Last week I wrote about how our plans to surprise our friend Nancy to see Elton John together went awry. But we still managed to have a lovely time.

It’s all about the dog.

Well, another plan has gone awry, and this one’s a little harder to swallow. We’ve had it all figured out for months: My organization, PHIUS, puts on a conference each year, and this year happens to be in D.C. Great! Beth and I made plans to travel ahead of the conference dates and stay with our friends Pick and Hank. I’d stay on for the conference, and Pick would usher Beth to the airport to come home on her own—with Whitney, of course.

But wait! There’s more! As regular readers know, Whitney has been showing signs of wanting—needing—to retire. She’s just not up to rugged city life any more. Well, Beth did the paperwork to get a new dog and she was scheduled to arrive in Morristown, New Jersey, December 2. Poifect! Instead of flying back to Chicago, she’ll hop a train to Newark, New Jersey, where the Seeing Eye will pick her up.

With all that sorted, our only questions were:

• Do we have a retirement party/Seeing Eye fundraising event for Whitney?
• If yes, when?

But wait, unfortunately, there’s more. Last week Beth got a call from the Seeing Eye. Well, the good folks out there know Beth leads an active life and that she lives in the heart of a bustling city. They know from experience that not every dog is suited to those circumstances. And, as it happens, none of the dogs that have been in training for the December class match the requirements.

On the one hand, I can’t say enough about the Seeing Eye and how careful and serious they are about making things work for their dogs and their human students. On the other hand, well, this kinda sucks.

December works because Beth’s off from teaching. I’d be gone at my conference for one of the three weeks of training, so that was good too. Plus, I love Whitney, but she’s really testing Beth these days. It’s time.

Now, Beth has to juggle her teaching schedule and make it work with Whitney another month.

Which is all doable. There’s just something to working so hard to getting used to something you didn’t want to do in the first place (retire Whitney, and going through the process of teaming with a new dog), getting wrapped around that, and then, dang.

For me, it’s an inconvenience. For Beth, it’s a bigger deal. The Seeing Eye dogs are wonderful, and improve the quality of our lives immensely. The Seeing Eye is a terrific organization. We’re grateful.

But junctures like this, well, it’s sort of like Beth’s talking computer. It’s terrific. It’s life changing. But, if Beth had her druthers, or I had mine, she wouldn’t need either.

But she does. And like she has done since 1985, she, and we, will do what it takes.

I’m still hoping for a German Shepherd.

Nationals Park was nice, even in the rain. And the seats were great. (Thanks Michael B.)

Last week I wrote while riding the Amtrak train home from Milwaukee, today it’s from row 15 on a Southwest Airlines flight, headed home from a wet but fun-packed weekend in Alexandria, Virginia.

The flight to DC was a little trying—the turbulence was constant, and bad enough that the flight attendants couldn’t bring passengers the pretzels and a drink. As we descended, we made a final bank left and then boom, a big bump that left my stomach in my mouth for a moment.

I stayed with Pick and Hank, longtime friends whom I’ve posted about before. Friday night we went to the home of our mutual pals’ Mike and Susi, who hosted a grand dinner of charcuterie, two kinds of steak, vegetables and yes, some libations. (I wasn’t driving.)

Saturday night Mike and Susi treated me and Pick to a Washington Nationals game. It could’ve been two games, because the previous night’s game was rained out, and our ticket got us into the rescheduled rainout plus the original Saturday night game.

Except.

It rained all day Saturday, too. The rainout had been scheduled for 3:00, with the second game scheduled to start at 7:00. For the longest time, we couldn’t tell what was going on—I finally found confirmation on the Nationals Twitter feed that the first game was going start around 5:30.

Rain was pretty much forecast for the entire evening and weekend, and I wanted to at least see Nationals Park for the first time, so we drove to nearby subway stop and then took the Metro to the park.

For several innings, it was really pleasant. Our seats were fantastic, just to left of home plate and just high enough to give great perspective. And I got to see Max Scherzer—one of the best—pitch. He did not disappoint. The Nationals’ opponent, the Cubs, were not at their best, booting the ball around and generally looking tired (they’ve been on the road a long time). I was easy on the nearby Cub fans—many looked like drowned rats. Rain delays at ballparks can be miserable.

When the rain picked up again in the bottom of the seventh, we decided to head home. I’d had a banh mi hot dog (honest, and it was really good), a cold beer, walked the park (very nice, indeed), and the score was 8-0 Nasty Nats. My work there was done.

It rained again Sunday so Pick and I headed to the newish MGM casino that’s just on the other side of the Potomac River from Alexandria. There’s also a giant convention hall/hotel complex there, with a sort of popup town that wasn’t even there just a few years ago. Pick and I people watched, fed some penny slot machines, had some dumb fun and headed back when that crazy casino background noise started getting too disorienting.

Last week I wrote about how time seems to be flying. So much has changed in the Washington area since I lived there in the late 70s and early 80s. And it’s not slowing down. Construction cranes are everywhere. Those years have flown by.

But the time I spend with these dear friends, well, it feels like it always has and always will–timeless.

