I’m not particularly fond of Christmas. I know this disappoints my dear wife who above all other holidays LOVES this time of year. However, I don’t have the fondest of memories only because a traumatic event happened on December 26, 1979. My father left home and never came back.  After four decades, I’ve never forgotten the date.  He never returned to our lives and built for himself a new, 3rd family (he was married once before he met my mother), with his girlfriend.  We all suspect he got her pregnant when he was still married to my mother because his ‘step’ son was born almost 7 months later, the evidence (short of doing a DNA test) is pretty compelling. Also, my dad was too vain to date a woman pregnant with another man’s baby.  Of course, my dad has denied it but my half brother is about the brownest skinned Baker I’ve ever seen with the same smile, high cheekbones, and solid build as all of my other brothers.

I don’t know of a good way to end things when a marriage breaks apart. I just don’t think how my dad handled it was exemplary. He treated all of his kids with my mother as if we were in on some wild conspiracy theory that we all hated him and he distanced himself about as far away as he could. Quite the contrary, we all still wanted his time, his attention, and his love because he was our father. He didn’t call.  He didn’t write.  He didn’t visit.  He just packed up and left.  If he could’ve been man enough to share with us what was going on, we may have been able to handle everything better than we did. When we finally did speak to him, his words were filled with contempt for my mother and that she had made us all turn against him.  Still, we invited him to key events in our lives that he just blew off.  When asked about it, his empty promises made us all feel as if we weren’t important. His actions proved it.

He missed key events like birthdays, graduations, Special Olympics for our dear sister Janie, and weddings. This I’ve never been able to understand. OK, so you weren’t compatible with my mom. Got it. But, did you have to divorce us too?  Didn’t we matter?

I was a Senior in High School when my dad left home. I acted out. I did selfish things. I tried to play the grown up in my family and sometimes I even was the disciplinarian because my poor mother fell apart. After she found out about my dad’s affair, and that his girlfriend was pregnant, she understandably threw him out. Of course, my father turned this into his poor me excuse of why he left. Not the fact he was a piece of shit as a husband and wasn’t man enough to speak honestly to us about what was going on. He just left. Plus, he didn’t contact us again until the divorce was final. That was three agonizing months until March of 1980. We didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Every Christmas reminds me of this sad state of affairs.  My father is a coward.

I made it through each day by internalizing my sadness. I felt like no one really loved me. It came out in other ways whether it was getting drunk, merciless teasing of my younger brothers, or sleeping with a good friends’ girlfriend. Of course, years later, I knew I was acting like my dad and I became angry and knew I did things to myself, my siblings and my friends I shouldn’t have done. Every Christmas my thoughts turn to that time and what an ugly person I was then. I’d like to think I’m better because of my old man. I’d like for this holiday to be the last time I feel guilty for the crappy things I’ve done.  I’d like for this to be the last time I feel I don’t matter.

Crazy as this will sound though, I wish my father was still in my life. Forty years is a long time to wait but I hold no illusions.  Neither one of us is getting any younger. I have forgiven him but I can never forget what he did to me, my brothers and sisters, and especially my mother. I know that others would have me try to reach out and make amends. They tell me how when he goes I’ll feel regret. I don’t agree. My father has to show me something he’s probably not able to – caring about someone other than himself.  It’s his loss as much as mine.

I’d like to spend a Christmas break thinking only about the good in my life.  My wonderful wife, my awesome in-laws, my brothers and sisters, great friends.  My mother is so far gone with Alzheimer’s I can only hope in her simple mind she’s reliving happier times.  I want to live my life like my dogs have with unconditional love and feeling like eating, pooping, exercise, and belly rubs are all you need to live a wonderful life.  Heck, after birth, a pooch never sees their parents again.  How are they able to cope?

I wish I knew.

For the second time in my life, someone close to me has dementia. No, I’m not trying to be funny. I’m being serious and it’s depressing. I don’t know much about the disease but seeing how debilitating it is when it strikes someone you love is about the most hopeless of all feelings. In many ways, this person is like their former selves and she’s home but the lights aren’t on. I like to think what is going through their minds may not seem like anything coherent to us but to them there is a sense of peace until their dying day.  I have to think that way or else it is just too goddamn sad.

I’d like to think while their body slowly deteriorates, their minds relive every happy moment like a perpetual flashback of life. My loved one with dementia will say something heartwarming and giggle non-stop. There are no more tears except my own and those closest to her.  She seems extremely happy but her gaze is vacant, distant, as if in another place mentally.  But let’s be honest, I know she is but a mere shadow of her former self.

