrew, my well-tattooed waiter, looked the part as did his middle-aged friends.

Since I’d had two beers and was about to head off on a motorcycle at dusk, in elk country, I decided to linger outside the saloon where a band was setting up. And they did not disappoint. I grabbed a long-sleeved shirt from my saddle bag and turned toward a few locals taking in the music. One held a ten-week-old Blue Heeler,” and I joined in the petting fest of the adorable little pup.

To my surprise, one of the three guys in the cowboy hats reached through the other hands to introduce himself, and the others followed. The conversation amongst them drifted toward their work as contractors and as luck would have it, I had a couple relevant comments to throw into the mix. It had become a warm place. Andrew was good friends with them, and I sensed they’d had a long history together.

After a marginal night’s sleep, and some ethereal pokes, I decided that the cemetery hunt was not over. By 10 am I found myself again hiking up the road to Jardine; this time with my thumb out. Within fifteen minutes, a pick-up pulled over and John cleared a pile of books, clothes, and ammo, making room for me to sit.

.

He was an archeologist doing research in Yellowstone but with a day off, he was headed up the mountain to sight in his elk rifle. I was so grateful that he offered to change his plans, as he drove up to where I’d left off the day before. Taking a random fork, we noticed a man off in the distance walking his dog. As we approached, I realized it was Andrew, the waiter from 35 miles away.

We talked for a bit and then I told him about my mission, asking if he knew the whereabouts of an old cemetery with a tombstone in the shape of a large tree stump - which he acknowledged. He went on to give us directions and added a sincere - “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

Less than one mile away, stood the cornerstone of Emily’s and my relationship - a tombstone which had born witness to what would become a wonderful and enduring marriage - not perfect but ever-evolving.

As I sprinkled that third canister of her ashes around our landmark, I realized that I had accomplished my goal but not hers. She was infinitely larger in heart and perspective than I could have ever imagined back in 1976 or even now. I take solace in the thought that her influence on me will outlive the last cells of my earthen vessel.

Leave a comment

Having bonded with the flatlands of Wisconsin long enough, I decided to head back toward my old stomping grounds - Yellowstone National Park. It was there, in the northwestern corner of Wyoming where my late wife Emily and I met back in 1976. Our first date was to nearby Jardine, Montana, an all-but-abandoned gold-mining town which had once thrived in the late 1800’s. It rests along the appropriately named Bear Creek which cascades down from its 6500-foot summit to the Yellowstone River.

As a bartender in the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel, I had heard about the town from one of my patrons and thought it would be an interesting venture. So, a week or two after Emily and I met, we bounced our way up the five miles of switchbacks in my old Chevy pick-up. As the sun started to settle over the reddish-orange mountainside, we wandered into a grove of maples and aspens and discovered a lush but overgrown cemetery - the perfect backdrop for trading stories and thoughts regarding life’s bigger questions.

We talked about everything from the evolving challenges that different generations had to face, to tiny weather-worn tombstones, to death and the great beyond. It was the latter which brought out the wonder and brightest of smiles from Emily who would become my bride the following spring.

Half a century later, she would ride secure in my saddle bag for one final trek to Jardine and that cemetery.

I left our sleepy town early June 1st, heading northwest for a couple hours before intersecting route 90 which would carry me westward all the way to Wyoming.

The first day’s four hundred miles would showcase countless corn, soybean and alfalfa fields, before crossing the picturesque Mississippi Valley to even more fields with large windfarms spicing up the views.

After a long day in the saddle, I rolled into a Day’s Inn in Jackson, Minnesota. I was detaching my side bags when an SUV pulled up, and I met fellow cheeseheads - Jerry and Jane. We had an engaging conversation about their travels, old motorcycle days, and life in general. By luck we ran into each other again at the local Subway. As we ate our $4 specials, the conversation drifting toward our kids - theirs being roughly ten years younger than ours.

Jane’s eyes welled up as she described almost losing their daughter due to hemorrhaging during childbirth a few years ago. She’d been informed by her obstetrician that attempting to have a natural birth following an earlier C-section could be very dangerous. Jerry went on to defend her choice saying, “she just wanted to experience a normal childbirth.”

