Month: September 2017

Scene I: On three nights in the last week of June, Judy and I were at Petco Park in San Diego to watch the hometown Padres play the Atlanta Braves. We had gone to Major League games before—at Dodger Stadium, Yankee Stadium, Candlestick Park, Angels Stadium, even Petco once before. Never had we gone to a whole series, three nights in a row. In fact, the whole focus of this trip to the city where we started dating in 1962 was to attend those baseball games.

Judy has considerable knowledge about baseball, enough to be good at player names in crossword puzzles and to be able to keep a scorebook for a game. She might not pick going to a game as her choice for a special night out, but she has never balked (pun acknowledged) at going with me.

This time, the idea began with our sister-in-law, Susan, who suggested that, since they live near Atlanta and we live in Hawaii, and since the Braves were playing a series in June 2017 in San Diego, which does not happen every year, and since we had not visited each other’s homes in years, we should meet halfway. The series provided a good reason if we needed any.

Judy observed that going to the games would be one way to celebrate my 70^th birthday. What a trooper! I then suggested that, as long as we were all spending not insignificant sums to get to the games, that we should lay out the money to get really good seats each night. Susan got four, eighteen rows behind home plate, the same seats every night.

Two of the three games were shutouts. Avid fans appreciate the artistry of shutouts, but almost by definition, there aren’t many hits or runs. Nobody hit a home run until the third game when the Padres hit two. Management does its best to keep the crowd over-stimulated with loud music and flashing scoreboards which annoys those of us who come for the baseball. Judy was appropriately scornful of the hoopla, as was I.

Judy called the two home runs—“if this guys hits home runs, then he should hit one”—words uttered twice, just before each one. She noted the odd habit of the Padres second baseman who squatted outside the batter’s box every time before settling into his stance. She offered up opinions and information during the course of the game that, for someone who is a game attendee by marriage, were useful additions as we all constructed knowledge together about the sport in general and this game specifically.

I don’t doubt that, if the chance for me to attend a three game series anywhere, and I really wanted to go, she’d come with me.

Scene II: For twelve days in late July and early August, I was with Judy and our travel buddies, Ben and Nancy, in Southeastern Arizona to find birds, especially the ones that come north from Mexico during the monsoons. We four have been birding together before—in Kenya, England, New Zealand, around the western U.S.—but this was our first trip where finding and identifying as many species of birds as we could was the focal point of the trip.

My knowledge of birds pales in comparison to hers (I do know that there are no white hummingbirds), but at least I had my own binoculars. Occasionally, I see birds before others do (though typically I can’t tell you the kind of bird, just its size), and I can discern some differences in bird songs. I describe myself as a social birder, keeping lists, acting as a pointer-person, and enjoying the company of friends. I might not pick going birding as my choice for a special trip (Arizona in July?) but I have never balked at going with her. (Pun repeated.)

The idea of such a trip has been around for years. Judy had been there 41 years ago with her mother and brother and periodically said that she’d like to go again. In a Skype visit with Ben and Nancy, her wishes became a plan. To optimize our chances of seeing the exotic creatures we hoped to spot, we agreed that we should allow enough time at each of three different hot spots.

The trip proved a great success on many levels; places seen, birds identified, unanticipated adventures in friendship. I am now confident that I can identify a Broad-billed Hummingbird male among other advances in my learning. I saw a Pained Bunting and an Elegant Trogon on the same day! (Like hitting four homers in the same game.) I chose a favorite colorful bird—the Black-headed Grosbeak—because I liked the rusty orange and black together.

I experienced wilderness, the breath-taking beauty of Cave Creek in the morning light, the splendor of the rock formations at Chiracahua National Monument (and the colorful Sonoran Mountain Kingsnake, a rare sighting!) I don’t doubt that, if the chance to accompany Judy on a trip to Cave Creek at a different time of year, or even in monsoon season again, were to present itself, I’d go.

Scene III: On September 16, Judy and I marked 50 years of marriage, our great good fortune. We get asked for advice about the secret to a happy marriage.

