I spoke with a friend recently who had fallen on tough times. He was prepared to work. He has skills that would benefit a potential employer.
But he was unable to find a job. He has little money. And, although I know that his current situation is at least partly his own doing, it’s sad and frustrating to see ambition and skills be wasted in professional torpor.
I read not long ago that businesses in the United States are literally sitting on trillions of dollars that could be invested, but they’ve decided instead to keep the money in the bank, because they’re uncertain about the future economic environment in which they will operate. In particular, they are concerned about what may happen to their costs if and when the more serious and costly of the next phases of the new healthcare legislation.
They are concerned about the costs of compliance current and future regulations. They see that a project like Keystone, which promises at least 20,000 new jobs and probably a far higher impact on indirect employment, has been shelved till – what? – after the 2012 election? Come on!
There is no real secret to what ails us – get businesses in America back onto the playing field. Provide a tax and regulatory environment in which they’re encouraged to take reasonable risks with their capital. Reduce taxes and let them keep more of their earnings.
They will hire to obtain the resources to make money for themselves, rest assured. The lure of making money is an elixir on which we can always count.
Stop the crony capitalism that picks business winners and losers by the criterion of who they know, and not what they know.
Allow businesses that habitually underperform because of uncompetitive quality or costs to fail.
Start telling the truth about the real unemployment rate. Adjust for reported reductions in unemployment simply because the chronically unemployed have stopped looking. Include the impact of underemployment in the monthly reporting, where many of those who have found new jobs are working part-time, for vastly lower salaries than their previous jobs.
Chronic unemployment or underemployment cannot help but affect the individual, and collectively ourselves. It is a putrid stain on the soul. It can and must be exorcised, by the still-powerful engine of economic growth currently dormant in our nation.
Atlas has shrugged. He’s sitting on the sidelines, watching and waiting. Let’s get him back in the game.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
A Christmas Giving story
As Noah began his second year Christmas shopping, the shopping carts were filled with toys and clothing.
Some years ago, we began a tradition in the family where we would donate money or some sort of work to a worthy cause before Christmas.
That morphed into a project that my son Matthew and his wife Crystal began about three years ago. It has grown by leaps and bounds, and the rest of the family, including my wife Jan, my daughter Kelly and her boyfriend Chris, my grandson Noah and our friend J.D. participated in the project on Sunday evening, when they descended on a local store and spent several hours shopping.
It is a project that won’t actually be completed until later this week, as toys, clothing and fully-prepared Christmas dinners are distributed to several families with 16 children, whose ages range from 2 to 17 years old.
Included among the gifts were a bicycle, a Wii, three iPods, three Nintendo DOS's, seven video games, Legos, makeup, dolls, shirts, coats, hats, scarves, mittens, socks, underwear, coats, shoes, bed sheets, blankets, boots, fishing poles, fishing gear, board games, the game Elefun, Cabbage Patch kids, arts and crafts, clay, bean bags - and the list goes on.
And in the note from my son Matthew, telling his friends about the results, he adds: “We simply can't thank you enough for supporting the families that we bought Christmas for this year. The generosity of our friends is amazing and we are simply amazed each and every year.”
Most of the time, I’m just proud of my children and their friends. Sometimes, however, I burst with pride. Job superbly done, guys. Merry Christmas.
Most of the time, I’m just proud of my children and their friends. Sometimes, however, I burst with pride. Job superbly done, guys. Merry Christmas.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Who is John Galt?
I just finished watching the first part of a movie trilogy titled after the 1957 novel by Ayn Rand, “Atlas Shrugged.” The movie was released in April.
On a scale of one to 10, I would rank it an eight, maybe a nine. The pace was fast, the subject matter engrossing, the acting was decent, at times captivating. The movie’s immediate relevance jumped off the television screen, and its occasional beauty was stunning.
The soundtrack is compelling. You are carried along by it as the camera sweeps across a landscape or moves among the characters seated in an office, and it complements the movie in a way not often done. I downloaded it on iTunes this morning and am listening to it now.
When I was in high school working at a newspaper, I met a man who introduced me to Rand’s ideas, via a novel she wrote in the 1940’s, titled “The Fountainhead.”
When you read Rand’s books, you won’t mistake her prose for that of Thomas Wolfe. But the ideas embodied in her sometimes-wooden characters and strained, stilted dialogue are eloquent, and occasionally the writing soars:
“Howard Roark laughed. He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.”
If you care to see the movie “Atlas Shrugged Part I,” and are willing to gamble on being inspired for a short while, it’s now on DVD. And, if you’re really ambitious, read her books.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
On a scale of one to 10, I would rank it an eight, maybe a nine. The pace was fast, the subject matter engrossing, the acting was decent, at times captivating. The movie’s immediate relevance jumped off the television screen, and its occasional beauty was stunning.
The soundtrack is compelling. You are carried along by it as the camera sweeps across a landscape or moves among the characters seated in an office, and it complements the movie in a way not often done. I downloaded it on iTunes this morning and am listening to it now.
When I was in high school working at a newspaper, I met a man who introduced me to Rand’s ideas, via a novel she wrote in the 1940’s, titled “The Fountainhead.”
When you read Rand’s books, you won’t mistake her prose for that of Thomas Wolfe. But the ideas embodied in her sometimes-wooden characters and strained, stilted dialogue are eloquent, and occasionally the writing soars:
“Howard Roark laughed. He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.”