Somehow the conversation “drifted” toward Covid and the division in our country. We all agreed that our focus should be nudged toward the things that unite us instead of those which divide us. Jerry lamented the fact that several friends had “dropped them” during the first two years of the pandemic. “They disagreed with us about the need for masks and vaccinations - even though we reassured them that we wouldn’t be socializing if we did get sick.”

He seemed unaware of the fact that infected people are most contagious right before they develop their symptoms. I asked if he saw any parallels between his daughter ignoring the OB doc’s advice and them ignoring the recommendations of the infectious disease experts during the pandemic. All I got was an unintelligible mumble and a change of topic.

Between that night and the next morning during breakfast, I learned of their mutual passion for pickleball, and Jerry’s love of serious go-kart racing. He also shared that he worked out an average of 2 1/2 hours per day - noting that the only exception was right after his total knee replacement. I couldn’t resist the temptation - “Did you tell the surgeon that they didn’t need to wear their masks during your operation?

This time he delivered a smirk as he pointed toward the large screen TV - “you should pay attention to this.” I barely had time to move my focus toward the emergency weather alert. I did catch a fleeting glimpse of a large red zone of serious thunderstorms and destructive winds forecast for somewhere in South Dakota - before the regular “news” resumed.

We talked for another fifteen minutes and said our goodbyes with no hint of another weather forecast over the interim. My phone weather app was of no use since I had no notion of the predicted storms whereabouts.

By 7:30 the second day, I was off with the sun at my back, and the beanpole straight interstate ahead. The temps started in the fifties but as they creeped upward toward eighty, I stripped down to a tee shirt and jeans with all of my other layers either strapped onto or stuffed into my motorcycle bags.

By mid-afternoon the clouds moved in and they darkened, so I took the first exit which offered lodging, but the options looked more like flea bags than motels. I gassed up, noting my bikes thermometer at 79 degrees. It was hard to miss the strengthening wind as I turned onto the entrance ramp.

No more than two minutes later, the temperature had dropped to 71, and the rain started as did my shivering - the drenched shirt no longer being an asset. As the sky turned black, the ring of clear skies around us all but disappeared. Lightning and thunder filled that void.

Doing the speed limit of 80, I took comfort in the little horizontal sliver of light twenty or thirty miles west of me and tried to expedite the storms passage breaking a hundred a time or two. The enormous roar told me the headwind was far greater than I’d ever experienced at that speed or higher.

But then the wind got serious with the traffic and me starting to weave. It was now teeming to the point where I couldn’t see due to the condensation with the face shield down. As I lifted it, the driving rain pummeled my face. I started shivering as the thermometer indicator dropped into the low 60’s.

Even with my face shield up I struggled to see and was afraid traffic wouldn’t be able to see me with my drenched yellow shirt or small taillights. And then the horizontal rain turned to hail. Within several minutes cars and semi’s started to line up on the shoulder and I pulled off myself.

Angling the motorcycle diagonally toward the headwind, I noticed a temperature of 54 as my shaking hand reached to turn off the engine. Then I crouched down beside it to lessen the bludgeoning. After what seemed like hours (probably ten or fifteen minutes) between my shivering and concerns that the motorcycle would blow over on me, I ran for safer cover behind a car which had pulled in after me.

I crouched down near the car’s trunk after gesturing to the invisible driver to minimize the chance that they would back over me before driving off. After another miserable ten or so minutes I heard a faint door click and a barely discernible yell - “get in.” With that invitation I set my incessantly shaking, super-soaked body down on her rental car’s warm and dry seat.

Caitlin was on a business trip for her relatively new employer (EPIC) having graduated from college a year ago. I can only imagine the mental gymnastics she went through before deciding to let me a complete, though hurting, stranger in. Within fifteen minutes my shaking had ceased, and I was able to converse though my brain was too rattled to retain - whatever it was that we talked about.

As the winds died down and the thunderstorm fizzled out to a steady rain - I encouraged Caitlin to go on her way, which she did joining dozens of fellow travelers who had waited out the worst of the storm.

The most memorable part of our half-hour visit was the sensation of sitting in the warm sloshy car seat as she observed - “with all of the thunder and lightning, I feel like I’m watching a movie.” It’s a movie that no one could ever pay me enough to live again.

