Whitney, upon graduation from The Seeing Eye.

She graduated from a great school, scored well on her tests, and she participates in a whole bunch of extra-curricular activities. And so, it should come as no surprise to you that tomorrow morning the genius Whitney leaves for Princeton.Princeton Illinois, that is. Whitney and I will be boarding the Carl Sandburg Amtrak train early tomorrow morning and heading to Princeton to give a presentation at the Princeton Public Library:

July 10 (Thursday) 10:30 a.m.
Princeton Public Library
PAWS to Read Program: Whitney and Beth: Safe and Sound
698 E. Peru St.
Princeton, Illinois
www.princetonpl.org/

Princeton is a small (population 7,700) town 100 miles southwest of Chicago, and it has a rich history: before the Civil War, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Youth Services Librarian Paula Morrow will meet us on the train platform (“It’s a small station,” she told me) and treat us to coffee at the Four and Twenty Diner before we head to the library.

Whitney and I are both looking forward to this break from the city and our chance to meet the fine folks in Princeton. Check out the blog next week, I have a feeling I’ll have stories (and pictures) to share.

I’m still a little out of rhythm after the events of the past few weeks. I think it’s been the past few weeks. Anyway, like I said.

In the course of trying to re-enter routines, I’m beginning to do my usual mishmash of online reading. One of the things I just bumped into via The Beachwood Reporter was an op-ed piece published in the LA Times. It’s well written and sums up a lot of what I, and I’m sure others, have been thinking lately with regard to Iraq. And it triggered some thinking that’s been rattling around the back of my skull for some time.

I’ve been to a fair number of ballgames the past few years. And for some time now, Major League Baseball, at every game, singles out a member of the armed services to be honored. They are introduced, brought onto the field, and roundly applauded. And every time I’m a little conflicted. I’ve talked to other people who have the same reaction, but it’s a difficult thing to articulate for fear of appearing to  denigrate the honorees. For me, though, it’s not about them. They’ve done and are doing their jobs, admirably. It’s about us, in the stands. Because I can’t help feeling like it’s more about making us feel good than them. Or to perhaps to assuage some guilt because, well, unlike in Viet Nam or Korea or the World Wars — when soldiers were drafted, the sacrifice is a lot less common to all of us.

Also because for reasons outlined in the LA Times op-ed, asking our armed forces to go to Iraq was a tremendous disservice to them. (Not to mention the–at the minimum by all estimates I’ve seen–100,000+ Iraqis who’ve been killed during the war.)

I’ve always felt this way. I didn’t want to. Back when everyone was reeling from 9/11, I remember that things looked different. It was hard to know what to believe and what not to believe. But. Even then, there was good information — though not necessarily as well reported as it should have been — that the rationale for the war was bogus. In fact, the no-fly zones and other harassments of Saddam Hussein that began with President George H.W. Bush and continued under President Clinton had worked. Hussein was not a threat outside his borders, but he was still able to maintain control within them. (Which we’ve learned is a pretty neat trick.)

When I listened to Colin Powell address the U.N. during the sunup to Iraq, I really wanted him to convince me that there were WMDs. Because it was clear we were going come hell or high water. But as I listened, I thought to myself, “Where’s the goods?” And I just got a nauseated feeling.

I have no delusions that any action I could’ve taken individually back then could’ve stopped it. We had leadership that took advantage of our collective fear, we succumbed to our fear, and our major media went along. We all failed.

But next time, and there will be a next time, I’m going to try harder to be sure reason is heard. Which is probably the greatest tribute we can give to the people in the armed services.

Your kind and thoughtful words the past month have meant a lot to Mike and me, and they serve as a reminder of just how fortunate – and grateful – we are to have such amazing friends in our lives.

Two of those amazing friends were featured in national publications last month. If you recognized Jill Foucré in a profile in The Wall Street Journal or Kevin Goldstein’s name in a cover story in Sports Illustrated, that’s because you read about them here at the Safe & Sound blog first.

A photo from Marcel’s grand opening gala. That’s Jill in the middle, flanked by her sister Jenny, and Jenny’s husband Dean.

Jill is a dear friend of mine from high school. I first wrote about Jill here in 2011 when I was invited to the exclusive “Friends and Family” grand opening of Marcel’s Culinary Experience, her culinary retail store and cooking school in Glen Ellyn, Ill. I blogged about her again when I took a cooking class at Marcel’s the next year.

Jill was profiled in The Wall Street Journal as part of a series called “Second Acts” that looks at the paths people are taking in their 50s and beyond. Jill was 51 when she left a career as Chief Operating Officer of UnitedHealth Networks (a division of UnitedHealth Group Inc.) and opened a combination cooking school and retail shop. From the article:

She is working as many hours now as she did as a globe-trotting executive, but she says she prefers her new life, especially given what she sees each day.
“Customers are always in a good mood—cooking a great meal with friends, having a glass of wine, and just chatting and relaxing,” says Ms. Foucré. “Food brings people together.”

If you’re in the area, treat yourself to a visit to Marcel’s — the store is as terrific as the owner.

Now for our friend Kevin Goldstein. He’s the Director of Pro Scouting for the Houston Astros, and I wrote about him last year when he invited Mike and me to join him on the field at White Sox Park before a game against Houston.

