My Goddaughter's Birthday

This is a special day.

Today is my goddaughter Nikki's 25th birthday.

I never had a sister, but I know from my experiences with my mother and my grandmothers that ladies don't like to disclose their ages — so I figure this is probably the last time Nikki will let me get away with that.

But I want to mention it for two reasons really — a person's 25th birthday is an important milestone, one that I want to be sure to observe, and knowing how old she is kind of puts things in perspective.

The year before Nikki was born, her father moved back to the St. Louis area where he had lived as a child. For a long time, he lived in Arkansas, where I grew up and lived until about a year after Nikki was born.

Nikki's father and I were close friends in high school and remained close afterward. We're still close.

And I remember being asked to be Nikki's godfather. I just don't remember when (except in a general sort of way) or how.

Her mother, Tammy, has told me many times that, when she and Randy discussed who should be their daughter's godfather, my name was the only one they considered.

I may have won that election by a landslide, but I was nevertheless humbled by the honor.

A quarter of a century later, I am still humbled by it.

And I suppose the natural inclination would be to assume that the date that I was asked to be her godfather would be one of those dates that lives forever in my memory. But I couldn't tell you what the date was — or even how they asked me, whether it was by letter or by phone.

Perhaps they asked me in person. I made an annual pilgrimage to St. Louis to see the Cardinals play the Dodgers in those days. It may have been on such a visit that they asked me. I really don't remember.

I just remember that it wasn't long after Nikki was born — sometime in the summer of 1987, I guess, maybe later.

I also remember joking with Tammy that I wanted a bumper sticker that said "Ask me about my goddaughter!"

(Actually, I think I was serious about that. Just never found one. Seems to me that you could only find "Baby on board" products in stores at that time.)

And now, she's all grown up with a young son of her own.

I keep up with her life these days via her Facebook status updates. And her mother frequently posts on Facebook about the grandson Nikki gave her.

So I have a pretty good idea of what is happening in their lives.

I never married, never had any children of my own, but I am very proud of Nikki — as proud as I would be, I suppose, if she were my own daughter.

Unfortunately, I only saw Nikki a couple of times when she was still a toddler. I wish I had been around for more of her childhood, but we lived in different states. Even so, she made me proud from a distance, and she makes me proud today.

And so, on this, her special day, I just want to say a few things to her.

Nikki, I love you very much. Each day, you redeem my own existence in ways I never would have imagined. May your life be filled with the same pleasure, wisdom and sense of purpose you have given mine.

Your love for your son reminds me so much of my own mother's love, there are times when I feel that some of her blood must flow through your veins. But maybe that is simply being a mother. Maybe it comes with the territory.

I know that can't explain it entirely, though. Not all mothers are as loving and nurturing as my mother was — and as you clearly are.

You must have inherited that from your own mother. You could not have inherited it from mine.

But that doesn't change how proud I am of who you are.

That will never change.

I hope you have a wonderful birthday and a long and happy life.

And I promise never again to tell anyone how old you are!

The Human Factor in the Equation

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Randy, Tammy and me in better times.

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These days, discussions about the economy and unemployment and all those issues seem to be handled in the abstract.

That may be the toughest part of it for the people who are affected by the bad economy. And, unfortunately, I am one of those people. I've been out of work for nearly 11 months.

Sometimes it seems like our political leaders — in both political parties — treat it as a big numbers game. And I understand that the bottom line is the main consideration for everyone. The human factor often seems to be ignored.

I guess that is the most frustrating part of being out of work. Of course, I can't speak for the millions of Americans who are out of work or who are working part–time jobs or who have just plain given up looking because they can't find anything. I can only speak for myself.

But I can say, from personal experience, that dealing with this must be more difficult for those who live alone. I hope most of the people who are unemployed have someone who can give them a boost, a pep talk, when they need it.

I know there are frequently times when I need that. But I live alone. And, for much of the last 11 months, I have had to deal with it on my own. So I think I know the special kinds of challenges that some people have to face.

When Barack Obama tells us to be patient, I try to be patient. I want to be patient. But sometimes that's easier said than done.

Especially when economists say it's going to be a "jobless recovery" and that the employment picture isn't going to get better until sometime next year — if then.

And then there are those who have been saying that the government should just get out of the way and let market forces do their thing. Seems to me, when I was in school, I read about similar advice being offered during Herbert Hoover's presidency. He followed that advice. It doesn't seem to have worked.

I know, there were different forces at work. And that was a different time, of course. My parents were mere children then. It was my grandparents who had to struggle to come up with the rent money and the money for food and clothes and all the other things that kept body and soul together.

Somehow, they did. I really wonder, sometimes, how they managed. What was their secret? What did they know that I don't? I wish I could ask them. But they've been gone for many years.