A pleasant postscript - Though my uncontrollable shaking resumed as I got moving, a tractor trailer guy passed me and then pulled back into my lane with his trailer maybe thirty feet in front of me. It was there within his slipstream that my shivering lessened over the next twenty plus miles, when I exited for a dry and warm motel - sans bedbugs.

Stay tuned for the happy ending.

Leave a comment

Over the past few months, I’ve been grateful for everyone who’s taken the time to read, reflect on, or even just ask about my book Morphing into a Better World. It’s a project rooted in the small encounters that enliven us, the connections which enrich us, and the hope that still permeates our days if we’re receptive to it.

Starting tomorrow [June 16th], the Kindle edition will be part of a Kindle Countdown Deal, which means the price drops for a short window before gradually returning to normal. If you’ve been thinking about reading it—or know someone who might appreciate a reflective, human‑centered book—this is the best moment to pick it up.

Here’s the Amazon/Kindle link: “Morphing into a Better World; Musings on Encounters, Connections, and Hope.”

Sorry for the changing cover designs - this one’s a keeper.

Thank you for being here.

As he accumulated vast resources and insurmountable strategic advantage, the world leaders cowered in fear.

But then in June of 1941 the slaughtering began.

It was only when the horror threatened other powerful nations that the resistance coalesced into the protracted nightmare of World War II. Back in the day, there had been no political systems, countries, or individuals which had the courage and moral clarity to hold-in-check such a malignant narcissist.

There were countless weak and bogus justifications offered for Hitler’s aggressions, but in the final analysis, more than 70 million people died because of his unrestrained evil.

And survivors all around the world and for generations declared - we can never let this happen again.

Leave a comment

Though this happened a year ago, it’s not something one would soon forget.

All I wanted to do was remove my wife’s name from the joint account which we had both contributed to for decades. She was in no position to benefit from her generosity as she had recently left this realm for what she called the “Great Adventure.”

I was naive enough to think that this was a straightforward endeavor, so I logged into the account just before lunch - and worked my way through the appropriate prompts. The deeper I got within the website, the more I realized that there was not a single option for anyone to remove someone’s name from an account without them either appearing in person or providing a notarized signature from that person.

I was prepared to forward a copy of my late wife’s death certificate, but every single avenue took me via another circuitous route to their AI “Help Center” which would again explain the company’s policies and procedures.

Probably an hour into this fiasco, as I was on the verge of spontaneously combusting - I found myself ranting to what sure sounded like a human being on the other end of the phone. As I took a much-needed breath, “Amanda” caught me off guard with an ever so gentle “I’m very sorry for your loss.” She patiently listened as I vented, making only a rare interruption for clarification - and then she apologized for the glitches within the system.

She followed that apology with the words that only an actual human being could utter with conviction - “I’m going to stay with you until we get this unfortunate issue resolved.” Over the next fifteen minutes, as I juggled between two different computers and a marginally cooperative scanner, she did exactly that.

When I “hung up,” I just sat there in awe having discovered yet another fine-tuned human spirit doing their best to lighten the load of a stranger.

Leave a comment

It actually was an ant. At 3/8 of an inch-long, it had spectacularly dodged a crushing blow as I set my beer glass down on the nearby tree stump. Within a microsecond, that minute creature had not only escaped a certain death but also sprinted to the edge of the tree stump, where it dove head-first into a deep crevice in the bark.

With a brain the size of a poppy seed, that one ant, the sum-total of millions of years of bioengineering, had simultaneously interpreted the visuals and activated hundreds of thousands of neurons to power the muscles in all six legs to produce that dramatic dive which saved its ever so tiny butt for another day.

I was as impressed as could be and it wasn’t the solitary IPA talking. It was the realization that we all get to live together on this one-of-a-kind, amazing planet!

Leave a comment

I appreciate each and every one of you supporting my work - many thanks, Mark.

That which we focus on, we give energy to.

As a recent widower who’d been blessed with a most tolerant and loving bride for forty-eight years, I periodically have to step out into our ever-changing world to update my perspective. I’ve learned that - being cloistered within a sense of sameness can distract from our own relevancy and zeal for life.

It so happens that I ran into a “Route 66” enthusiast back in February when I was hocking my new book at a local art show. He not only bought one of my books but came back two nights later and gave me a copy of his used Route 66 guidebook telling me - “Having read some of your book, I guarantee that YOU would love meeting all the different people along the way.” Six weeks later, I found myself doing just that.