Advice: See Scenes I and II above.

Daniel E. White

September 25, 2017

I once wrote a short story (unpublished, as all mine are) that conflated the premise of a 1950s TV show and an assertion about the value of a college education. The show was “The Millionaire.” The assertion was that college graduation would likely ensure that one would earn $400,000 more in one’s lifetime that someone who did not attend college. I wondered what would happen if all of us got the $400,000 up front.

(Last month I learned from the Social Security Administration that I earned $650 in 1964. That had been adjusted to $5600 in 2017 dollars. So, if you care to, do the math for “The Millionaire’s” one million and $400,000 then and now.)

My story was simple. Some John Beresford Tipton (People of a Certain Age, you will recall that name!) who had unlimited wealth and a desire to play around with people, presented everyone at age 21 with the $400,000 (1964 dollars). Then everyone could choose whatever he or she wanted for work; everyone had to work. Because people and their interests were so diverse, ran the thread of the story, every occupation essential to a smoothly operating society was covered.

This utopia worked for a while. Then, one person wanted more. The whole collaborative, cooperative, utopian society came crashing down.

I recalled that story as I thought about Labor Day last week. Our respective interests do run the gamut and often manifest themselves in the line of work we choose. In my utopia, some even chose to collect the trash of others because 1) they often found neat things to keep that others we tossing; 2) the work was outdoors; 3) the work did not involve managing people; and 4) there were no worries to bring home from the job.

Of course, my invented community is absurd. Some jobs that seem fairly essential—picking crops, caring for people in nursing homes, etc.—have required us to look to immigrants for workers. Silicon Valley notwithstanding, there is no John Beresford Tipton ready to fund our lifetime earnings. And, more than one person wants more, fueling our dynamic economy where innovation and improvements in productivity regularly create winners and losers. This can create some messy situations.

My visit to the Social Security office prompted me to think about a class of “laborer” in our society whose jobs involve helping people in messy situations. I was at the office to initiate the sending of my Social Security check to my bank. I could hear the conversations, though, at three other windows.

One concerned a Filipino man who had received some paperwork from Social Security germane to his income but could not find the papers. In heavily accented English with a voice that trembled with anxiety, he laid out his plight to the Social Security representative with some difficulty.

A second conversation featured a man who had suffered two strokes recently and was asking if there was any mechanism through Social Security by which he could receive additional money monthly to help pay the deductibles on his medical expenses.

The third window framed a family—dad, mom, and son—making their case to the representative that they believed themselves to be eligible for Disability payments—I couldn’t hear why but the dad was greatly overweight and had difficulty moving. The child was beautiful, bright-eyed, and well-behaved as his parents tried to find a way to get additional income for the family from what they believed to be an appropriate source.

I commented to the young man helping me that he must hear some heartbreaking stories. He replied that, when he started the job 18 months ago, he took many stories home with him, and they began to depress him. A longtime Social Security employee who was an informal mentor for him empathized. She had gone through that feeling, too.

But, she said, in order to last in that line of work, you needed to get past the stories to focus on what you could or could not do to help. And you could not heap guilt in yourself if you couldn’t help. So, he has survived in his job, thus far.

This year, I am thinking about laborers who have chosen occupations, like this young man, where serving others in need is the purpose. And social workers, police, those who work with the homeless or the mentally challenged or mentally sick. How about the worker at an unemployment office in an area where the dynamism of capitalism has wiped out the work people have been doing for 30 years? And pastors, and those who care for elderly parents, and teachers, and…maybe you, if the shoe fits?

This is the labor of loving humanity, wanting to make a difference in the lives of those in need. There was room for them in my Tipton-funded universe, and they would have been satisfied with their $400,000. These types do want more—more effectiveness in reaching those whose fortunes are not as good.

So, here’s to those among us who don’t shy away from the messes that show up in the lives of other people.

Thank you.

Daniel E. White

September 11, 2017