The reality of caring for an individual in this state is extremely difficult – physically, financially, and emotionally. What do you do? How do you pay for constant care? It is hard to feel anything but despair and hopelessness. The person you knew, you loved, is never coming back, will never be able to carry on an intelligent conversation again and will live out their days with a daily loss of dignity.

Most seriously of all, you don’t want dementia to happen to you. I’ve started taking Magnesium supplements because I’ve learned low levels of this mineral may cause Alzheimer’s. I’ve started meditating because another root cause is a lack of sleep. I’ve had insomnia for years and, while taking Melatonin does help, the real root cause of my sleeplessness is stress. Mentally, I need to slow down and meditation has helped a lot to put my mind at ease. But, this post isn’t about me. It’s about seeing someone you love slowly, mentally and physically, decline before your very eyes and you know there’s nothing you can do about it.

So, I try to stay positive and put on a brave face and think about what it would be like to be inside a demented person’s head. I hope inside her mind all of the memories of pain and suffering she went through have vanished and only the happiest thoughts remain. Gone are the worries and the anger and the disappointments. I’m not at all suggesting this existence is anything but tragic. I’m only hoping for the best when I know the best has come and gone and is now only a distant memory.

I’ve had a wonderful 4 weeks of paid vacation. With just a week until the end of my Sabbatical, I’m feeling kind of blue. There’s no reason for this. It just is what it is. I mean not too many folks can get this kind of a break from work, so I shouldn’t complain. I needed the break but I’m not ready to get back to the job.  How crazy is that?

The first week went by almost like a blur.  I played three baseball games, worked out, went to a couple of Hillsboro Hops games, and finalized all of the details of our Mexico City trip.

We spent the next two remarkable weeks in the capital city of Mexico.  We did so much visiting all of the top sites including:  the Templo Mayor ruins, Zocalo, the Metropolitan Cathedral, the Palacio Nacional, including the death bed of Benito Juarez and murals of Diego Rivera depicting the history of Mexico, Museo Nacional de Antropologia, La Casa Azul, Leon Trotsky Museum, NIKE Store, Teotihuacan, Pyramids of the Sun and Moon, Bosque de Chapultepec, Diablos Rojos Mexican League baseball game, Museo Mural of Diego Rivera, Museo de Tequila y Mezcal, the city of Coyoacan, including Frida Kahlo Park, the Museo Tamayo, Museo de Arte Moderno and saw original works by Diego and Frida, Monumento a los Ninos Heroes, the Palacio de Bellas Artes and got caught in a downpour, the La Merced Mercado, the towns of Cholula and Puebla and drove by the historic battlefield memorial, the remarkable Museo Dolores Olmedo and Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.  We were disappointed in the Mercado San Angel but toured the El Carmen Convent, and our last day was topped off by a visit to the Soumaya Museum.  Oh, the street tacos, spicy corn on the cob, and churros is the food I’ll miss the most.  We survived a 2.9 earthquake and the subsequent move from the 19th to the 7th floor.  And the concierge desk help of Montserrat and Julian survived us.  They both were great help with local restaurant suggestions and booking the tours to the pyramids, La Casa Azul, and to Puebla.

Week 4 was back home to California with a first stop in the Bay Area for a couple of days and then a romantic 4 days in Napa.  We witnessed one of the greatest comebacks in San Francisco Giants history with a 13-inning walk off HR by none other than Pablo Sandoval.  Panda who burned a bridge when he left the team for Boston in 2015.  Disgraced after a dismal, 2.5 years in a Red Sox uniform, the Giants picked him up in 2017 midway through the season and he’s been a super sub ever since.  Always a beloved Giant because he plays the game like a kid.  We were so excited, I bought tickets for the game the next day.  Alas, lightning doesn’t strike twice as we lost to the Cubs but still won 2 out of 3 from Chicago.  We preceded the 2nd Giants game with a tour of Coit Tower.  What an incredible view of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges and of Alcatraz Island and the Pyramid building and Chinatown.  Gosh, San Francisco is a special place with so many fond memories for both Bon and me.  I proposed at The Top of the Mark.  That 2nd night in the City let us get to El Granada for dinner with my brother Tom and his 1st born son, Marc, and Marc’s wife Kara.  It was a great opportunity to re-connect though these times with family are always too short.

