Under the Hood

If I had to choose a word to best describe my knowledge about cars- how they work, why they work and how to repair them- ‘extensive’ is not the first one that would come to mind. 'Limited' would probably be more accurate. I can check tire pressure and fluid levels. I can add appropriate amounts of said fluids. I can replace windshield wipers, the car battery, and even a car’s headlights with a minimum of permanent scarring. And in nearly 16 years of driving (I started late), I've changed exactly one flat tire. That's about it. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have never been forced to expand my working knowledge of automobiles.

I've often wished I knew more about cars than I do, but the topic has never really interested me that much. I'm more into reading. My father-in-law, however, is quite different. He collects cars the way I collect books and has forgotten more about them than I could ever hope to know. As a man, I'm ashamed of my lack of knowledge. I feel that I should know more. But wishing and wanting to know more about a topic does not translate into knowledge. Would that it did.

One thing I do know, however, is that you can't judge the overall reliability and soundness of a vehicle simply by its appearance. Looks- and used car salesmen across the nation count on this fact- can be deceiving. To see what a car really looks like, you have to get under the hood. Even then, you've gotta know what you're looking at as well as what it's supposed to look and sound like in order to determine whether everything truly functions properly. You may even have to take it for a test drive.

In today's economic climate, assumptions about financial standing based on the car a person drives or the house they live in are equally likely to be flawed. That multi-million dollar mansion owned by the guy with the stable full of exotic cars could be in foreclosure, the cars set to be repossessed day after tomorrow.

Looks can be deceiving.

But what about a person's health? Can we make accurate assumptions about their health based on their appearance? Most of us believe so and it is this belief that is at the heart of the debate with President Obama's pick for Surgeon General. The issue? Her appearance.

Dr. Regina Benjamin is a doctor of distinction who also happens to be the founder and CEO of the Bayou La Batre Rural Health Clinic in Alabama. She has dedicated her life to providing quality medical care to impoverished patients at her clinic in a community still reeling from effects of Hurricane Katrina.

Based on her appearance with the President last week and various other photos, Dr. Benjamin is believed to be a full-figured woman. This observation has some questioning whether her installment as Surgeon General would send the right visual message to Americans and the rest of the world about the importance of our nation's health initiatives. They feel Dr. Benjamin’s credibility in turning the tide on our obesity epidemic is severely compromised.

And it's not just the medical experts who are asking questions. "My father taught me to never take financial advice from a poor man," I read on an opinion board. "Why would I take medical advice from a woman who has made unhealthy lifestyle choices?"

The other side- seemingly composed of a similar number of medical experts- argues that Dr. Benjamin’s weight might be a more valid concern if it weren't for the fact that medical research has determined that what's under the hood- a person's blood pressure, their cholesterol, their exercise regiment and various other measures- is a far better indicator of health than their waistline.

I’m not sure how I feel about this issue. On the one hand, I can understand the reservations of the critics. If an administration said it wanted to end corporate corruption and then turned around and nominated an individual known for shady practices in his or her brokerage as the next head of the Securities and Exchange Commission, I would see that as a counterproductive and hypocritical effort at best. And justifiably so.

But I also believe that a role model can be particularly effective when they have had first-hand experience with the issue at hand. Would Michael J. Fox hold as much credibility and influence as an advocate for Parkinson’s research if he himself were not afflicted with the disease? Perhaps. Computer security companies have been known to hire former hackers because they know all the tricks and trade of the industry. Alcoholics Anonymous and other organizations operate on the principle that someone who has faced the same temptations as those they seek to help are in the best position to truly provide counsel and guidance. To be honest, I’m tired of seeing so-called experts and talking heads whose knowledge of what they are advising and chastising the rest of us about is…

Well, the word ‘limited’ comes to mind.

One Size Fits All...Until It Doesn't

This week finds Judge Sonia Sotomayor in the middle of the job interview of a lifetime. Every U.S. Senator has pretty much accepted the fact that- in sports lingo- Judge Sotomayor, ‘controls her own destiny’. That is to say that barring some monumentally stupid remark, she is a virtual lock for the job. However, the Senate Judiciary Committee will still put her through the paces.