If you care to see the movie “Atlas Shrugged Part I,” and are willing to gamble on being inspired for a short while, it’s now on DVD. And, if you’re really ambitious, read her books.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
Take me home, country roads
I was driving home from Canton a few days ago, after a trip to the bank. As I drove south on Canton Center Road, I wondered whether to head east to Haggerty Road via eastbound Michigan Ave., or drop farther south on Belleville Road, and head east on Van Born Road.
There are many things that I like about the Belleville area after living here for 34 years, but one I’m reminded of at least weekly is traffic – more specifically, the absence of it.
An evening drive headed south on Sumpter Road from town is like a trip back in time – farmland, minimal traffic, clear view – the absence of roadway tension, unlike I-96 or I-696 or Orchard Lake Road, is refreshing. Even the I-94/I-275 freeways in the area are a reasonably pleasant trip.
That day on the way home from Canton, I decided to go via Van Born Road, and I was reminded again how great a road it is – from Belleville Road eastward, the road is smooth, there are no stop signs or traffic lights until you reach Haggerty Road, and it’s a pleasant, unimpeded, safe drive at the posted speed of 50 miles per hour – clean and green. In fact, at times you don’t see any traffic.
It got me thinking about roads in the area - those which I like, and those of which I’m not fond. I remembered that Norm DeBuck of the New Lawn Sod Farm has in the past spoken highly of Rawsonville Road, but I’m often uncomfortable driving it. It’s a relatively narrow road for the traffic volume and there are few turning lanes. It needs improvements.
My daughter Kelly was involved in a bad accident on Rawsonville Road over a decade ago. She was pulling out from the parking lot at Pinter’s after working there on the afternoon of Father’s Day, in June.
After a southbound vehicle passed her by as she waited, she turned left and was struck, hard, by a northbound vehicle. She had forgotten to look south before pulling into traffic on Rawsonville, and the oncoming car was shielded by the vehicle headed south. She was surprisingly OK – thank you, Ford engineers – and we celebrated Father’s Day together later that same day. But it reinforced my attitude toward traffic safety on Rawsonville Road.
And don’t get me started on Haggerty Road – those haut relief ripples in the road every few hundred yards on Haggerty were rudely jarring. As you drove north or south, you began to anticipate the collision with the road surface, and inevitably wondered about the damage to your tires, your wheels and your undercarriage – yours as well as the vehicle’s.
I use the past tense referring to these ripples on Haggerty because, blessedly, Wayne County ground down the ripples a month or two ago, and the ride is much better. Would that it could have been done much sooner – it seemed like a simple operation, with high benefit at relatively low cost – a good value.
When I lived in town, I often traveled Huron River Driver Drive toward Rawsonville, well before the subdivisions were built. It is a pleasant, winding road, with the lake on the right – kinda peaceful, pastoral.
But I almost got killed on Huron River Drive, one Sunday morning. Norm DeBuck and I were running together, toward traffic, alongside each other on the road’s shoulder. There wasn’t a lot of traffic, but a vehicle behind us decided to pass a slower-moving vehicle, and as the vehicle passed, it came within inches of me, running on the shoulder of Huron River Drive. It’s still amazing to me that the driver couldn’t wait a moment or two to get past me before attempting the passing maneuver. It’s a jungle out there.
But I go on. What are your favorite, and least favorite roads in the area, and why?
Write in and we’ll publish the most interesting answers.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
There are many things that I like about the Belleville area after living here for 34 years, but one I’m reminded of at least weekly is traffic – more specifically, the absence of it.
An evening drive headed south on Sumpter Road from town is like a trip back in time – farmland, minimal traffic, clear view – the absence of roadway tension, unlike I-96 or I-696 or Orchard Lake Road, is refreshing. Even the I-94/I-275 freeways in the area are a reasonably pleasant trip.
That day on the way home from Canton, I decided to go via Van Born Road, and I was reminded again how great a road it is – from Belleville Road eastward, the road is smooth, there are no stop signs or traffic lights until you reach Haggerty Road, and it’s a pleasant, unimpeded, safe drive at the posted speed of 50 miles per hour – clean and green. In fact, at times you don’t see any traffic.
It got me thinking about roads in the area - those which I like, and those of which I’m not fond. I remembered that Norm DeBuck of the New Lawn Sod Farm has in the past spoken highly of Rawsonville Road, but I’m often uncomfortable driving it. It’s a relatively narrow road for the traffic volume and there are few turning lanes. It needs improvements.
My daughter Kelly was involved in a bad accident on Rawsonville Road over a decade ago. She was pulling out from the parking lot at Pinter’s after working there on the afternoon of Father’s Day, in June.
After a southbound vehicle passed her by as she waited, she turned left and was struck, hard, by a northbound vehicle. She had forgotten to look south before pulling into traffic on Rawsonville, and the oncoming car was shielded by the vehicle headed south. She was surprisingly OK – thank you, Ford engineers – and we celebrated Father’s Day together later that same day. But it reinforced my attitude toward traffic safety on Rawsonville Road.
And don’t get me started on Haggerty Road – those haut relief ripples in the road every few hundred yards on Haggerty were rudely jarring. As you drove north or south, you began to anticipate the collision with the road surface, and inevitably wondered about the damage to your tires, your wheels and your undercarriage – yours as well as the vehicle’s.
I use the past tense referring to these ripples on Haggerty because, blessedly, Wayne County ground down the ripples a month or two ago, and the ride is much better. Would that it could have been done much sooner – it seemed like a simple operation, with high benefit at relatively low cost – a good value.
When I lived in town, I often traveled Huron River Driver Drive toward Rawsonville, well before the subdivisions were built. It is a pleasant, winding road, with the lake on the right – kinda peaceful, pastoral.
