There seem to be a myriad of illnesses making the rounds these days. I joined the crowd. And so at 4 AM…when I was still awake…and having nothing better to do, I began to listen to some rather strange noises coming from somewhere deep inside. The first I noticed reminded me of old tree limbs sighing in a breeze. Then there were some little growls–no, more like mews, but no ordinary cats make these–had to be at least lion cubs, but very young ones. Next, furniture moving, metal against wooden floors. Then finally some little puffs. Now that’s a lot less disquieting. Guess the antibiotic has a lot of work to do. I applaud its efforts and am hoping for some peace and quiet soon.

Many of us have thought we have a book in us somewhere, with a little extra time and some luck. In my case it is a children’s book about the invention of the light bulb, complete with hands-on activities so can kids invent along with Edison and the men at Menlo Park. I got bogged down upon learning of all of the stumbling blocks to being published, including the self-promoting and personal financial investment.
Laurie Lynch, a wonderfully talented writer with many tales to tell, whom I met when she rented out chicks at Easter time, has just returned from a writers’ conference in San Francisco.
What she learned is that 80% of American families did not buy a book in 2011, and 57% of new books are not read to completion. These are very sobering thoughts for any of us who dreamed that someday….
And yet, she says, a writer cannot NOT write.
And so we have faith in that 20%.

I admit that I know little about Siberia. Once a long time ago I shivered through reading “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”; I remember dismal references in “Doctor Zhivago”, and recall the scene in “Fiddler on the Roof” when the second daughter tearfully said good-bye to her father and followed her revolutionary fiance into the Siberian wasteland. In my mind it has always been the ultimate frozen exile. What do people do there? Slave in salt mines, I’ve supposed.
Last Saturday I went to see the opera “Ernani”, performed at the Metropolitan Opera in NYC, but transmitted live in HD to the Reading IMAX theatre. Certainly this is a testament to the times we live in, when something so magical can happen. It is always a thrilling experience.
At the first intermission (yes, opera-goers get their money’s worth–four acts and two intermissions, and this one is no record setter) the baritone was interviewed. He is a handsome hunk of a man named Dmitri Hvorostovsky (I can type that but am still having trouble pronouncing it) with a gorgeous, rich voice and much charm. He commands the stage and the hearts of the audience, even if he is the bad guy. With him during the interview were two of his own little children who happily commandeered the mic and jabbered away in a language I couldn’t understand. Dmitri explained they were talking to their far-away grandparents who were watching his performance for the first time, via the live in HD transmissions.
So I went home and googled Dmitri. He grew up in Siberia. I am making some assumptions here, but knowing that mobility is still limited in the former Soviet Union, it would seem that his parents are probably still there and were watching this opera from New York in a Siberian theatre with capabilities similar to our IMAX. It didn’t jive with my concept of Siberia. They have come a long way since the rattling train chugging across the continent was the only connection to the outside world.
For me it was a lesson in the wonders of technology and how it has made us a global community.
Can you imagine the delight Dmitri’s parents must have felt in seeing their son perform so magnificently before thousands in New York and millions all across the globe? And then hearing their little grandchildren sending a message half way around the world…just for them.

The weather has been spring-like and pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training, so maybe it isn’t such a bad idea share some baseball-related thoughts in mid February. Among the obituaries of last week was one for baseball catcher and Hall of Famer, Cary Gary. It may have been overwhelmed by the glitter of celebrities celebrating the life of Whitney Houston, but it merited much sadness and sympathy on the part of his teammates, sports writers, and baseball fans…particularly Mets fans such as I who remember 1986.
It is certainly not appropriate to whittle the substance of Gary Carter down to one at bat. His whole life was a spiritual journey, one that had to bring him peace when he passed as a result of brain tumors at the age of 57. He approached every day thinking that he was blessed to be living this life. Even though he already had bad knees when he was in high school and was overlooked for that reason by most scouts, he was a catcher for 19 years with professional teams. He played with enthusiasm and intensity–and thus his nickname of Kid–always running on and off the field, welcoming every at-bat as though it was his opportunity to make a difference in a game. And in that, he truly did.
It was that one at-bat in the tenth inning of game 6 in the World Series of 1986 that made the last World Championship of the New York Mets possible. This is not only a baseball moment, but in that sports can be a metaphor for life, it can be an inspiration and a lesson for us all.
Boston was leading the Mets in the best of seven series by three games to two. So if the Red Sox won this one, they were World Champs. The score was tied in the ninth, and in the top of the tenth the Red Sox had scored two. There were two out in the bottom of the tenth and no one on base when Carter came to the plate. To paraphrase “Casey at the Bat”: the outlook wasn’t brilliant for the New York Mets that night. We have all witnessed games where that situation was a death knell. But Carter laced a single. A ray of light shone through, and it was enough to turn the tide. In a climatic ending (more singles, a balk, and then Bill Buckner booting Mookie Wilson’s grounder) the Mets won that game…and the next. Championship! Jubilation! Ticker-tape parad! Heroes to millions!
This may seem ho-hum if you are not a baseball fan, but let me share something that I gleaned from children’s author Betty Bao Lord: baseball is the truly American sport because at any moment an individual can make a difference. With no clock, there is always time and a glimmer of hope.
I’ve told this to many classes of fifth graders, and I hope that some have taken it along with them. Gary Carter believed it, and it should be a touchstone for each of us as we face the odds in our lives.
Ron Darling, one of his pitchers, called him “one of the great gladiators of the game”. May we each have the spirit that it is possible.