Beth wrote about our visit to Perkins School for the Blind already—but before Perkins, there was New Hampshire. And after Perkins, there was a visit to Fenway Park (this baseball fan’s first). And after Fenway….

1960s kitsch at the JFK Museum.

A quick recap: It all started with a day and a night in Epping, New Hampshire that included a walk on the beach (yes, New Hampshire has 21 kilometers of shoreline that includes a great sandy beach), playing fetch with Whitney (who took her first saltwater dip), a lobster roll, some shrimp and hours of conversation and laughter with our friends Siobhan and Greg. Then, an overnight stay in an ancient riverside mill converted to apartments, and hours of conversation and laughter with our friends Mim and Kin.

In Boston we made a visit to the JFK Library and Presidential Museum. Beth had visited when she could still see and loved it. This time someone at Perkins arranged for Beth to have her own docent for a tour. I made my own way. The exhibits are terrific—including a set of 1960s era appliances, with black and white TV, aqua blue table radios, and that mid-century modern stuff that’s so popular. I can’t believe mid-century modern is a thing. For me it’s just the junk I grew up with.

It also reminded me of what a great orator JFK was. There was no dumbing down or talking down, the speeches were substantive and superbly written, and it was clear the speaker understood and believed in what he was saying.

And, well, the world was a mess. What new? I recommend visiting—the building itself, an I.M. Pei design, is worth it in itself.

Up close and personal with the Red Sox bullpen pitchers.

That night, we took in a Red Sox-Atlanta Braves game at Fenway Park on a picture perfect summerish evening. We sat right on top of the bullpen, and kids of all ages would come down between innings hoping for an autograph. One 20-something guy came down and kept yelling, “John, c’mon, John, even a nod?” He eventually remembered it was JoeKelly, not John Kelly, who was standing and watching the game. Joe gave him a nod, and the guy walked away in bliss.

It’s the second time I’ve sat near the bullpen (the other at White Sox park)—it’s a blast watching their warm-up rituals. The pop in the catcher’s mitt starts off muted, but then as the warm-up progresses, the volume rises with the velocity of the pitches. And at Fenway Friday night, we heard—for real—the bullpen phone ring.

As for Fenway, I’m glad I made it there. Not just to check it off my “parks visited” list—but just to see, in person, a place I’ve seen on TV most of my life. I still remember watching the Red Sox and Cardinals World Series in 1967. The Red Sox have done a great job using adjacent streets to open up the experience and make it easier than it otherwise would be to navigate. They also seemed to have done a pretty reasonable job (considering the vintage of the building) with accessible seating—something that anyone who uses or has pushed a wheelchair always scopes out, by instinct.

I got the requisite goose bumps walking in—but not because it was Fenway, per se. I get ‘em every time I walk into an MLB park for the first time. They each have their own character, the fans emit their own collective aura—and it’s always great to soak it all up. I’d rank Fenway up there, but PNC in Pittsburgh, AT&T in San Francisco, and Camden yards in Baltimore remain my favorites (after, of course, White Sox park—and the smell of grilled onions every time I walk in).

From there, it was a too-short visit to Alexandria, Virginia, where we… enjoyed hours of conversation and laughter with our friends Pick and Hank.

We sure are lucky.

Hi all. Mike here. We just had a joyous weekend spending time with our friends Pick and Hank, who visited from Washington, D.C. Or more specifically, from Alexandria, Virginia. We’ve posted more than once about this dynamic duo. It’s not a stretch to say that at this point, we’re all like family–only better, because we’re not family. 

That’s Hank on the left, me, Pick, and Beth during a vacation we took together in New Orleans.

We are fortunate people, which is something Hank understands perhaps better than anyone. His parents outlived their time in concentration camps during WWII. But his mother and father didn’t live long afterward–and that had everything to do with their hellish time at the hands of the Nazis. 

Apart from their own suffering and Hank being deprived of his parents at a very young age,  Hank recently had an encounter that reminded me that anyone’s suffering is all of our business, and anyone’s suffering should be understood as our own. 

Hank wrote–movingly and courageously and hauntingly–about this encounter. And he generously agreed to our sharing his writing with Safe & Sound readers. With that, I give you the words of our friend Henry Londner.

I Cannot “Just Get Over It!”

Yesterday, upon learning that I would not be keen on taking a river cruise through Germany and Austria, someone said to me “The Holocaust was 75 years ago. Why don’t you just get over it?” Well, I cannot “just get over it.”

My grandparents, many aunts and uncles, and even first cousins, along with 6 million other Jews were gassed, then mutilated to remove their gold teeth and fillings, and finally incinerated.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

I never knew the unconditional love of grandparents that almost everyone I know experienced. I know I longed for it too and still do. So, I cannot “just get over it.”

I grew up in a community of walking wounded; Holocaust survivors living with debilitating physical ailments that often shortened their lives and PTSD so severe that some ended up taking their own lives years after the war.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

My own parents were among those whose lives were cut short, leaving me an orphan at the age of 13 and forever longing for the unconditional love of parents. Even at 66, sometimes I still feel like a motherless child, so I cannot “just get over it.”

Other children of Holocaust survivors and I suffer from PTSD even if we were born after the horrors. In my happiest times, there is a cloud over me that I cannot dispel. I can never just “let loose.”