But before we get started, let me first shed a little light on the historic thoroughfare known as “Route 66.” The road was officially opened in November of 1926 and was the first to run between Chicago and California. Large portions of it were either gravel or dirt until 1938 when the final stretches to Santa Monica were paved.

Much of the original 2400-mile highway is still drivable. However, it is in various states of repair as are the historic buildings and sites along the way. Today, though many well-maintained highways parallel its course, Route 66 is a worthwhile venture off the beaten path for those with the time and interest to visit or revisit yesteryear.

So, now that you’ve got the general idea, a week ago I headed southwest from Chicago, to take in some Americana for a couple days. As promised, I did have some very enjoyable conversations with people from three different countries and half a dozen states, but I couldn’t help thinking that it would have been an even richer experience with someone riding shotgun to share the nuances of the journey with.

My favorite stop was in Odell, IL where a dozen of we travelers crossed paths at a beautifully restored 1932 Standard Oil Station. The first to arrive was a couple in their mid-twenties riding a half-century-old Fiat coupe which was followed by a full-sized RV Camper - carrying the young woman’s daughter, her parents and their motel on wheels.

While we talked, we were joined by two middle-aged couples in their mid-thirties who went to the same elementary school in France and had been close friends ever since. Though they lived in different countries, they had joined up again - this time to take a two-week trip across the US on their way to a destination wedding of another childhood friend in Naples, Florida.

Over my two days on the road, I saw many varieties of “cool” memorabilia and met some very kind and interesting people. But five years from now, what I’ll most likely remember won’t be any of the above.

As many of my readers already know, my post-retirement vocation has been to try to nudge our collective focus - from that which divides, toward that which builds up and unites. That said, I periodically get a cold blast of reality which reminds me of what a steep climb we’re on.

During my second morning in Illinois, I sat with a dozen other Best Western patrons eating traditional motel fare as an extremely large man in his sixties arrived via wheelchair. He was dressed for the occasion with skull and crossed bones across his chest and a cast boot on one foot. As his lady partner hooked his cane on the back of one chair, he parked his wheelchair next to it. Then he stood up with no assistance and hobbled his way over to the trough where he filled his Styrofoam plate. His lady servant was collecting a couple coffees and juice ten feet away when he actually screamed - “ GET MY CANE ! ”

I don’t know that I’ve ever heard anyone talk to their dog with the level of vitriol that he emanated. As sad and disturbing as the scene was, I was equally struck by the irony. The woman on the receiving end of that abuse wore a sweatshirt emblazoned with a large yellow flag announcing - “Don’t Tread on Me.”

The second deeply imprinted memory will be my visit to the Abraham Lincoln museum in Lincoln, Illinois. That narrative started as I intercepted a bunch of elementary school-aged kids in the lobby giving a presentation on our sixteenth president. I was invited by the teacher to join their observing parents which I did before wondering off solo. Over the course of a couple hours, I tried to assimilate the era’s history, being in constant awe of the phenomenal character and humility of this selfless leader.

I read of the tremendous toll that was exacted as he did everything in his power to hold our flailing nation - together . . . and the contrasts were haunting.

Leave a comment

Even if we move past the insane economic and opportunity costs of fighting another endless war, we’re left with unfathomable costs in human lives. Fatalities so far include at least 3,300 Iranians and 2,100 Lebanese - roughly half of which are civilians. US and Israeli losses are listed as 13 and 23 respectively.

As tragic as “our” losses have been, the ratios reflect what happens when two of the most technologically advanced militaries team up to sucker punch a much weaker and antiquated opponent, while they’re in negotiations!

But there are even greater costs to be paid -

• Another generation of Americans are being taught

  - that the way we resolve conflict is through violence.

  - that those with the most power determine what is moral, just, or legal.

  - that lives don’t matter as long as they’re not “ours.”

  - that entire nations are our enemies, to be distrusted and hated.

  - that killing non-combatants is just the cost of doing business.

  - that duty calls them to ignore facts and blindly follow their president in the name of patriotism.

• On June 22, 2025, President Trump declared that “Iran’s key nuclear enrichment facilities have been completely and totally obliterated,” and subsequently he added that their program was “set back permanently.” And yet, we still totally obliterated the lives of thousands of people over the premise that they were a nuclear threat.