By Thursday, we were ready to travel to Napa and drink great wine at some of our favorite wineries like Silver Oak, Hall, Titus, Mumm, Stag’s Leap, and Darioush.  So, good.  We ate hamburgers and ice cream cones at Gott’s and devoured the ‘free’ breakfast at Rancho Caymus Inn.  They’d redone the place since we were last there and the owners spared no expense.  They thought of everything from the free bottle of wine to welcome us, to the iron and tissue box.  DirecTV and wide screen TV.  The bed was incredible.  

Well, perhaps after retelling the tale of where we’ve been the last 4 weeks, I guess I can see now why I’m feeling down.  I don’t want the fun to end.  I don’t think this is how retirement will be but, gosh, what if it were?  I’d never be blue again!  

With a week to go, I must not check work e-mail.  Must not check work e-mail.  Must not check work e-mail.  I’ll survive without working.  In fact, if nothing else this fantastic break has convinced me I have so much more to do than work at NIKE.

I will finish off my career probably after my next Sabbatical in 5 years. It will be my last one and something very well deserved. I thought the end of working would never come but the sight of retirement is on the horizon and the ultimate sabbatical!

Friend, you know how much I loath President Pinocchio. Yet another group of Americans suffering from his inept leadership is farmers. According to an article in the Wall Street Journal, “in 2018 farmers lost $9.1 billion and total farm debt rose to $410 billion, the highest in nearly 40 years!” USA Today stated in a recent story, “Trump’s trade war will put farmers further underwater.” No one wins a trade war. And, so I realized rather quickly that I better get cracking with my own garden before there ain’t no more farmers left to grow food for me.

So, last weekend, I planted my summer garden. Tomatoes, Basil, Shishito Peppers, Zucchini, Cucumber, and Marigold plants entered the earth I toiled in the 3 new planter boxes on the North side of my backyard. The newly installed sprinkler system works to perfection, so that task is automated. Now, the worst part. The waiting. It seems forever at this stage of the process until what you plant literally bears fruit. Do our farmers get this anxious?

It’s a cliche to say there’s nothing better to eat than a fresh tomato but it’s true. The plants are relatively easy to grow as long as you have good soil, plenty of water, and sun. Tomatoes crave sunlight and these plants are going to get it. I’m growing Beefsteak and Roma. Two of my favorites. We’ll be swimming in tomatoes before you know it. Unlike everything these days, there is no instant gratification. Instead of checking in on my plants every night I come home from work, I should just let nature take its course and check back in two months. Kind of like the farmers who trusted President Tweet, only they’re the pawns in his trade negotiations with China.

After visiting Italy for the first time in 2014, we refell in love with Pesto. That summer, when we visited Cinque Terre we couldn’t help but notice all of the Basil plants growing on window sills of the homes of Corniglia. These local farmers have nothing to worry about from their political leadership. They’re growing it for themselves.

One of the beautiful things about YouTube is you can learn how to do just about anything. I didn’t know how to make pesto. So, I took a quick online course on what it took to make this delectable green sauce. So easy to make! With only Basil, Pine Nuts, Garlic, Parmigiano, and Olive Oil as ingredients and a blender, even a knucklehead like me can make it. Oh, and last summer, I did. This year, however, I’ve got 3 more plants than last year. We’ll be making the shit out of pesto before long. The greatest thing about basil, is if you pinch off the leaves, they grow back! Heck, my lack of patience loves this plant. I won’t have to wait 60 days before enjoying it. So far, our famers have been waiting 2 years. How long will they have to wait until markets are open again?

Our friend Linda introduced us to Shishito peppers, according to Wikipedia, a sweet, East Asian variety. I’ve never grown these before but I’m looking forward to yielding a bumper crop. The little peppers are delicious to eat. Saute them in olive oil, a little salt and pepper and they’re the perfect appetizer. Not filling but delectable and healthy! These little 3″-5″ buggers aren’t spicy and shouldn’t take too long before I can harvest them. It should be fun. All our farmers want is trade with foreign markets. Thanks to the trade war, all their harvest is doing is rotting.

It’s probably been 30 years since I last tried to grow zucchini or cucumbers in a garden. They take up too much space and are really hard to grow but, heck, we love ’em and I had to give it the old college try again. I dedicated one bed to these 2 plants which should be plenty of room for them to grow and flourish. Only time will tell but it’s so hard to wait. Just ask our Farmers.