Ordinarily, it would be a fairly uneventful proceeding for me. But there are a couple things of interest.

A few years ago, long before President Barack Obama tapped her to become the next Supreme Court Justice, Judge Sotomayor made some comments that are coming back to haunt her. In a now infamous 2001 speech, she stated, “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.

It was- in retrospect- a surprisingly unwise statement for a judge with higher aspirations to make and one she is now repeatedly being asked to account for. Yet Sotomayor’s statement is one we all hear every day: women presuppose that their opinions are superior to those of men. Men believe their judgment is superior to that of women. The young assert that their opinions and views are superior to those older than them. Conservatives believe their views are superior to those of liberals and independents. And so on.

But where the law is concerned, people like Judge Judy, Judge Alex, and Judge Joe Brown tell us that a judge is supposed to be impartial, free of bias and prejudice. Opponents of the Sotomayor nomination believe that President Obama’s pick will be unable to separate herself from her experiences and values in the interpretation and adherence to the rule of law.

I would agree. In fact, I would venture to say that this is true not just of Judge Sotomayor, but of all past, present and future Justices. And not just those on the Supreme Court, but those at all other levels of office as well.

To be blunt, I believe impartiality to be…well...a myth, one that runs contrary to our very nature. And I believe there are at least three reasons why.


The outside always comes in

The acquisition of our values, beliefs, and philosophies begins at an early age and we spend the rest of our lives either confirming or rejecting the values and opinions we are exposed to as children. They define and anchor our identity- who we’ve been, who we are now, and who we hope to become. Even when we are not aware of them, our values are quietly operating in the background, influencing who we choose to associate ourselves with, where we shop, what we buy, watch, listen to, read, crave and even fear.

We are- for the most part- proud of our values and experiences. And we should be. They comprise our heritage, shape our family traditions, and connect what has come before to the ever-present now.

There should be no doubt that such things influence our decisions, in ways we are still unable to fathom. To go against the grain of our values takes a conscious, occasionally monumental effort to overcome and frequently exposes us to stigmatization and various other sanctions. It is not impossible for us to go against our values, but because we are creatures of habit who don’t like to stray far from our areas of comfort, we don’t do it often. Not if we can help it.
This would explain why I have heard so many politicians, presidential candidates, and Supreme Court nominees trumpet and showcase their personal stories: it makes them more human. It celebrates the unique qualities and characteristics that have made them who they are. It wasn’t so long ago that we were all talking about how Wall Street needed to learn a few things from Main Street, and how Washington needed more Joe Six Packs and fewer elitists incapable of relating to the everyday American. Where did that sentiment go?

We value the consistent, even application of rules for everyone. Everyone except ourselves, that is.

We believe that there should be an inherent fairness and equanimity in our approach to everything and everyone, yet we make snap judgments about people based on appearance, accent, education, status, and income all the time. And when we it is shown that our judgments are wrong, we fight tooth and nail to justify why that experience or individual was merely an exception that might bend our general rule, but not break it.

Parents often say that they raise their children exactly the same, supervisors and managers say they supervise and manage their employees in an identical manner. Judges say they decide all their cases based on its merits as opposed to the emotional arguments presented. But I believe the honest truth of the matter is that we do not. We may attempt to, but there are subtle and not-so-subtle differences. We play favorites. We craft black sheep. Right now, there are countless sons and daughters in therapy or on their own seeking to deal with the fact that their father or mother didn’t love them as much as they did a younger or older brother or sister. Right now, there are numerous lawsuits clogging the system alleging that a boss made exceptions for everyone else except them. Clearly, something isn’t connecting between what we say and what we do.

It is this disconnect that allows someone like Republican Mark Sandford to demand the resignation of Democratic President Clinton for sexual improprieties with Monica Lewinsky, but to then ask for a pass when his own are discovered (or confessed…repeatedly). It astounds me how politicians of all kinds fail to recognize, let alone admit, the blatant hypocrisy in the application of two different standards for the exact same offense- one for the members of their own party and a separate one for their opposition.