• Another generation of those scattered all across the Middle East are being taught

  - to hate and distrust Americans, Israelis and Jews.

  - that the only way to fight back against Evil Empires is to become brave terrorists.

• People all around the world are being taught

  - that American leaders don’t trust fellow NATO members enough to let them participate in decisions that affect them.

  - that they can’t trust Americans to negotiate in good faith.

  - that we will always live within the paradigm that - it’s “Us against Them.”

  ---

  When will we ever learn?

  Leave a comment

  Us AND Them is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

  h.

I woke up before five this morning pondering, what on earth is civilization’s greatest issue - could I narrow it down? The word hedonism came to mind, and it hovered there at the top of my mental pyramid for half an hour until apathy yanked that booger down and sat on it!

There are all kinds of people motivated by self-centered and even evil pursuits, but at least they can have passion, and life is still in them.

What brings me sadness more than anger or frustration are those who are subconsciously immersed in escapism for the sake of escapism - those who sit for hours in front of screens, their facial muscles atrophied . . . creativity buried, . . . arms vulnerable to the needle - fearing death as they ride on the cusp.

Leave a comment

Introduction -

Have you ever found yourself in the midst of a heated conversation thinking - “if only I could drive home this one point - then they would get it?” I’ve been there in the past and admit that it’s an intuitive approach that’s difficult to step away from. Different iterations of this scenario play out millions of times every day - across our nation and around the globe! The strategy is as old as the hills and the cornerstone of countless failed relationships. And yet we keep resorting to it.

One of the main reasons that the above approach is so ineffective, is that when discussions become heated, a foundational view has typically been challenged.

So where do we get such rigid perspectives?

In the twenty-first century, our information ecosystems play a huge role. “News” commentary and social media often reign at the top of our lists with Americans investing thousands of hours each year in the cause of fortifying our mental status quo. And that doesn’t include the opportunity costs of such time-consuming indoctrination.

We collectively benefit when we understand that most of the above investments are algorithm driven and frequently structured to keep the participants angry, fear-filled and engaged - ever waiting to see what happens next.

Many of us have developed a subconscious reliance on that which we consider to be valuable information. And no one is going to discard such an important asset because someone they consider to be an ill-informed, know-nothing of a person, holds out a trashcan. *

The countless hours of indoctrination from parents, peers, screens, or pulpits translate to concrete bastions of resistance when new ideas are encountered. We become attached to our perspectives because they are the sum total of our culture, personal experiences, education and all of the outlays of emotions and time that we’ve invested.

What a Productive Encounter is NOT -

• a debate

• a contest of strategies

• a place where there are winners and losers

• a place where power differentials are exploited

• an emotional exchange of competing talking points

  ---

A humble realist would acknowledge that it is exceedingly rare for one person to actually change another. We may provide the right support, influence, or even inspire someone, but they will change only when the stars align from their vantage point!

What we can do is provide low-key, relatively judgement-free environments where reasonable people might actually consider the validity of another person’s views. We could infer just by our shared civility, that this might be a place where we could take a tiny peek at the opposite side of the coin. To take a momentary step into the world of “the other.”

Some Common Denominators of Productive Encounters -

• respectful listening

• genuine curiosity, a desire to get beyond the superficial talking points to the deepest concerns of that individual in front of us.

• a willingness to meet another person where they are, as opposed to where we’d like them to be

• brief pauses where one or both participants reflect on seemingly new ideas

• either a balanced exchange of ideas or one where one conversant unofficially yields the floor giving the other person an opportunity to vent - which can be very telling for all involved.

Some Goals of a Productive Encounter might be

• to get past the silly notion that we’re all right, and they’re all wrong.

• to create a judgement-free atmosphere for communication and better understanding - a place where no one is considered an “ill-informed, know -nothing of a person.”

• to lessen the apprehension that frequently accompanies an encounter with someone different than us.

• to move the needle ever so slightly from the perception that we are so divided toward the reality that we are so interconnected.

• to respect our way past the head covering, the perceived intelligence, the accent, the straggly beard, the make-up or even the tee shirt - enough - to see the heart.

• to get a sense of connection, however small.