That’s Kevin at home with his favorite pooch Otto.

I got to know Kevin back in the 1990s, when he was working with Mike at a start-up company called Spyglass. Kevin is smart, and he’s computer savvy, too, but so were most of the people I met at Spyglass. Kevin stood out, though.

I think he was the youngest person working there, and Mike says Kevin was one of the smartest. He paid attention to new-age baseball stats (otherwise known as sabermetrics) long before the book Moneyball was published, and he knew about minor league prospects long before anyone else did. When Mike left Spyglass, we moved to North Carolina. When Kevin left Spyglass, he moved to baseball.

Kevin started writing for Baseball America, and then moved on to write for Baseball Prospectus. He developed his own email prospect newsletter and started envisioning working for a Major League club someday.

That day came in 2012, when Houston Astros general manager Jeff Luhnow contacted Kevin for an interview and offered him a job.

Last month the Houston Astros were on the cover of Sports Illustrated. The cover story explored Houston’s radical plans to rebuild their team and described Kevin as a respected writer who had never worked in pro baseball before joining the “Nerd Cave” behind the scenes at the Houston Astros. Kevin is quoted in the story, and of course Mike and I root, root, root for the Astros now –unless they are playing the White Sox.

A documentary about Roger Ebert called “Life Itself” opens nationwide tomorrow, July4. I just heard the filmmaker interviewed on Fresh Air, and it sure sounds to me like Roger Ebert would give his documentary a thumbs up. Here’s a post I wrote a few years ago, when his memoir by the same name was published.

This past Saturday was out of the ordinary in no small way. To start, I went to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Me. Mike Knezovich, lifelong White Sox fan. I went because our good friend Denny Wills has season tickets this year, and he’s not a casual fan—he’s a supremely knowledgeable baseball fan who happens to also be a Cub fan. So it was an opportunity to watch a game, drink beer, and completely geek out on baseball talk without apology.

Early in the game, I sensed the flutter of insect wings to my right. But for some reason, I didn’t shoo whatever it was away. It landed on me above my right knee. It was a beautiful monarch butterfly. In the second deck of Wrigley field between home and first base. On my leg.

It flapped its wings, and turned and stared straight at me. I motioned to Denny to check it out. His eyes got big. The butterfly sat and stared at me for several batters. Denny, who is about the least sentimental person I know, turned to me and said, “Do you think it’s Beth’s mom?”

Which brings me to the other extraordinary thing about this past Saturday: It was the day after Beth’s mom’s funeral. Flo, after a series of maladies and hospitalizations and things that just go along with being 98 years old, died on Friday, June 20. So last week was consumed by grieving and ceremony.

What to say? Nothing covers this. Which is probably why we rely on ritual and ceremony to get through the first difficult days. They give us things to do. Places to be. And people to be with.

Beth and her sisters Cheryl (who has been on the front line of caregiving along with her children Janet and Ben), Beverle and Marilee got together weeks ago to begin planning the funeral. And they made a lot of really, really good and thoughtful decisions. One of them was to ask their brother Doug, an accomplished trombonist, to put together a traditional jazz combo for the event.

Flo was a fan of that music, and so are her children. So last Friday, when Beth and I arrived, we found the musicians warming up and otherwise preparing in the church kitchen. It was a wonderful start on a difficult day.

They played as people arrived for the hour visitation before the ceremony. To be honest, I can’t remember the songs they played as friends and family gathered. I just know that they struck the perfect balance of reverence and celebration.

During the program, when Doug rose with a solo on “Just A Closer Walk with Thee,” well, I know there was not a dry eye in the house, and I don’t recall ever hearing a more pure or appropriate sound. It was perfect.

The ceremony was a mix of biblical reading, prayer, music—and recollections from family members. It was telling that the four folks called upon to speak were in-laws or step-children. Flo was truly beloved.

As the ceremony ended, the band broke into a rousing rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching in,” which was one of Flo’s all-time favorites.

After a short service at the cemetery, we reconvened for lunch, and it was crystal clear from the conversations and memory-swapping that the ceremony had served us and Flo well. It brought home that somehow, a modest soft-spoken person had touched, for the better, countless disparate lives. All without a college degree or a big title or big bank account or even a Facebook page. Her default mode was to think the best of people until proven wrong. And even then, she didn’t hold to grievance. She was beautifully and boringly consistent in her routines, in her kindnesses, and in her dignity and grace.

There are days when reading the news or just getting through the workday makes me fear for how awfully we can treat one another. And I wonder what we can do about that. From now on, I’ll try to remember what Flo taught me: that the one thing we can control, maybe the only thing, is how we behave and how we treat other people. Thank you Flo, for reminding those who knew you, every day of your life, of that simple truth.

And so, on Saturday, as I got ready for the game, I resisted the temptation to wear my White Sox World Series cap. I will confess to putting on my White Sox t-shirt (to protect against Cub cooties), but I covered it with a buttondown shirt. I didn’t need to aggravate the Cub faithful any more than their team is doing these days.

And I had a wonderful time. As for the butterfly, all I can say is: Flo loved flowers, and she loved bright colors. Who’s to say it wasn’t her?