I check for even the smallest amount of growth and proudly report out to Bon and Margarita when something blooms. I take care of these plants almost as if they’re my little babies and I bark at the dog if he even looks at the vegetables funny. Last year, he bit off the buds of every marigold and I nearly killed him. I think his maturity level is better this year and he’ll stay away from Papa’s plants. At least he’s not up in the bed urinating like the Tweeter is to our trading partners.

The funny thing about gardening is when I forget about it for a few days, a week maybe, voila the plants seem to explode and we have enough goodies to feed the whole neighborhood. I think every kid should learn how to grow plants. There’s not a more useful skill, in my view, than to learn how to be a farmer. Heck, we all got to eat. Why not learn how to grow food? It’s a better life skill than Tweet Storms, just ask our President.

Besides, if President Tweet continues his fruitless negotiations with China, we may not have any farmers left at all. In his mind, you can rely on no one but yourself.

Opening Day for the San Francisco Giants is tomorrow, March 28, 2019 at 1:10 pm PST in San Diego, CA. It is only befitting of my beloved Giants that I dedicate this blog post to my team. MY TEAM! The GIANTS! For over 40 years, I’ve literally lived and died by the successes and failures of this team. I cried during the World Series failures of 1989 and 2002. I also wept during the victories in 2010, 2012, and 2014. Never did I imagine myself getting so emotional about a ballclub. And, yet, with each passing season I cannot help myself believe in the beauty of the game and the hope each season brings. Even in the down years, I believe. It is indeed the very epitome of life to see the possibility of good every year. My Cabernet
Sauvignon fueled brain can also sense the great.

I was holding my grandmother’s hand when I first walked into a professional baseball stadium. Ironically, it was Dodger Stadium in the late 1960’s and I was immediately awestruck. I don’t remember much about the game except the Dodgers were playing the Montreal Expos and it was a critical moment in my life. Before my eyes there was this glorious sight of green grass, red clay dirt, and the 76 Gas Station insignia beyond the right center field fence. At the time, and perhaps still to this day, it was the only gas station at a major league stadium. The place looked magical to me and the memory has forever stuck in my minds eye. Better than an amusement park, a cathedral, a movie set, it was a magical place where belief was suspended and incredible things could and did happen. Not long after this game, my family and Grandma moved to Santa Cruz and then the San Francisco Bay Area and I experienced similar sights at Oakland-Alameda Coliseum and Candlestick Park when I first saw those baseball fields. To say an electric current ran up my spine when I witnessed those diamonds for the first time would be an understatement.

The sounds of a baseball hitting a bat are distinct and unmistakable if you know what to listen for. For example, I can tell when a ball hits an aluminum bat, is hard vs. softly hit, and when the ball is going over the fence. If you listen closely, you can too. If you ever go to a ballgame with me, I’ll say, that’s a home run and I haven’t even looked up from my mobile phone. Oh, but there are so many other sounds of the game like when the infielders shout out to the outfielders how many outs there are or when a catcher will call out with first to third which play to run. Another favorite is the sound of a pitched ball against the catchers mitt. A loud pop usually means this guy can really throw it. I love to hear the cries of encouragement from the 3rd base coach or from the dugout or from the infield and sometimes even from the outfield. The game is full of sounds and even if you’ve never played you can close your eyes and ‘see’ what’s going on. Oh, the distinct sound of ball on helmet or even flesh is something that shivers your timbres. All you have to do is listen to hear if the player is OK.

Oh, there’s a scent of baseball and it’s not testicular sweat. Nor, is it garlic fries, popcorn, or peanuts. The smell of baseball is freshly cut grass, new uniforms, lint free, right out of the dryer, tickling your nose like a new car and pine tar. Yes, pine tar, the sticky stuff you put on the bat handle to keep it from slipping out of your hands after a hard swing just like the sap on your hands from a new 2 x 4. Baseball smells like Copenhagen, Skoal and Red Man, fresh out of the can or pouch. The smell of a new baseball mitt is distinctly heroic and makes my fingertips tingle because it feels like I’m about to make the most famous catch of my life. Locker rooms have a distinct odor and it’s not just of maleness. It’s athletes odor of perspiration and inspiration. Ballplayers stink but it’s not a negative smell. It’s distinct with the possibility of greatness.