But I almost got killed on Huron River Drive, one Sunday morning. Norm DeBuck and I were running together, toward traffic, alongside each other on the road’s shoulder. There wasn’t a lot of traffic, but a vehicle behind us decided to pass a slower-moving vehicle, and as the vehicle passed, it came within inches of me, running on the shoulder of Huron River Drive. It’s still amazing to me that the driver couldn’t wait a moment or two to get past me before attempting the passing maneuver. It’s a jungle out there.
But I go on. What are your favorite, and least favorite roads in the area, and why?
Write in and we’ll publish the most interesting answers.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Vacationing with Noah
My wife Jan and I watch my 18-month old grandson Noah once each week, and we look forward to it. Sometimes we’ll do an activity outside the home with him, but more often it’s playing with him at his home, taking him outside in the backyard, or for walks around the block. I push him in a plastic cart, or pull him in a wagon.
I’d rather push, because I can keep an eye on him. I’m afraid he may stand up without my knowing it, testing himself, but, frankly, I haven’t seen it yet. He’s very well-behaved.
Last week, my wife had a doctor appointment, so my son Matthew installed the car seat in our car, and packed a diaper bag. You forget how much equipment you carry with you when traveling with young children.
The waiting room was large and comfortable. Jan was called in to see the doctor shortly after we arrived, and I remained with Noah in the waiting room.
There were several others waiting, generally people over 60, often what appeared to be married couples. Noah walked up to one or two, and waved and said hello.
As we all sat waiting for something or other, Noah entertained himself and the others in room by climbing, exploring, watching and talking. He found a computer in an alcove, climbed into the chair, and began tapping the keys. He reached forward several times toward the monitor screen and pushed buttons on the lower right, in an effort to turn it on. Fortunately, the on/off switch was reasonably concealed from him.
After a while, Noah’s Amma emerged from the doctor visit, and he greeted her return as if he hadn’t seen her for months. He loves his Amma.
It was around time for lunch, and we traveled toward Twelve Oaks Mall, where we settled on a McDonald’s. We were hoping for one with a play land, but that didn’t appear to us. We bought lunch and moved to a table. I asked where to find the high chairs, and the woman behind the counter directed me to the play land, on the other side of the wall from where we were sitting.
The play land is a bit intimidating to the grandfather of a toddler. The kids playing on it are all older and bigger, and the top of the thing is about three stories high.
Noah ate his lunch as we watched them play, and then we turned him loose in the play structure. He slowly, carefully climbed a set of stairs, and as he reached the second floor, I got nervous. I looked at the rules and found that adults were allowed inside, so I followed him up the stairs.
I quickly caught up to him. He looked back, recognized me, and continued to climb.
I began to notice that as we ascended, the ceiling of the structure gradually dropped, so that by its very top, I was on my hands and knees.
My biggest concern was the slide. If he were entirely on his own, it would be OK. But he was surrounded by other busy playing kids, and Noah doesn’t yet understand the protocols of safe slide usage – avoid stopping in the middle of the slide, for instance - with a three story descent.
Fortunately, he decided against a turn on the tall slide, around the same time than Jan said she had found another shorter, safer slide.
We descended the three stories, and found a slide more to his liking. He enjoys being with other kids, and they tend to like him as well. A little girl in particular, maybe four years old, took a strong interest in him and at one point got behind him, wrapped her arms around him, and carried him toward a small room with basketball hoops at different heights.
I asked her to put him down, but she ignored me as she walked past me. Fortunately, Jan had gotten help from the girl’s mother, so Noah was released. He played for a while longer, and we left shortly thereafter – no tantrums, no tears - and Noah fell asleep in the car on the way home.
When I spend time with him, it’s like being on vacation. You are whisked away from your cares and responsibilities, and all that lies ahead is fun with a little boy, whose world grows by leaps and bounds every waking moment. And Amma and Pa are there to show it to him, and to share it with him. It really doesn’t get much better.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
I’d rather push, because I can keep an eye on him. I’m afraid he may stand up without my knowing it, testing himself, but, frankly, I haven’t seen it yet. He’s very well-behaved.
Last week, my wife had a doctor appointment, so my son Matthew installed the car seat in our car, and packed a diaper bag. You forget how much equipment you carry with you when traveling with young children.
The waiting room was large and comfortable. Jan was called in to see the doctor shortly after we arrived, and I remained with Noah in the waiting room.
There were several others waiting, generally people over 60, often what appeared to be married couples. Noah walked up to one or two, and waved and said hello.
As we all sat waiting for something or other, Noah entertained himself and the others in room by climbing, exploring, watching and talking. He found a computer in an alcove, climbed into the chair, and began tapping the keys. He reached forward several times toward the monitor screen and pushed buttons on the lower right, in an effort to turn it on. Fortunately, the on/off switch was reasonably concealed from him.
After a while, Noah’s Amma emerged from the doctor visit, and he greeted her return as if he hadn’t seen her for months. He loves his Amma.
It was around time for lunch, and we traveled toward Twelve Oaks Mall, where we settled on a McDonald’s. We were hoping for one with a play land, but that didn’t appear to us. We bought lunch and moved to a table. I asked where to find the high chairs, and the woman behind the counter directed me to the play land, on the other side of the wall from where we were sitting.
The play land is a bit intimidating to the grandfather of a toddler. The kids playing on it are all older and bigger, and the top of the thing is about three stories high.
Noah ate his lunch as we watched them play, and then we turned him loose in the play structure. He slowly, carefully climbed a set of stairs, and as he reached the second floor, I got nervous. I looked at the rules and found that adults were allowed inside, so I followed him up the stairs.