  ---

Leave a comment

What do YOU think reasonable goals should be?

Thank you so much for staying with me on such an important topic.

Disclaimer - In some cases, a person’s views are inseparable from their identity, their self-worth, or even some idealized legacy which they hope to leave behind. This goes way beyond the common tendency to protect our egos. In these specific situations and others which emanate rigidity, the best and safest approach might be to kindly disengage and walk away before too many feathers have been ruffled.

(A number of my readers have noticed that my posts & emails have gone to their Promotions, Spam or “Offers” files instead of Inbox. If I ever seem to have disappeared, please check yours)

And it starts with each one of us respectfully listening to, and learning from, each other - one small step at a time.

Published January 2026

Now available on Amazon and Kindle

Leave a comment

- the failure to acknowledge the futility and unfathomable costs of entering unwinnable wars. The two longest wars in U.S history are prime examples.

Afghanistan War - October 7, 2001, to August 30, 2021

The justification for the war was to eradicate al-Quida and remove the Taliban from power after the 9/11 attack by 19 terrorists - most of whom were from Saudi Arabia. The war cost 2,325 American lives and 20,093 were wounded.

Tragically, the Taliban is still in control of Afghanistan and its gender apartheid. Estimated economic cost of the war to the United States, $2,300,000,000,000 according to a Brown University’s “Cost of War Study”, with another two trillion dollars projected to cover associated veteran costs through the year 2050.

For those who might be interested, over 66,000 Afghan military and police were killed along with 47,245 Afghan civilians - mainly women and children. Many millions were also displaced internally with 2-plus million fleeing to other countries.

Vietnam War - 1955 to 1975 -

driven by the short-term goal of preventing the spread of communism from North to South Vietnam and the associated “Domino theory” which contended that communism would spread throughout Southeast Asia. Cost in human lives - 58,220 American deaths and 153,303 wounded. Estimated deaths among the Vietnamese were between 750,000 to 3 million, but neighboring Cambodians and Laotians were also lost by the tens of thousands. Economic costs were estimated to be $1.3 trillion to $1.5+ trillion in today's dollars. That which was formerly South Vietnam, has been under communist rule since the North and South became unified following the withdrawal of US troops.

Also to be considered are the roughly thirty American veterans who commit suicide per day - most of whom are from the Vietnam war era.

Merely trying to wrap our heads around the insane levels of widespread generational suffering, and the opportunity costs that we all continue to pay should beg the question - How long will we continue to just “carry on” as these unfathomable travesties are perpetuated in our name?

Your thoughts would be greatly appreciated.

Leave a comment

Addendum added - February 20,2021.

A couple of different times I have written on this forum - “The Deeper the Connection, the Slower the Rejection.” I feel quite self-conscious putting my name after those quote marks, but I am in fact the one who strung those words together. So, I thank Elene G. for helping me work through that timidity.

Those words are also at the core of my recently published book entitled “Morphing into a Better World - Musings on Encounters, Connections, and Hope” - available on AMAZON and Kindle

I recently came across a post by a friend of mine in which he expressed how much he detested the Superbowl half-time show, stating - “it was retarded.” The fact that he didn’t like the performance was no surprise, but his word choice was. Knowing this guy to be compassionate and insightful, I did a double take and then the rumination began.

First, I acknowledged that it was very unlikely that he had hurt or offended anyone intentionally or otherwise. That being said, my gut response was still more complicated and less personal than that.

So, I wondered, was it just a slip of the tongue or was it a commonly used phrase for him? Would he be likely to yell “that was retarded,” at a grandson’s high school football game after the ref made a seemingly idiotic call? Would he use that expression with all of its traditionally attached venom in front of my disabled grandson who at age twelve happens to be non-verbal and severely impaired intellectually following a traumatic birth. Or would he use it in front of that child’s grandparents? I doubt that he would knowingly do any of the above.

But let’s for argument's sake pretend that he would. Then he is currently in a different place than I am. Being mere humans, we’re both prone to making mistakes - some of which we grow from and others from which we don’t. My goal is not to shame or malign anyone, especially a friend. It’s merely to suggest that we consider the unintended consequences of the words that we use to communicate.

