Everything is always bigger and better in Texas. At least, that’s what Texans think. Well if you haven’t been paying attention, it’s becoming the most dangerous place in America. It’s run by stark raving Republicans who have been elected by the people, so the majority of people in Texas support what’s going on there. The danger is that Texas is leading a pack of other Republican run states that are trying to manipulate democracy to keep them in power and exclude or trample on the rights of people they feel are a threat to their conservative, and some would say, racist views.

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Memorial Day is the day we remember those who died for our country. While it commemorates the end of their lives, it evolved into the unofficial first day of a summer, an odd mix of somber and happy. As we seem to have finally gotten Covid under control, everyone is looking forward to the sunshine. But there are dark political divisions that seem to have grown deeper during the year of Covid and the defeat of Trump. Because the Republicans still believe the “Big Lie” of the stolen election, they are on a nationwide campaign to restrict our right to vote. Even though there has been repeated proof from election officials and the courts that there was no widespread fraud in the 2020 election. It’s been called the most secure in history. Republicans didn’t like losing and they want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

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We live in a world of short attention spans. Even texts have been reduced to emojis. Get to the point. But you wouldn’t know that if you listen to broadcast news on radio and television. Remember those? The digital generation isn’t listening. Having grown up watching and working in boardcast journalism, I even get impatient with the sin of redundancy. Writing that’s lazy and overdone. Simple declarative sentences are being littered with unnecessary adjective and adverbs.

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It was a beautiful spring day. My wife Maureen and I went up to the borough of Doylestown, Pennsylvania for an outdoor lunch and some shopping. Doylestown is a typical suburban small town with many restaurants, bars, shops and a long history. Before heading home, we stopped at our favorite coffee shop. As we settled down at one of the sidewalk tables, I noticed a guy coming out of the shop and sitting on a bench just a few feet away. He had a gun on each hip. I could only see the handles sticking up from the holsters tucked inside his belt. One had a white handle, one a darker handle. He looked to be in his mid-30s, glasses, hair parted down the middle. He started talking with an older guy wearing an Eagles sweatshirt at another table. I could hear some of the conversation about the lockdowns over Covid. They were calm and seemed to be enjoying the day as we were. I asked Maureen to turn around slowly and see what I saw. She said she was uncomfortable. I agreed. We left. Welcome to America.

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On December 14, 2012 we started to get reports into our newsroom that there was a shooting at an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut. First reports were unclear about how many people were shot. Newtown was close enough to Philadelphia for us to send a reporter and camera crew if this was developing into a mass shooting. One of our reporters who had worked in Hartford was on vacation near the school. She called me and asked if we knew about the shooting. I told her we did, but we’re waiting for more information about how bad it was. She said she would see what see could find out and call back. She called back shortly and said she talked with an old police contact. He told her, “It’s bad.” As we all know, it was very bad. Twenty children between six and seven years old and six adult staff members were slaughtered by a 20 year man with severe mental health problems who killed his mother before leaving home to attack the school. Like so many of the mass shooters, he also shot himself. A report by the state office of the Child Advocate said Adam Lanza’s “severe and deteriorating internalized mental health problems…combined with an atypical preoccupation with violence…(and) access to deadly weapons…proved a recipe for mass murder.”

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When Tom pulled into Bernie’s driveway, he knew he would have to wait. Bernie was never ready. Tom tapped the horn twice, and waited. After a few minutes, the double garage door opened. Bernie walked between the two shiny black SUVs struggling to carry his golf bag and his small suitcase. It was overcast and looked like rain. Not a great day for golf.

“The goddamn weather never cooperates. Every year we start off with a lousy day,” said Bernie.

He was already complaining.

Tom jumped out of his white SUV and popped the hatch back.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Sunshine. The weather is suppose to clear by the time we get to the course.”

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It started when I happen to look down and notice my left ankle was swollen. I hadn’t fallen or twisted it. There was no pain. I had range of motion. There was no redness or rash or heat. I showed my wife Maureen, a registered nurse, the next night. She asked if I could breathe okay and pee okay. Her feared it was a DVT, a deep vein thrombosis, a blood clot. She was anxious to have me seen. She knew I didn’t want to see my family doctor because his office was a longer drive away, and pushed me to see my rheumatologist who is closer. I knew this would mean getting sucked into a process of phone calls, seeing different doctors, and tests. I would become one of those old people whose life is regulated by appointments. I called my rheumatologist who treats me for arthritis. I was secretly hoping that was the cause of the swelling. But I knew I was looking for an easy explanation. The nurse practitioner said let’s try elevating the ankle and icing it for a couple of days and see what happens. The swelling did go down a little, but not completely. After a couple of days, I called her. She suggested I come in and get it checked, appointment number one.

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Jack knew he had to go slowly down the steep, winding road. The wet leaves made it even slicker. It was only seven o’clock in the morning, and the sun was trying to break through the morning fog. He was riding the break as he eased around the tight curves. He and his wife had arrived at the lake house late the night before. He was going down to the general store at the bottom of the hill to get coffee and some breakfast food. He first noticed a whisper of smoke coming up from the side of the narrow road that dropped into a deep ravine along the right side. As he got closer to the spot, he saw the skid marks through the wet leaves. He slowed to a stop, and looked down the rocky edge of the road. He could see the black SUV on its side being held up by a small tree keeping it from dropping even farther down the ravine. It was leaning down on the passenger side. The front and back wheels on the driver’s side were off the ground, and still slowly spinning. He pulled to a stop about twenty feet passed the spot, and jumped out.

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It was a 96 mile an hour fastball Tyson Chambers had seen many times. He was just a split second late. The ball went slicing down the right field foul line curving past the extended protective screen. Frank Miller was watching the ball the whole way. His wife Helen was sitting to his right. Frank reached over around Helen’s shoulders, and pulled her head down toward his lap. As he turned his head to the right, he could see the blur. The ball hit him on the left temple. There was a loud thud. The ball ricocheted three rows to the right. Frank slumped forward. There was no blood. The side of his head started to swell on impact. The marks from the baseball’s stitches could be seen on his face. Helen sat up and cradled Frank in her arms as she screamed. Frank’s eyes were open, but they didn’t see.

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Five years ago I wrote that sixty-five was everyone’s last birthday. You enter the 65+ category and you’re just one of the millions of baby boomers who are parents of adult children and grandparents. Your adult children will eventually start treating you like a child and your grandchildren will grow bored rather than excited when they visit. But I would now argue, that I’m turning seventy, that birthdays that end in zero have a special significance. Kids get exited when they turn ten, double digits, and they have many more ahead. Birthdays that end in zero are more special than all the others. You’ve completed another decade. Birthdays marking another decade sound better. They can be expressed in one word. Even seventy sounds better than sixty-nine. Birthdays ending in nine are the worst. It’s as if you’re waiting to be accepted into a new club, but you’re just not big enough. When we were kids, we always wanted to hang out with the big kids.

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