I quickly caught up to him. He looked back, recognized me, and continued to climb.
I began to notice that as we ascended, the ceiling of the structure gradually dropped, so that by its very top, I was on my hands and knees.
My biggest concern was the slide. If he were entirely on his own, it would be OK. But he was surrounded by other busy playing kids, and Noah doesn’t yet understand the protocols of safe slide usage – avoid stopping in the middle of the slide, for instance - with a three story descent.
Fortunately, he decided against a turn on the tall slide, around the same time than Jan said she had found another shorter, safer slide.
We descended the three stories, and found a slide more to his liking. He enjoys being with other kids, and they tend to like him as well. A little girl in particular, maybe four years old, took a strong interest in him and at one point got behind him, wrapped her arms around him, and carried him toward a small room with basketball hoops at different heights.
I asked her to put him down, but she ignored me as she walked past me. Fortunately, Jan had gotten help from the girl’s mother, so Noah was released. He played for a while longer, and we left shortly thereafter – no tantrums, no tears - and Noah fell asleep in the car on the way home.
When I spend time with him, it’s like being on vacation. You are whisked away from your cares and responsibilities, and all that lies ahead is fun with a little boy, whose world grows by leaps and bounds every waking moment. And Amma and Pa are there to show it to him, and to share it with him. It really doesn’t get much better.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Vacationing with Noah
My wife Jan and I watch my 18-month old grandson Noah once each week, and we look forward to it. Sometimes we’ll do an activity outside the home with him, but more often it’s playing with him at his home, taking him outside in the backyard, or for walks around the block. I push him in a plastic cart, or pull him in a wagon.
I’d rather push, because I can keep an eye on him. I’m afraid he may stand up without my knowing it, testing himself, but, frankly, I haven’t seen it yet. He’s very well-behaved.
Last week, my wife had a doctor appointment, so my son Matthew installed the car seat in our car, and packed a diaper bag. You forget how much equipment you carry with you when traveling with young children.
The waiting room was large and comfortable. Jan was called in to see the doctor shortly after we arrived, and I remained with Noah in the waiting room.
There were several others waiting, generally people over 60, often what appeared to be married couples. Noah walked up to one or two, and waved and said hello.
As we all sat waiting for something or other, Noah entertained himself and the others in room by climbing, exploring, watching and talking. He found a computer in an alcove, climbed into the chair, and began tapping the keys. He reached forward several times toward the monitor screen and pushed buttons on the lower right, in an effort to turn it on. Fortunately, the on/off switch was reasonably concealed from him.
After a while, Noah’s Amma emerged from the doctor visit, and he greeted her return as if he hadn’t seen her for months. He loves his Amma.
It was around time for lunch, and we traveled toward Twelve Oaks Mall, where we settled on a McDonald’s. We were hoping for one with a play land, but that didn’t appear to us. We bought lunch and moved to a table. I asked where to find the high chairs, and the woman behind the counter directed me to the play land, on the other side of the wall from where we were sitting.
The play land is a bit intimidating to the grandfather of a toddler. The kids playing on it are all older and bigger, and the top of the thing is about three stories high.
Noah ate his lunch as we watched them play, and then we turned him loose in the play structure. He slowly, carefully climbed a set of stairs, and as he reached the second floor, I got nervous. I looked at the rules and found that adults were allowed inside, so I followed him up the stairs.
I quickly caught up to him. He looked back, recognized me, and continued to climb.
I began to notice that as we ascended, the ceiling of the structure gradually dropped, so that by its very top, I was on my hands and knees.
My biggest concern was the slide. If he were entirely on his own, it would be OK. But he was surrounded by other busy playing kids, and Noah doesn’t yet understand the protocols of safe slide usage – avoid stopping in the middle of the slide, for instance - with a three story descent.
Fortunately, he decided against a turn on the tall slide, around the same time than Jan said she had found another shorter, safer slide.
We descended the three stories, and found a slide more to his liking. He enjoys being with other kids, and they tend to like him as well. A little girl in particular, maybe four years old, took a strong interest in him and at one point got behind him, wrapped her arms around him, and carried him toward a small room with basketball hoops at different heights.
I asked her to put him down, but she ignored me as she walked past me. Fortunately, Jan had gotten help from the girl’s mother, so Noah was released. He played for a while longer, and we left shortly thereafter – no tantrums, no tears - and Noah fell asleep in the car on the way home.
When I spend time with him, it’s like being on vacation. You are whisked away from your cares and responsibilities, and all that lies ahead is fun with a little boy, whose world grows by leaps and bounds every waking moment. And Amma and Pa are there to show it to him, and to share it with him. It really doesn’t get much better.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
I’d rather push, because I can keep an eye on him. I’m afraid he may stand up without my knowing it, testing himself, but, frankly, I haven’t seen it yet. He’s very well-behaved.
Last week, my wife had a doctor appointment, so my son Matthew installed the car seat in our car, and packed a diaper bag. You forget how much equipment you carry with you when traveling with young children.
The waiting room was large and comfortable. Jan was called in to see the doctor shortly after we arrived, and I remained with Noah in the waiting room.
There were several others waiting, generally people over 60, often what appeared to be married couples. Noah walked up to one or two, and waved and said hello.
As we all sat waiting for something or other, Noah entertained himself and the others in room by climbing, exploring, watching and talking. He found a computer in an alcove, climbed into the chair, and began tapping the keys. He reached forward several times toward the monitor screen and pushed buttons on the lower right, in an effort to turn it on. Fortunately, the on/off switch was reasonably concealed from him.