The ‘Us vs. Them’ mentality

Judge Sotomayor got into trouble because she played the ‘better than’ game. I don’t believe it was the acknowledgement that her experiences were different that raised eyebrows so much as the supposition that her experiences were better than those of white males. But this, again, is something that we all do almost daily: we engage in the game of pretending that our values and experiences- and those like us- are superior to the values and experiences of our competitors or those different from ourselves. I call it the Lake Wobegon Effect: we are all above average. And because we are all above average, our views and experiences are automatically better than anyone else’s. Although this is a flawed mindset, it does make us feel special.
The retail industry has known for quite a while that we lead with our hearts and justify our actions later with our heads. For centuries, it has developed elaborate campaigns designed to appeal not to our sense of logic and reason, but to our sense of desire. It is why one out of every three commercials aired during a football game will feature alcohol, automobiles, or both. Yes, we will always buy things that add practical value to our lives, but it’s just so much more fun to buy things that make us feel good.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe impartiality to be a noble aspiration. And no, I don’t seriously believe that it is a myth. Not entirely. But the wink and nod our justice and various other systems and institutions pay to it now is an insult to anyone with even a modest understanding of legal or political history. And it only leads to continued bitterness, resentment, and cynicism. A change is due, if not overdue.

I also believe that there should also be an equally important place for empathy and compassion in our lives. I think our world would be markedly different if we were all more compassionate and empathetic. Leaders would think twice about declaring war if they had to experience firsthand what it felt like to send their son or daughter to war and lose them in battle. Companies would be less likely to let employees go or relocate overseas if their CEOs and top management had to live on the salaries their employees averaged. Politicians and policymakers would spend more time trying to understand and advocate for all their constituents if they had to live out the results of their decisions and legislation.

Maybe that’s the true myth- that we could ever achieve such a state of existence.

As Seen on TV

Written 7.7.09

Yesterday, I had a genuine moment of déjà vu.

It happened as I watched the Michael Jackson memorial procession heading to the Staples Center. When I saw the crowds of people standing on highway overpasses hoping to catch a glimpse of the hearse carrying the Gloved One and its convoy of black vehicles, I was reminded of another California highway procession from nearly 15 years before: a white Ford Bronco trailed by a dozen black and white police sedans.

The infamous OJ Simpson slow-speed chase.

I saw it on television. I know because I still remember how annoyed I was that the Knicks-Rockets playoff game was being interrupted for what had to be the worst car chase in the history of car chases. But once I started watching, I couldn’t stop. I was glued to the TV long into the night, listening to Peter Jennings and Barbara Walters give voice to my thoughts about what was going on and why it was happening.
From time to time, I would think about doing something else. Anything else, really. Maybe I should go back to the office and get some work done. Maybe I should read a book. Maybe I should go to bed and get some rest. But I was hooked. History is happening right in front of my eyes, I remember thinking, and if I stop now I’ll miss whatever happens next.

I wonder if that thought captures my generation, the MTV generation that has spent more hours in front of a television than we would ever care to admit? For us, the TV has been a friend and looking back on it, all the major national and international events of my time seem to have unfolded on it.

The Nixon resignation. The Iran hostage crisis. The Challenger explosion. The dismantling of the Berlin Wall. The first Gulf War. The Columbine Shootings. The Oklahoma City bombing. Diana Spencer’s wedding and funeral. The Rodney King beating, verdict and LA riots. The OJ Simpson chase and trial. The Clinton impeachment hearings. The death of JFK, Jr. The 2000 Election night coverage. The September 11 attacks. Hurricane Katrina. The Obama inauguration.

I had that same grandiose sense of history unfolding before my eyes yesterday and I was just as hooked then as I’d ever been. Only difference was, I watched this moment unfold not on television, but on my computer screen. And from what I could tell, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of other people doing the exact same thing. I know because I watched and read their moment-by-moment feedback.
Ah, MySpace, Facebook and Twitter. What did we ever do before you?