As scary as things are today, they seem like they were a lot scarier then. At one point, one–fourth of all adult Americans were unemployed. That makes the 9.5% unemployment rate that we have today seem tame by comparison.

But there were fewer people in America then. It is estimated that there are about 306 million people in this country in 2009. That is about 2½ times as many people as were living here in 1930.

So maybe a 9.5% unemployment rate in 2009 works out to the same raw number of people as 25% represented in 1932.

But that doesn't take into account the fact that perhaps that many additional Americans are not counted because they have part–time jobs or they're working at low–paying jobs for which they are overqualified or they have just given up altogether.

When that number is factored in, I have to think there are more people suffering today than there were more than 75 years ago.

I don't know. What I do know is that this draws us back into the numbers game. And that, as I said before, ignores the human element.

A few hours ago, my best friend since my high school days, Randy, called me up and we talked for nearly an hour. He lives in the St. Louis area, quite a distance from Dallas. It's been a long time since we've seen each other.

But just hearing his voice helped. Things have been difficult for me this month, more difficult than they have been. And I was incredibly grateful to hear his voice, to hear his encouragement.

I've learned that you don't make many true friends in your life. But Randy is probably the truest friend I've ever had. I've known his ex–wife, Tammy, a shorter time, but the two of them made me the godfather to their daughter, Nicole. That was a proud moment for me.

And I had some anxious moments back in the spring. Randy had a heart attack, then he underwent bypass surgery. I think it is safe to say I was not completely focused on looking for a job in those days. Randy is my link to better times.

Today, there were moments when Randy and I were talking and, in my mind, I was transported back to better times in my life — and I couldn't help wondering if all those "better times" are behind me now.

Tammy tells me that isn't so. And I want to believe that. I really do. But it's hard, sometimes. Damn hard.

Do you suppose that, maybe, that was my grandparents' secret for surviving the Great Depression — the love and encouragement of friends and family?

Waiting, Waiting, Waiting

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His hair may be grayer now, he may weigh more
or less. I don't know. I haven't seen him in nearly
20 years. But this is how I always think of Randy.

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It is nearly noon. My friend Randy, with whom I worked in the summers of our high school years and who has been my best friend since we were 16, should be about halfway through his triple bypass surgery.

When Randy comes out of surgery — at approximately 2 p.m. (Central) — his ex–wife has promised to call me.

In the meantime, I've been thinking of old times. I've been thinking of the days when Randy and I worked together in the summers. We were on a summer maintenance crew at a small college. Mostly we painted dormitory rooms. Once, we were dispatched to a tennis court, given sledgehammers and told to break up the surface so a new one could be put in its place.

On one memorable occasion, a truck loaded with fresh manure was brought on campus and the maintenance workers had to get in the truck and shovel the load into the flower beds.

Randy and I did some traveling together when we were teenagers. When we were in high school, we drove to St. Louis and spent a week with his oldest brother. In 1981, when he was a young newlywed with a young son and was living in northeastern Arkansas, I was a college student in northwestern Arkansas, but I traveled across the state to visit him in the summer. Several years later, after his first marriage had ended, he moved to St. Louis and remarried. I drove up to visit him, to meet his new wife and to go to some baseball games at Busch Stadium.

On those trips in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I remember listening to a cassette I had of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers in concert. One of the songs on the tape was called "The Waiting." I guess you'd have to be at least 35 to vaguely remember when it came out, and you'd have to be at least 40 to remember those days well, but younger folks have probably heard the song occasionally on the radio.

And when I hear it, it always reminds me of my trips to St. Louis.

The refrain of that song has never seemed truer to me than it does today. The waiting truly is the hardest part.

Anticipation

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"We can never know about the days to come
But we think about them, anyway
And I wonder if I'm really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.

"Anticipation, Anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting."

Carly Simon

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I guess I'm dating myself by referring to this song. It was written in 1971.

But it's been on my mind today. Tomorrow, my friend Randy has triple bypass surgery, and I wish I could be there, but I'm in Dallas, and he's in St. Louis. Well, actually, he lives in a small town outside St. Louis, but I think the surgery will be taking place at a hospital in St. Louis.

So I'll be waiting to hear from his ex–wife Tammy, who has promised me that she will call as soon as he comes out of surgery.

Randy posted a message for all the folks in his life on Facebook earlier today. I guess it was a way of touching base with everyone at once. He observed that heart surgery is commonplace these days — we spoke on the phone several days ago and he told me that, because of his age, his doctors think the chance that the surgery could go badly is only about 5% — but he acknowledged the fact that there's always a risk involved with major surgery.

"Just in case I happen to be one of the unlucky few," he wrote, "I want you to know how much having you in my life has meant to me. I love you all dearly and always will."

I guess it's important to be prepared for whatever may come. But Tammy was having none of it.

In her reply on Facebook, Tammy wrote, "When you come out of the hospital and are back on your feet, I personally am gonna kick your ass for even talking this way. You will be fine. We are not doing any negative talking, do you hear me?"