After a while, Noah’s Amma emerged from the doctor visit, and he greeted her return as if he hadn’t seen her for months. He loves his Amma.
It was around time for lunch, and we traveled toward Twelve Oaks Mall, where we settled on a McDonald’s. We were hoping for one with a play land, but that didn’t appear to us. We bought lunch and moved to a table. I asked where to find the high chairs, and the woman behind the counter directed me to the play land, on the other side of the wall from where we were sitting.
The play land is a bit intimidating to the grandfather of a toddler. The kids playing on it are all older and bigger, and the top of the thing is about three stories high.
Noah ate his lunch as we watched them play, and then we turned him loose in the play structure. He slowly, carefully climbed a set of stairs, and as he reached the second floor, I got nervous. I looked at the rules and found that adults were allowed inside, so I followed him up the stairs.
I quickly caught up to him. He looked back, recognized me, and continued to climb.
I began to notice that as we ascended, the ceiling of the structure gradually dropped, so that by its very top, I was on my hands and knees.
My biggest concern was the slide. If he were entirely on his own, it would be OK. But he was surrounded by other busy playing kids, and Noah doesn’t yet understand the protocols of safe slide usage – avoid stopping in the middle of the slide, for instance - with a three story descent.
Fortunately, he decided against a turn on the tall slide, around the same time than Jan said she had found another shorter, safer slide.
We descended the three stories, and found a slide more to his liking. He enjoys being with other kids, and they tend to like him as well. A little girl in particular, maybe four years old, took a strong interest in him and at one point got behind him, wrapped her arms around him, and carried him toward a small room with basketball hoops at different heights.
I asked her to put him down, but she ignored me as she walked past me. Fortunately, Jan had gotten help from the girl’s mother, so Noah was released. He played for a while longer, and we left shortly thereafter – no tantrums, no tears - and Noah fell asleep in the car on the way home.
When I spend time with him, it’s like being on vacation. You are whisked away from your cares and responsibilities, and all that lies ahead is fun with a little boy, whose world grows by leaps and bounds every waking moment. And Amma and Pa are there to show it to him, and to share it with him. It really doesn’t get much better.
Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Back on ND's Campus
The afternoon’s elusive sun slowly applied its gentle pressure on my back, warming me through four layers of clothing.
In front of me rose a wall of the Hesburgh library, 17 stories high. I was waiting with hundreds of Notre Dame football fans for the team to come walking by.
The large, shallow reflecting pond at the foot of the mural is empty of water, having been drained for the winter, but it’s pretty nonetheless.
As I waited, I thought, this is heaven on earth. I’m so glad to be back on campus. The anticipation in the air among the crowd was exhilarating.
My son Matthew had surprised me with two tickets to the Boston College game, a school that at times had become a bitter, highly competitive rival, replete with crushing last-second field goals and sod rudely torn from ND’s football field after one BC victory.
They are the only two Catholic universities that play Division I football, and there’s not a lotta love lost between the teams or the fans.
And it was Senior Day, when seniors on the team would play their final home game, and be specially celebrated by their parents and the ND faithful.
But the football played in ND Stadium on some recent Senior Days had been disappointing. ND lost to Syracuse University on Senior Day in 2008, after Syracuse had already fired its head coach, who was permitted to coach the rest of the season. On the Senior Day the following year, ND was upset by the University of Connecticut.
Earlier that day, the ND players and coaches had celebrated Mass in a roped-off portion inside the high-ceilinged basilica, had lunch, and were making their way toward the stadium about two hours before game time.
One of my layers of clothing was a navy blue football jersey that bore the number three, for senior wide receiver Michael Floyd.
Floyd had decided to stay at ND for his senior year, despite a cloud that shrouded his college football future – a third conviction for driving under the influence. After a suspension, he was reinstated to the team, and had by this time set many new records for pass receptions.
Floyd plays with a passion and sometimes reckless abandon that is a privilege to watch, and his talent is often a thing to behold. And I had had that privilege for four years.
At 4:10 p.m., ND’s final home game for the 2011 season would begin, bringing to a close a season that, for me, represented progress and some very fine moments, but fell short of preseason expectations.
I use the following examples: In the first game of the season, ND running back Jonas Gray was en route to a touchdown when the ball was stripped. It fell to the ground, was grabbed on the hop by an opposing player, who ran the length of the field for a score. As they say, it was a 14-point turnaround to begin the game.
The following week, another opponent has the ball near the goal line. The running back plunges toward the end zone, and the ball is stripped by an ND defender. The ball takes a single bounce toward UM quarterback Denard Robinson, who grabs it and runs in for the score. At times, it was that kind of season.
But you make your own luck, and you are what your record says.
And it’s not just the game. The people – the students, the university staff and the visitors are unfailingly polite. “Welcome to Notre Dame,” the ushers say as your enter the stadium.
The main bookstore at the other end of campus is impossibly crowded and warm under four layers of clothing, but everyone is patient and polite with each other. No Walmart-type altercations to mar the day, at least not in my field of vision.
The main bookstore at the other end of campus is impossibly crowded and warm under four layers of clothing, but everyone is patient and polite with each other. No Walmart-type altercations to mar the day, at least not in my field of vision.
Matthew, who recently developed a passion for photography, brought a camera and several lenses for the event, and at times I was his assistant. Having raised him, I know he is given to strong interests in different things, and I’m happy to help.