Just for the record, when someone describes an individual as being retarded, they do not get a rise out of me, though I still think it’s an antiquated expression. My dander rises when words are chosen which fit right in with the centuries old practice of putting down individuals or groups of individuals because they don’t meet our standards. In this frequently repeated scenario, a person with a disability would be defined by it and demeaned because of it. Even today, it’s a short leap between saying a performance is retarded and calling a performer a “retard.”

I’ve been blessed to have had countless interactions with the intellectually impaired and their families, both in my medical practice and while teaching adaptive skiing in Upstate New York. As with their neurotypical counterparts, some were more likable than others, but not one of them came off as being worthy of disdain. Those would be the people who knowingly stigmatize those who are clearly struggling more than the rest of us - to just get by.

Be it a health condition, a person’s race, ethnicity, limited IQ, family financial status or religious beliefs, no human deserves to carry the extra burden of generic condescension or cruelty. I am not talking about using politically correct language here because there is no attached political agenda. That is unless respect and human decency have become partisan issues.

“The deeper the connection, the slower the rejection.” - Mark VanLaeys

I greatly appreciate hearing your thoughts. This is not a question of who’s right and who’s wrong. It is an opportunity to throw around some different ideas, to see if our perspectives can widen.

Leave a comment

I have been at a loss for words since the needless killing of Renee Nicole Good on January 7, 2026, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The circumstances were so complicated and heated that it is not a big surprise that things got out of control and a life was lost. Having viewed half a dozen videos, I see the argu…

Read more

Available on Amazon and Kindle

The idea started germinating less than two months ago when an airport hangar-neighbor of mine seemingly made a random phone call. He asked if I wanted to join him for lunch or a beer. Though I had enjoyed talking with Dan* dozens of times over the last five years, I wasn’t sure we’d know how to converse without the backdrop of either his or my homebuilt airplane. And, we had established early on that politics was a no-fly zone. That said, he is a retired podiatrist and I’m a retired physician assistant, so we had a little to work with - but still, I was in for a surprise.

We met at a microbrewery near the airport for lunch, but that meal got moved to the backburner as I took in the story of one very interesting and multi-dimensional character. He, with my prodding, drifted from his service in the Army to being a cop, to learning how to fly - mainly via reading during lunch breaks between patients. Then he explained that once he got his pilot’s license, he started using that break time to write and eventually self-publish eight mystery/crime novels! And here I was thinking that all he did was repair feet and fly airplanes.

It’s not a stretch to imagine, that the conversation then meandered toward my writing. Dan not only planted the seeds that day, but over the subsequent weeks generously added the Miracle Grow as we navigated our way through the logistical challenges of getting my first book published so quickly. Many of those within my innermost circle questioned - why the hurry? And my simplest answer would be - I’m on a mission!

“Morphing into a Better World - Musings on Encounters, Connections, and Hope”

I’ve written hundreds of newsletters or blog posts since 2017, and this book is a collection of the “top” sixty-five of those. Though many have been highly edited, all of the chapters are relevant to either my growth as a person or my quest to lessen the false perception that we are a completely divided nation and world.

In hindsight, I would never have been able to do this work if I had not previously weaned myself from the angertainment, which had all but consumed me. Only in doing so could I give Emily, my dying wife, the undivided attention and TLC that she warranted. Having been “on the wagon” for a year now, I have zero desire to go beyond my five-minute daily “news” update. I’m definitely less angst-filled and more productive.

And there was a bonus. A month ago, it became clear that the first week of January would be the earliest realistic date for the publication of my paperback. In the process of transcribing the footnotes for my book a couple weeks ago, I pulled out Emily’s first book - to copy down her publisher’s information. It turns out that “Dream Weaving” was actually published in January of 2001 - a happy coincidence, or could somebody still be nudging my strings?

Leave a comment

*Daniel Syverson, DPM author of The Ethan Knight series and other mystery/suspense novels including Poker Night - available on Amazon.

Hopefully a fair number of you can remember the childhood wonder that came with seeing the evergreen tree in all of its glory on Christmas morning. That would be after “Santa” delivered - the lights, the glitter, hopefully the presents . . . and Magic! Whether it was a football, a sled or that long yearned-for doll, I hope I’ve stirred at least one fond memory. Before I give brief versions of two memorable Christmases, I’d like to provide a little context, so you’ll see where I was coming from.