I believe that a shift of sorts has occurred in the 15 years since Al Cowlings became the answer to a 1990s Trivial Pursuit question. The news is still covered, but the medium of receipt is rapidly changing. Though the television is still around, there’s now the internet and there are more of us turning to it as our first source for news than ever before. In my more cynical moments, I imagine that the internet is the technological equivalent of WalMart, coming in and slowly elbowing out the Mom & Pop media mediums. First it was radio, then the small town newspaper and now the big boys like the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Washington Post. Next up: metropolitan television stations and cable news networks.

That’s what I think in my more cynical moments. But I’ve also witnessed any number of transitions, too. The cassette tape has replaced the 8-track, the Walkman has replaced the boom box, the iPod has replaced the Walkman, the CD has replaced the cassette tape, the DVD has replaced the VHS tape, and most recently, the digital TV signal has replaced analog.

And so it goes.

Progress is good. Everyone says so. The internet is just another link in a long chain of technological progress. I know I should probably take this latest transition in stride, yet I can’t seem to shake that small sense of foreboding I feel in the pit of my stomach.

Change is good, right? Right?

The Long Goodbye

Written 7.1.09

Last week, Death easily earned the title of Hardest Working Man in Show Business.

During the week, three iconic individuals shuffled away their mortal coils to go wherever it is such people go when their time among us has come to an end. While I could always look up into the night sky and find their places in the constellation of pop stardom, their stars did not shine as brightly as they did at the height of their fame and popularity.

Each left behind a legacy of significance, although the term- much like beauty itself- lies largely in the eye of the beholder. To me, Ed McMahon was and will always be the quintessential sidekick, whereas Farrah Fawcett was among the last of the great pinup girls. And Michael? Well, Michael always defied explanation. Talented musician? Yes. Superb dancer? Absolutely. Trailblazer? Without a doubt. I have never been able to imagine MTV reaching the status it has today without thinking of the days and nights in the early 80s I spent watching and waiting for the latest Michael Jackson video event to debut. It is a nostalgia that will never wane.

The arc of Ed’s and Farrah’s degenerating health was long and their deaths, though sad, came as little surprise to me. Michael Jackson’s passing, however, was different. It hit like a supernova. There are many who have expressed discontent that the media’s coverage of Michael’s death so obviously overshadowed Farrah’s. I would submit that a person’s essence- their life’s work- cannot and should not be defined by the day they died. It is shaped instead by the days they lived and what we remember of them afterwards. And that’s a good thing. Otherwise, Mother Teresa’s unique contributions might forever be concealed by the trivial fact that she and Princess Diana died on the same day in 1997.

In spite of the suddenness of his death, I suppose I’ve been saying goodbye to Michael for several years now. I first started when the first accusation of child molestation surfaced in 1993. Although the state of California closed its criminal investigation of Michael for lack of evidence, his reputation took a major hit and would never fully recover either with me or the public at large. The eccentricities that had been interesting when I was a teenager- the hyperbaric chamber, the chimp, the changing appearance- were no longer quite as interesting. As a teenager, I could dismiss the oddities because his talent and genius were much greater. But in 1993, I was no longer a teenager and viewed through the lens of age and rationality, the eccentricities now seemed downright weird. And though Jackson was still a talented singer producing some of the best singles of his career, the questionable decisions he made in his private life could no longer be ignored.

Over the years, I’ve realized that the ability to compartmentalize and separate the personas of the public and private, of character and creed, is an adult talent. Children and teenagers tend to see the world in absolutes, whereas most adults are able to perceive and argue nature’s nuances. It is something we do for presidents and pop stars and everyone we fancy in between.

Success can be an albatross, particularly when it is achieved in youth. If, when we are children, we first meet the demons with whom we will spend the rest of our lives wrestling, Jackson’s must have been legion. But Michael’s success did not drive the demons away. If anything, it merely provided a spotlight by which he could always be found. In spite of everything Michael accomplished historically, musically, and racially, I can’t shake the belief that his was a life that could have been so much more. Instead, the Michael Jackson story is as much one of inspiration as admonition.