The two non-human staples for the day appear to be electronics and beer. Everyone’s got a camera or a cell phone, happily taking photos of each other, and cans of beer are ubiquitous. It’s not allowed on campus, of course, but one of the things I’ve always liked about visiting ND is that they bend over backward to make all visitors comfortable. A few pregame beers on campus, as long as people behave, are not a big deal. And that, by my lights, is the way it should be.
We don’t drink. Gotta drive home after the game. But the atmosphere on campus is sufficiently intoxicating for this fan.
The game? A nail biter that ND toughed out for a 16-14 win. They’re learning how to win, like Coach Brian Kelly says. Matthew and I drive home, happy, analytical about the game, and I’m a bit tired. It was a great day. Thanks, Bud.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Researching and writing the cost of burial
I just got off the phone with Lisa Long, the very helpful clerk for the city of Belleville, and my head is spinning with data. I'm preparing a story about areas in Belleville's Hillside Cemetery that have been reserved for what are called columbaria, monuments in which up to 12 niches may be placed. A niche contains an individual's cremated remains.
I was working with her to develop estimated costs for alternative forms of burial, because I wondered whether the columbarium alternative was less costly. Based on our assumptions, some of which she suggested I confirm with a funeral home, it does appear as if it may be the low-cost alternative.
Sometimes when I research a story and work with a subject matter expert like Lisa, I get a lot more information than I bargained for, and I learn that the task isn't yet done - not if you want to get the story right. You need to make another phone call, and continue your reportorial journey through the development of the story.
Then, when the data is fully gathered, you need to sort out the detailed story for yourself, and the process of simplification begins, in which you need to be truthful and accurate in telling the story, taking care to include only elements that might interest a reader.
Sometimes, I love this part of the job best, but I've learned it's a process. Time to stare at the numbers, call the funeral home, confirm the numbers and write the story.
I was working with her to develop estimated costs for alternative forms of burial, because I wondered whether the columbarium alternative was less costly. Based on our assumptions, some of which she suggested I confirm with a funeral home, it does appear as if it may be the low-cost alternative.
Sometimes when I research a story and work with a subject matter expert like Lisa, I get a lot more information than I bargained for, and I learn that the task isn't yet done - not if you want to get the story right. You need to make another phone call, and continue your reportorial journey through the development of the story.
Then, when the data is fully gathered, you need to sort out the detailed story for yourself, and the process of simplification begins, in which you need to be truthful and accurate in telling the story, taking care to include only elements that might interest a reader.
Sometimes, I love this part of the job best, but I've learned it's a process. Time to stare at the numbers, call the funeral home, confirm the numbers and write the story.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A lesson for me, and for us
It was hard for me to assess the personal impact of the recent revelations of child sexual abuse at Penn State. Penn State had been for me a football program like Notre Dame. It's not enough to win on the field; you have to do it in the classroom as well, and graduate your athletes. Integrity and honor are priorities. There is no greatness without goodness.
At times, I thought JoePa had overstayed his welcome. It was a little like football coach Ben Schwartzwalder at Syracuse University toward the end of this career. The football program was tanking and Ben stayed on - the desire was to reach 25 years as head coach. And he did. But the football program took some time to recover.
In fact, however, JoePa's longtime stewardship at Penn State was a good thing for the school. The program was classy, and maintained a winning tradition. Now, had JoePa not won football games, we wouldn't be seeing the wave of sentiment toward the guy. He would have been run out of Happy Valley years ago if he didn't win. Winning is the sine qua non of all sports, and indeed of life - but where does it stop? Where is the reality check?
When I wrestle with issues, I read. The information is good, but often the perspective is better. I saw a column in the National Review online that helped me a lot, because the most insidious aspect of the sorry tale is how it was handled by several people who should have known better, should have done more.
It was called "Penn State and the Wages of Cowardice," by David French. I'd never heard of the guy before.
An excerpt: "It was cowardly for an athletic director to hear reports of abuse and do . . . nothing. The way of the coward is to seek self-preservation and the preservation of your friends and cronies. The coward keeps the gravy train rolling and revels in the accolades even as he knows terrible truths — truths he will never, ever have the courage to reveal." The link to the full story is: http://www.nationalreview.com/corner/282956/penn-state-and-wages-cowardice-david-french
It reminded me of how evil, for most of us, consists primarily of sins of omission. Of turning a blind eye; of following the letter of the law, not its spirit; of a failure to recognize and to do the right thing.
It reminded of the importance of being brave and risking longtime career and friends to see that justice is done.
Because I'm subject to that kind of thing. Sometimes the fraternity of men, the easy camaraderie of like-minded fellows, reinforces your sense of yourself, and your moral touchpoints become dulled.
But the most important lesson of being an adult, of being a good person, is sometimes calling a spade a spade. Of blowing the whistle, and seeing that justice is done, and that the innocent are not harmed. A stunning number of Penn State officials, probably otherwise good men, failed this test. And I have to ask: what would I have done?
Today, this morning, I know that I will remember this lesson about a tragic sin of omission, and think twice about giving a wink and a nod toward behavior that is patently wrong, and risk my membership in easy fraternity, to see that the right thing is done.
At times, I thought JoePa had overstayed his welcome. It was a little like football coach Ben Schwartzwalder at Syracuse University toward the end of this career. The football program was tanking and Ben stayed on - the desire was to reach 25 years as head coach. And he did. But the football program took some time to recover.
In fact, however, JoePa's longtime stewardship at Penn State was a good thing for the school. The program was classy, and maintained a winning tradition. Now, had JoePa not won football games, we wouldn't be seeing the wave of sentiment toward the guy. He would have been run out of Happy Valley years ago if he didn't win. Winning is the sine qua non of all sports, and indeed of life - but where does it stop? Where is the reality check?