I had graduated from college and then hitch-hiked through half of our states arriving in Aspen right before the Christmas holiday. As an official ski bum working two jobs, I was looking for a place to stay when I “discovered” a cot in the large, pitch-black basement of a motel. Sorry, but it’s a long story.

Two weeks later, the alarm clock jarred me to life fifteen minutes earlier than usual so I could “do” Christmas before racing off to work. I flailed around in the dark until I found the ceiling light string. And there at the foot of my cot stood an unopened box from my dear mom which had arrived a few days earlier. I still have a visual of the larger box but can only remember one of its contents - a bottle of wine for me to “share with your friends.” But the truth was that there was not a single person within a thousand miles who cared one snowflake’s worth about me.

And at that point, I got to thinking - though my childhood memories were marred with excessive amounts of alcohol, chaos and drama, they were also filled with love, generosity and the best efforts of those who truly cared about me.

TWO YEARS LATER

Emily and I had been happily married for a year and a half and were living in Birmingham where I was attending the University of Alabama to become a physician assistant. It was an intense twenty-three-month program and I, with an average IQ, had to study my butt off - six am until midnight - to keep up with my peers. Emily had just finished graduate school and was working as an editorial assistant for a Southern Baptist magazine during the day. At night she was writing her own stories on her mom’s antique typewriter.

We had a nine-day break to drive home to NJ to see my family, and then after Christmas morning, her family up on Long Island, NY.

At my folk’s house, I intentionally had put a mystery gift behind the tree and had given Emily a small present - in keeping with our marginally sustainable finances at the time. After all but one gift was opened, I set the large, wrapped box down in front of her. While she tore away at the paper uncovering the words - Corona Electric Typewriter, she looked very confused - and then the tears flowed as I explained. For months I’d been selling my blood plasma between classes so that I could earn Christmas money while studying. It was phenomenal to see the unfathomable become real right in front of her eyes.

FORTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER

A year ago, Emily was actually doing OK. She was slipping away from us, but being between chemo treatments, her symptoms had lessened to a tolerable level. We decided that maybe for the first time in decades, we should have a low-key Christmas at home.

So, we set our own pace and were able to follow through on our usual Christmas traditions, pulling out Emily’s favorite music, and foods, while opening a few presents. We mainly just talked like we had a thousand times before and reveled in the closeness we knew would be coming to end. And then we capped the night off with - “Sleepless in Seattle,” one of her favorite movies.

All things considered, it was an enjoyable day. It probably wasn’t fundamentally that much different than so many others. It’s just that we both savored each moment, all day long.

ON REFLECTION, I WOULD ASK -

What if the common denominator between the second and third Christmas stories - was some remnant of the magical experiences we remember from our childhood? Notably absent in the first story was any hint of magic or kinship - which is why it was the low point to which all future Christmases would be compared.

What if the above is related in some way to a millionaire who, for the first time ever, puts a bill in the cup of some homeless guy without questioning whether or not he’s going to spend it on alcohol?

What if it also dovetails with the story of a portly, grey-bearded guy, dispensing gifts from a sleigh pulled by reindeer OR the story of a baby born to a virgin, turned radical adult who showed with his life that truth, tolerance, compassion and forgiveness are worth dying for.

What if each of the above is an example of - we humans doing the best we can, wherever we are in life, to connect with that which is beyond us and between us - be it magical or divine?

Leave a comment

Happy Holidays to All !

A Smart man learns from his own

But a Fool learns from neither

Right now, as I try to go through the Christmas rituals solo for the first time in 49 years, I just wish I had learned to give thanks to my late wife for the hundreds of things she did to make my life so rich - from the table runner which she lovingly quilted last Christmas in the middle of failing her last chemo regimen, to the creche she’d set up by herself for the last forty years to remind us that Jesus and his teachings were the reason for the season. . . to being the first one to get up in the middle of the night when one of our kids was sick . . . to cooking my favorite meal when I’d return home from some mission trip . . . . . .

I’m sure I thanked her for most of these at the time - but did I convince her that she was a gem to be treasured.

If you are fortunate enough to have a loved one at your side right now, please let them know how truly grateful you are to have them in your life. I wish even a fool had suggested the same to me a year ago.

Merry Christmas to you all.

Leave a comment