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

It is difficult for me to trust anyone completely, and even while making progress I am again set back by the resurgence of hate that is all around us.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

Even though I was born after the Holocaust, I sometimes feel survivors’ guilt and even guilt that the wonderful life I have is built upon the bones of the millions whose lives were cut short.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

I know the Germany and Austria of today are not the same, and I even have friends who hail from these places. and yet, I still cannot “just get over it.”

Hearing these words from someone I have known nearly half my life, and knowing that in an instant they changed our relationship irrevocably is just one last thing — I cannot “just get over it.”

With all the ugliness and unrest and uncertainty and holy-shit-what-just happened/Armageddon is near, it seems like a good time for another road trip as a diversion.

Luckily, Beth and I have had one planned for months. We’re headed to the belly of the beast, Washington, D.C., for the wedding of my Kum Joe.

In oversimplified terms, Kum is the Serbian Orthodox word for godson. Regular readers may remember my account of Joe’s sister Sasha’s wedding last year in Philadelphia—Sasha is my Kuma.

Besides the wedding, we’ll see our friends Pick and Hank, and we’ll make a stop to have dinner with Michael and Susi. I met them via Pick, who generously introduced me to his world of friends when I was a newcomer to D.C. back in the day.

A worthwhile read.

At the time, Pick hadn’t met Hank, I hadn’t met Beth, and Pick and I were roommates on the first floor of an Arlington, Va., apartment building. Michael and Susi lived upstairs. We were all on the front end of adulthood, and the four of us had some awfully good times hosting each other for dinner. And there was driving, motorcycling and camping along Skyline Drive and surrounding points. We also shared a lot of great live music experiences, not to mention, well, a lot of good times.

My friend Michael and I couldn’t be more different in terms of background. He was from the small-town South and his people had been around forever by my measure. My parents were first generation Americans, and I grew up in a suburb just south of Chicago where people either worked in the steel mills to the east or office buildings to the north. He had a religious upbringing, I did not.

I think those differences have always been a big part of what we find interesting about one another.

I learned during the early 1980s that Michael and I also diverged when it came to politics and moreover, the philosophies behind what we believed. We had our combative moments, but I’ve always treasured friends who are smart, thoughtful, and articulate—whether or not they agree with my politics.

A lot’s happened since those days. Kids, careers, crises—and Michael and I managed to continue our sometimes contentious but always respectful conversations. That is, until a few months ago in this ugly, horrible, drawn-out election campaign. All via some stupid-ass text messages. He infuriated me, I infuriated him, we each wanted to be the last infuriator.

And then something happened. We each came to our senses. I can’t speak for Michael, but the question for me was, did my thoughts about the election and the candidates outweigh the importance of my friendship with Michael?

I can tell you, there are people out there about whom I can answer “yes” in a heartbeat. (And have.)

But not Michael. So we got on the phone. In simple terms we made clear to one another that whatever happened, our friendship was more important.

Which was a relief, and in a small way, a proud moment when you think you’ve actually grown up at 59 years old.

But one thing lacked for months: Our way of dealing with the flare-up was to just not talk about it. We disciplined ourselves by withdrawing that privilege. And I think we both lost out for that.

Last month Michael was in town for business. Beth and I met him for brunch. A couple days before he came to town, he told me about a book he’d read called “Hillbilly Elegy.”

“Have you read it?” he asked.

I said no, but I’d read good things about it.

Mike brought it with him. He proceeded to tell us about the similarities between his own and author J.D. Vance’s backgrounds. And the gratitude they both held for having had key figures in their lives that shined the light on a world they’d never have otherwise known.

He loaned it to me. I read it and loved it. I don’t agree with all of Vance’s analysis and conclusions, but he’s a great storyteller and a person I’d love to talk with sometime. A little background: J.D. Vance is from a family that migrated from Appalachian Kentucky to southern Ohio. They were strangers in a strange land, but mostly the factory jobs made for good lives. Until they didn’t, and things went sour.

Vance had a successful stint in the Marines, and eventually graduated from Ohio State University (sorry, never using The), and eventually Yale Law. He describes the plight of many of those who didn’t have his advantages, and it ain’t pretty. Lots of poverty, drug addiction, and general dolor. All this continuing, right now—in Middle Ohio and elsewhere.

Over brunch, Michael—who’s had an enormously successful business career—said he’d likely be in a different place but for a few people who helped make sure he didn’t. And he pondered out loud, “I think there are some people in these places that never see that there is any other way of life. How do you provide that?”

I agreed. And then Mike wondered out loud, “What government policy can provide that?:

I didn’t have an answer.

But I was reminded that my old friend wants people to have what he had, and wants to do right, just the same as I do. We probably will always disagree on what and how much the government can do.

I’m looking forward to returning the book this week, and to having more conversations about such things with Michael. I always learn something, and I like to think he does, too.

P.S. Here’s another, shorter read in the Harvard Business Review that is in keeping with Vance’s book. The article’s entitled What So Many People Get Wrong about the Working Class, by Joan C. Williams. It’s not pedantic, and it’s not condescending, but it’s very insightful.