When I wrestle with issues, I read. The information is good, but often the perspective is better. I saw a column in the National Review online that helped me a lot, because the most insidious aspect of the sorry tale is how it was handled by several people who should have known better, should have done more.
It was called "Penn State and the Wages of Cowardice," by David French. I'd never heard of the guy before.
An excerpt: "It was cowardly for an athletic director to hear reports of abuse and do . . . nothing. The way of the coward is to seek self-preservation and the preservation of your friends and cronies. The coward keeps the gravy train rolling and revels in the accolades even as he knows terrible truths — truths he will never, ever have the courage to reveal." The link to the full story is: http://www.nationalreview.com/corner/282956/penn-state-and-wages-cowardice-david-french
It reminded me of how evil, for most of us, consists primarily of sins of omission. Of turning a blind eye; of following the letter of the law, not its spirit; of a failure to recognize and to do the right thing.
It reminded of the importance of being brave and risking longtime career and friends to see that justice is done.
Because I'm subject to that kind of thing. Sometimes the fraternity of men, the easy camaraderie of like-minded fellows, reinforces your sense of yourself, and your moral touchpoints become dulled.
But the most important lesson of being an adult, of being a good person, is sometimes calling a spade a spade. Of blowing the whistle, and seeing that justice is done, and that the innocent are not harmed. A stunning number of Penn State officials, probably otherwise good men, failed this test. And I have to ask: what would I have done?
Today, this morning, I know that I will remember this lesson about a tragic sin of omission, and think twice about giving a wink and a nod toward behavior that is patently wrong, and risk my membership in easy fraternity, to see that the right thing is done.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Quantity vs. quality time
As I write this, my wife Jan and I just completed three days of babysitting for my grandson Noah. His parents - my son Matthew and daughter-in-law Crystal - left town on vacation. We stayed at their home. They rolled in last night after midnight, and Noah continued sleeping. Noah has a video and audio monitor in his bedroom that enables us to see and to hear what's going on. My wife and I watched him on the monitor after we put him down for the night, and it was a stitch. This morning, my wife returned to work for the day, and I joined her.
I use the word babysitting, but my wife does the heavy lifting – diaper changes, feeding, sleep time, baths. I'm kinda the good-time Charlie, helping her out and keeping Noah amused. Relative to amusement, however, I'm surprised to say that Noah does the heavy lifting, not me. If I introduce something new to him, he picks up on it right away, remembers it, and we do it again and again.
I have a silly gene in myself that lies dormant most of the time. I have watched shows like Saturday Night Live almost since its beginning in 1975, and am riotously amused by sight and sound gags on television comedies. “Seinfeld” is a favorite, as were the shows “Taxi,” “Cheers,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and others. I have on occasion replayed their best scenes several times after I first see them, and laugh each time as I watch the scene unfold.
Case in point: the Reverend Jim Ignatowski on the TV show “Taxi” is taking the written exam to become a cab driver. He doesn't know the answer to one of the questions, and whispers to his cohorts a few feet away, “What does a yellow light mean?”
To which they reply, also whispering, “Slow down!” Jim looks puzzled, a little exasperated, and asks them again, this time more slowly, “WHAT...DOES...A...YELLLOOOWWW...” This goes on two or three more times, and I can't contain myself. I am consumed by idiot laughter, and I play it again and again, just to laugh some more. My wife wonders sometimes about me.
The silliness within has begun to re-emerge with Noah. A couple weeks ago – I don't know where it came from – I was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, and he was in the center of the room, a foot or two away from me.
I looked at him, and said “Jump,” and I jumped a few inches in the air. When I landed, Noah was consumed by idiot laughter. When he collected himself, he looked at me and shouted “Jump!” We both leaped into the air, and had a good laugh at ourselves. He's since elaborated on the game by saying “Ready?” (It comes out like “Weddy?”) and bends his knees, ready to jump. I, of course, bend my knees as well, and together we jump, and laugh.
He is fascinated by what appear to an adult to be the simplest things – the opening and closing of a door, for instance. He has a game now where I sit on a chair in his bedroom. He goes to the door, shuts it, runs down the hallway to his “Amma,” (my wife Jan), and runs back down the hallway toward the bedroom where I sit, waiting. He opens the door slowly, and I feign surprise and fear. He is contorted by laughter and repeats the drill, again and again. We have a ball.
Yesterday, I took him outside, and we went for a walk in his wagon. As we always do, I found a small broken stick on the sidewalk, and gave it to him. As he rolls down the sidewalk in the wagon, he drags the stick, and we talk about what we see – the 16-year-old friendly cat a couple doors down, who sidles over to greet us, the spooky decorations on the houses for Halloween, the ambulance with its sirens, the concrete pig decorating a lawn, the black squirrel running by.
The talk is almost nonstop, mostly by me. In between our conversations, I sing a couple verses of “Elmo's Song” to him, and he appears to like it. He almost never complains, and is almost always in a good mood. And I couldn't care less who hears me sing.
Yesterday, in the backyard, he noticed his dog Gretta rubbing the side of her body along a cyclone fence, itching herself. The bottom of the fence is less than a foot away from the edge of the driveway, and a narrow strip of grass lies between. Its width varies along its length, so it's tricky for him to walk the strip of grass along the fence. At times he can place both his feet in the strip and walk forward slowly, at other times he has to lift one foot to the driveway, leaving the other foot below on the grass.