Death, like fire, has a way of burning away flaws and impurities and allowing us to once more embrace absolutes. In death, an icon can be remembered in ways he or she never could in life. Sainthood, reverence, and immortality are just a few such ways and I already see these labels applied selectively not only to Michael, but to Ed and Farrah as well. Perhaps the toll fame exacted in each of their lives warrants such treatment. Perhaps such treatment is something we do more for ourselves than for them. I don’t know.

What I do know is that there are three stars that no longer light my night sky, though I continue to search. Maybe one day I’ll find them.

Back in Time

Somewhere along the way, probably in between the recognizance of sentience and the discovery of fire, humankind decided to begin measuring stuff. This was generally received as a good idea because without measurements, we wouldn’t know how far to go to get from where we are now to where we’d like to be. We also wouldn’t know how much detergent to add to a load of clothes to get them clean, or even whether there’s enough gas in the tank to get us to the movie theater.

I’m cool with measuring things; the measurement system works. One of the measurements I struggle with, however, is time. I don’t know if this is the way it is for everyone, but for me, time has a way of folding in on itself. My sense of time is a lot like my sense of pitch: it’s relative.

While the accepted demarcations of time (seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years) seem to work well-enough for most, it doesn’t for me. No, I’m not saying that I’m chronically late or utterly undependable whenever the element of time is introduced. It’s more sinister than that. Time is a sworn enemy, a nemesis always looking to do me in. It’s slippery, time is, and has a tendency to get away from me. Especially when it comes to remembering what happened when. Consequently, I’ve had to develop techniques to supplement the conventional means of marking its passage.

I suppose it began when I was a child. I remember the years based on the toys I possessed or the books I read at the time. If you mention a year- 1978 perhaps- I’ll immediately relate it to a toy or book. Later- from my early teens to my early twenties- music became my mistress. I was a shy kid (sorry...that should read ‘introvert’) and music was my constant companion. As a result, I now have an almost savant-like ability to tell you the precise year a song from the 80s was released. I know everyone has a similar ability, but mine is positively freakish. I’ve had to restrain myself more than once from arguing with folks who can’t seem to recall the years “Billie Jean”, “Who Can it Be Now?”, or “Jump” were on the Top 40.

Yeah, it’s that bad.

After graduating from college and getting married a few years later, music- though still important to me- became less so. Life intervened and I quietly and unceremoniously aged out of the hip MTV and 106 & Park crowd and transitioned into the less-cool VH1 bunch. I lost an important anchor, something I’d used to help me accurately remember what happened when. These days, I can’t seem to pinpoint time very well. I’ve never been a big fan of pictures and photographs (except for maybe a three year period of time in my mid-to-late twenties), so that one’s out. Over the years, I’ve tried relying on cars, houses, apartments, jobs, and even clothes help me to remember time’s march, but they’re simply not precise enough. I need a new measurement.

Where are Doc Brown and his DeLorean when you need them?

State of the Union

In May of 1999, a Republican governor told a writer from Salon.com that his secret to winning reelection at a time when most Republicans were fighting tooth and nail to hang on to their posts stemmed from a refusal to “play the politics of putting people into groups and pitting one group against another”. His gubernatorial campaign was noteworthy because he had received the endorsement of every major Democratic politician in his overwhelmingly conservative southern state. This was, to be sure, no small feat. That distinction almost certainly played a role in his subsequent election as President of the United States, perhaps as much as name recognition, a deep campaign war chest, and a resemblance to his father, former President George H.W. Bush.

Two terms later, our nation is not more united than it was before. It is as fractured and splintered as ever. If not more so. In all honesty, however, one cannot solely place the blame for our segmented society on President W’s shoulders. We were moving in that direction long before George Bush had ever even heard of Salon.

Politically, our leaders and representatives are members of increasingly polarized parties. The days in which a Republican and a Democrat could effectively draw the line between their work and their personal personas in order to sit down together for a beer at the local Washington pub after a long day spent debating the others’ principles on the floors of the House or Senate are over. Spurred by a media that seems to have abandoned its principles of ‘just the facts’ reporting in favor of providing us with their own informed take on the news, the Republican/Conservative versus Democrat/Liberal hype reminds me of the East Coast/West Coast rap rivalry of the 1990s.