Randy's son and namesake was more introspective. "I'm not looking forward to tomorrow," he wrote. "Not even close."

I know how he feels. And, ironically, today is the day he graduates from high school.

It's a time of obvious extremes and conflicting emotions for his family. They're understandably happy for and proud of Randall. But they're concerned for his father, even if, like Tammy, they want to keep those thoughts hidden.

I don't know what Randy's daughter — my goddaughter — has been thinking on this day.

But, as I was driving to church today, I heard on the radio that today is the 160th anniversary of a devastating fire that destroyed a considerable part of St. Louis. Not exactly the sort of anniversary I wanted to hear about today.

St. Louis was a busy place at that time. The discovery of gold in California had launched the famed California Gold Rush in 1848, and St. Louis was the last major city where westbound travelers could get supplies.

The St. Louis Fire of 1849 apparently began on a steamboat. The fire burned through the boat's moorings, and the blazing boat drifted down the Mississippi, spreading the fire to other steamboats, flatboats and barges. Flames spread from the vessels to buildings along the shoreline.

The fire raged for more than 11 hours. It was the first time in U.S. history that a firefighter died in the line of duty.

Things were complicated by the fact that St. Louis was experiencing a cholera epidemic at the time. About one–tenth of the city's residents died of cholera that year.

The fire's impact was mostly felt in terms of property loss. Only three lives were lost, but more than 400 buildings were destroyed, along with nearly two dozen steamboats and several flatboats and barges.

Something good did come from the fire. The city enacted a new building code that required new structures to be built from stone or brick, and the city began construction of a new water and sewage system.

One hundred and sixty years later, I was unable to find any mention of the fire on the website for the St. Louis Post–Dispatch. The "hot" news in St. Louis today seems to be the "speed traps" across the state.

I don't know why a fire that occurred more than a century and a half ago was mentioned on a radio station in Dallas, Texas, but apparently received no attention from the newspaper in the city where it happened.

But I'm going to try to follow Tammy's example and think positive thoughts tonight and tomorrow.

And I'm going to hope that, like the St. Louis Fire of 1849, something good will come from this.

A Simple Twist of Fate

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Randy (right) and me standing in front of
a beer garden in St. Louis in 1987.

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Lately, it seems, this blog has been more devoted to personal matters than I would prefer, but I guess it's part of my nature to write about things when they happen. And I am reminded these days of how much is beyond my control.

This is my default position, I suppose.

Anyway, I received word that my best friend since high school, Randy, is in the hospital. He had a heart attack.

His ex–wife tells me his condition is stable, and the doctors haven't decided on his treatment yet.

It is a time of great awareness for me, I guess. The economy has already made me aware — along with millions of others — of my vulnerability. So many of life's events, most of which seemed, for so long, to be the domain of people in my parents' generation, have become part of my life and the lives of the people with whom I grew up.

People in my age group have been married, had kids, been divorced, lost parents. Some have lost siblings. Some have lost children.

And now, although I tend to associate heart attacks with people who are much older than Randy and I, my best friend has had one. Proof, perhaps, that anything can happen to anyone at any time, and preconceived notions mean little — if anything.

My thoughts keep returning to the days when Randy and I were in high school, working on a college campus maintenance crew in the summers. We've had many laughs together over the years, reminiscing about some of the things we had to do when we were 16 and 17. There were many things that we did for $2/hour in those days that we wouldn't dream of doing today, we assured each other — and, if we were coerced into doing those things now, we certainly would not do them for $2/hour!

In those days, our work shifts began at 7 a.m. I had access to a car, so I picked Randy up around 6:50, and we would drive to work. After work, Randy and I would go to his house or to mine. We would listen to the popular music of the day, and we would talk about the kinds of things that teenagers talk about — girls and cars, mostly.

Randy used to accompany me on my weekly visits to an elderly friend of mine, Aunt Bess, of whom I wrote last fall on the 20th anniversary of her death. She always got a kick out of us — two young men about to embark on an uncertain journey into adulthood.

In hindsight, I guess we were like most kids. We didn't think much about the future. We were focused on the here and now. That, I guess, is the great thing about being a teenager. It's all in front of you. You can still be anything.

But, when you get older, you become things — spouse, parent, employee. Choices are fewer. Responsibilities are greater. So are the pressures.

I hope this heart attack will not be debilitating, that it can serve as a second chance for Randy. I hope it inspires him to make wise choices. A couple of decades ago, Randy and his wife made me the godfather to their daughter. She now has a child of her own. I hope he will live to dance at his grandson's wedding — and, if his grandson follows the family tradition, Randy will still be in his 60s when that day comes.

Perhaps adjustments in Randy's lifestyle will make the difference. I don't know. But I hope so.

I still feel too young to lose my best friend.