He appears to be genuinely challenged by the uneven surfaces, and will do this for up to 15 minutes. I hold his hand to break a potential fall to the concrete, but the perambulation is all his.
Yesterday, it reminded me of a wonderful novel I read years ago, in which the protagonist practices a physical move with a friend many times over the years, as they grow up together. In the climax of the book, they find themselves in a situation in which the move is essential to saving the lives of several young children.
Tonight, my wife and I are heading back up to Noah's home, to see him go out for Trick or Treat. He says something that sounds like “Dwick u Dwee.” We will be there for only 20 minutes. At 18 months old, Noah doesn't get to go to many houses, but I want to see him in his costume, and to see him enjoy himself. It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already.
I remember reading years ago an article about broken families, and the notion of “quality” time that a non-resident dad may use to maximize enjoyment with his children – a trip to the zoo, say, or going to get ice cream. And I say Amen to that – it's gotta be a tough situation.
But I had to agree with the author's conclusion that it's quantity time that often makes the difference in a relationship. It's the downtime when you're talking with each other, it's the silence in the room, it's laughing together at a funny scene on TV. Even, say, just jumping together.
I use the word babysitting, but my wife does the heavy lifting – diaper changes, feeding, sleep time, baths. I'm kinda the good-time Charlie, helping her out and keeping Noah amused. Relative to amusement, however, I'm surprised to say that Noah does the heavy lifting, not me. If I introduce something new to him, he picks up on it right away, remembers it, and we do it again and again.
I have a silly gene in myself that lies dormant most of the time. I have watched shows like Saturday Night Live almost since its beginning in 1975, and am riotously amused by sight and sound gags on television comedies. “Seinfeld” is a favorite, as were the shows “Taxi,” “Cheers,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and others. I have on occasion replayed their best scenes several times after I first see them, and laugh each time as I watch the scene unfold.
Case in point: the Reverend Jim Ignatowski on the TV show “Taxi” is taking the written exam to become a cab driver. He doesn't know the answer to one of the questions, and whispers to his cohorts a few feet away, “What does a yellow light mean?”
To which they reply, also whispering, “Slow down!” Jim looks puzzled, a little exasperated, and asks them again, this time more slowly, “WHAT...DOES...A...YELLLOOOWWW...” This goes on two or three more times, and I can't contain myself. I am consumed by idiot laughter, and I play it again and again, just to laugh some more. My wife wonders sometimes about me.
The silliness within has begun to re-emerge with Noah. A couple weeks ago – I don't know where it came from – I was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, and he was in the center of the room, a foot or two away from me.
I looked at him, and said “Jump,” and I jumped a few inches in the air. When I landed, Noah was consumed by idiot laughter. When he collected himself, he looked at me and shouted “Jump!” We both leaped into the air, and had a good laugh at ourselves. He's since elaborated on the game by saying “Ready?” (It comes out like “Weddy?”) and bends his knees, ready to jump. I, of course, bend my knees as well, and together we jump, and laugh.
He is fascinated by what appear to an adult to be the simplest things – the opening and closing of a door, for instance. He has a game now where I sit on a chair in his bedroom. He goes to the door, shuts it, runs down the hallway to his “Amma,” (my wife Jan), and runs back down the hallway toward the bedroom where I sit, waiting. He opens the door slowly, and I feign surprise and fear. He is contorted by laughter and repeats the drill, again and again. We have a ball.
Yesterday, I took him outside, and we went for a walk in his wagon. As we always do, I found a small broken stick on the sidewalk, and gave it to him. As he rolls down the sidewalk in the wagon, he drags the stick, and we talk about what we see – the 16-year-old friendly cat a couple doors down, who sidles over to greet us, the spooky decorations on the houses for Halloween, the ambulance with its sirens, the concrete pig decorating a lawn, the black squirrel running by.
The talk is almost nonstop, mostly by me. In between our conversations, I sing a couple verses of “Elmo's Song” to him, and he appears to like it. He almost never complains, and is almost always in a good mood. And I couldn't care less who hears me sing.
Yesterday, in the backyard, he noticed his dog Gretta rubbing the side of her body along a cyclone fence, itching herself. The bottom of the fence is less than a foot away from the edge of the driveway, and a narrow strip of grass lies between. Its width varies along its length, so it's tricky for him to walk the strip of grass along the fence. At times he can place both his feet in the strip and walk forward slowly, at other times he has to lift one foot to the driveway, leaving the other foot below on the grass.
He appears to be genuinely challenged by the uneven surfaces, and will do this for up to 15 minutes. I hold his hand to break a potential fall to the concrete, but the perambulation is all his.
Yesterday, it reminded me of a wonderful novel I read years ago, in which the protagonist practices a physical move with a friend many times over the years, as they grow up together. In the climax of the book, they find themselves in a situation in which the move is essential to saving the lives of several young children.
Tonight, my wife and I are heading back up to Noah's home, to see him go out for Trick or Treat. He says something that sounds like “Dwick u Dwee.” We will be there for only 20 minutes. At 18 months old, Noah doesn't get to go to many houses, but I want to see him in his costume, and to see him enjoy himself. It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already.
I remember reading years ago an article about broken families, and the notion of “quality” time that a non-resident dad may use to maximize enjoyment with his children – a trip to the zoo, say, or going to get ice cream. And I say Amen to that – it's gotta be a tough situation.
But I had to agree with the author's conclusion that it's quantity time that often makes the difference in a relationship. It's the downtime when you're talking with each other, it's the silence in the room, it's laughing together at a funny scene on TV. Even, say, just jumping together.
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