The taste of baseball is mostly of sweat but it’s so much more than that. When a ball smacks you right in the mouth from a pitch, bad hop, or errant throw, the blood fills your mouth and you know, deep down, when you spit out, you gain instant respect. Chewing tobacco, depending on the brand, has a unique taste not all of which is a good flavor. Fondly, I think of salty sunflower seeds, my go to power food, whenever I’m playing baseball. I can never get enough. They create a wicked mess but there may not be a greater food. As a ballplayer, I can’t think of any other tastes. As a fan, there may not be a greater flavor than that of a hot dog or a sausage, freshly grilled, with Gulden’s mustard, onions and peppers. When I die, I think I will in eternity eat a Candlestick Park Polish Sausage filled with these goodies.

Have you ever stood on a baseball field and looked back at the stands and not felt a twinge of pride, excitement, and performance anxiety? If you haven’t, too bad. There is not a better feeling than to touch with your toes the outfield, the infield, the pitcher’s mound, and the batters box. With spikes or without, it doesn’t matter. The ground just electrifies you. So does a hard hit line drive smack in the glove right in the palm of your hand. Have you heard the expression, “Bees in your bat?” That’s when the ball comes in too close to the barrel and your swing isn’t fast enough to soften the blow of the ball striking the bat handle. I think being electrocuted would feel better.

There’s so much more to the game than meets the eye, ear, nose, throat and touch. I hope this gives you some idea. I love this game like I love my dear wife, my 3 dogs, and my brothers and sisters. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me but I do know what turns me on.

It’s baseball.

I haven’t published anything since July 10, 2018 when I gave some good Uncle advice to my nephew Marc on his wedding day. Since that joyous day, I’ve had somewhat of a difficult time feeling anything but anger at President Tweet and his band of enablers.  I can’t seem to do anything in my free time but read about and share on Facebook and Twitter the latest bit of unacceptable news from Washington. It’s high time I return to just writing. What do you think?  Can I do that?

After all, I started this Blog at the advice of a friend who liked how I didn’t take myself too seriously and enjoyed my humor. Indeed, I’ve tried to write many funny things in my 87 previous posts. I’m very proud that over the course of the last few years I’ve been able to write just about whatever my heart desired. It’s cheap therapy, writing, but also something I enjoy. So why continue limiting myself?  So, in my return, this post may just be something of a ramble.  I hope that is OK.

The anger I feel is toward ignorance and hate and the degradation of the United States of America.  Every day, I feel embarrassed to call myself an American.  We are better than what we’ve shown the world in the last two years and, save for the Blue Wave in the midterm elections and the recent showdown between Tweet and the Democrats (the Dems won!), there’s been no checks and balances.  The rule of law must prevail and I remain optimistic that Robert Mueller’s investigation will continue to tighten the noose around the President’s neck.  There’s no question his campaign colluded with the Russians.  How can the Tweet’s supporters not see this?  He must be impeached and convicted and sent to jail.  He has sold out our great nation.  His behavior cannot be acceptable.

I’m reminded that today is International Holocaust Memorial day.  There are shocking levels of denial in my home country where I read a startling statistic that 1/3 of all Americans deny the Holocaust even existed.  Oh, my God!  This horrible tragedy and the loss of 6 million Jews is incomprehensible and history should never be repeated.  It angers me so that the divisiveness created then is repeating itself now in the United States.  Rather than concentration camps, the Tweeter has 14,000 children in detention and each soul is hoping they will not be forgotten.  Rather than gassing these kids, our government has ripped them away from their parents forever scarring their belief in freedom and their image of the United States as a nation of immigrants.  This angers me so.  This is not the American way of life.  History will not be kind to the Tweet administration.  As this inhumane policy will forever scar the USA like the Holocaust has Germany.

I’d promised myself that I would try to write something funny but today nothing is really tickling my funny bone.  I’m a proud card carrying Democrat.  Call me a snowflake if you wish but I believe in truth, justice, and the American way.  The American way I care so deeply is about working hard, paying your taxes, loving your fellow human being, equality, preventing climate change, civil rights, the separation of Church and State, and the Constitution as the law of the land.  What makes America great is respect and decency.  And those ideals are not so hard to fathom but we need to set a better example than what we see today.  I’d like us to return a state of opportunity not hostility.

What we see too much of is hate.  The anger toward others has to end and it has to end with us.  We must continue the fight against bigotry, misogyny, and narcissism.  We must set a better example for our kids, for the next generation, and for ourselves.  It is only in this way, we can return to some sense of normalcy, and I can return to a more carefree, affable, and witty persona.  For now, I must fight on for civility, education, and love.

Are you with me or is this more of the same, old, B.S. you’ve come to expect from me?