And we appear to have bought into that rivalry hook, line, and sinker. Yes, there are legitimate and genuine differences between the two major parties. But to believe that the stakes of putting one party in power over another represents nothing less than the very salvation or damnation of the entire country is not only insulting, but absurd.

Racially, we’re no better off. As I’ve written previously, the great Postracial Rapture did not occur when Barack Obama was elected President; we were not swept up into a distant hereafter where race no longer matters. Instead, we must deal with such things as the aftermath of death created by an 88-year old white supremacist who decided that, like that news anchor in the movie Network, he was as mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore. We have Bonnie Sweeten choosing to pull a Susan Smith to provide cover for her to take her daughter to Disneyworld. And we have a South Carolina GOP activist who decided to publicly note on a popular social networking site that a recently-escaped gorilla was no cause for concern since it was probably just an ancestral relative of First Lady Michelle Obama.

Economically, we are what John Edwards termed, “two Americas”, one of haves and one of have-nots. As a student of sociology, I’d been hearing for years that the middle class was shrinking. In this economic climate, it is not surprising that the population of the have-nots (or “have-littles”) is on the rise. But addressing the systemic problems of poverty must go beyond knee-jerk cries of socialism if we are to accomplish anything meaningful.

In the weeks and months following September 11, 2001, the country was awash in a wave of nationalism and unity unlike anything I’d ever seen before. For a memorable moment in time, we were reminded that we were all Americans, brought together by four horrific acts. We were as close to being of one mind and one spirit as possible, supportive of a leader determined to exact penance for the loss of innocent human life. Yes, the price of that unity would ultimately be the loss of civil liberties and a blow to our standing in the international community, but it sure was a sight to see so many “United We Stand” billboards and bumper stickers everywhere.

We are not a nation of uniters. We are, instead, a nation of individuals who define ourselves not by what we support, but by what we stand against. It’s a subtle, but crucial difference. It means that we rally and riot reactively, not proactively. Maybe that’s the way it’s always been; after all, the country was founded by a group of activists seeking to take a stand against a powerful British monarch.

For a democracy to be worth its salt, perhaps unity should come at a price. Here in Minnesota, deliberations over whether Al Franken or Norm Coleman should represent the people have gone on an incomprehensible seven months. But what’s the alternative? Elections like those in North Korea where a candidate (typically the candidate currently in power) receives 100% of the popular vote? We all know those elections are a joke, a farce designed to bolster some dictator’s brittle ego.

Although I do wish it were just a little easier sometimes, when all is said and done, we are doing what we must as a democracy: exercising the freedom to disagree.

The New Normal

Written 6.2.09

Our minds can deceive us. I don’t know whether they mean to play tricks of perception and perspective on us, but they do. And they do so whether we’re looking through a glass darkly or a clear one straight on.

A few days ago, my Dad underwent a sextuple bypass.

I still remember getting the call. I’ve set up my Blackberry to ring or beep or buzz for just about anything from a text message to a wake up alarm, so it’s not an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence. The rings are usually phone calls and typically, they’re calls from my wife, Mom, sister, friends, and even the occasional call from my 4-year-old daughter. This one was from my Mom and it was the kind of call most sons dread receiving.

“The doctor says your Dad has a few clogged arteries. He’s going to need to have a bypass either tomorrow or the day after.”

It was serious, so serious that my father had been flown to a hospital specializing in cardiac surgery and admitted that same day. Do not pass go and do not collect $200.

“Oh,” I said after a pause that felt like it was much longer than it probably was. “Let me talk to my boss.”

After 30 minutes and two conversations, I was on my way home. 12 hours, two plane flights, and a rental car drive later, I was back at the home place.

During my stay, I found myself experiencing an almost continual number of “sea changes” (the new buzzword of the year), odd moments where I would come to the realization that there was now this whole different reality within my perception that I’d either been ignoring or hadn’t been aware of in the first place.

On the whole, I tend to avoid surprises. As I’ve mentioned before, I prefer to be prepared, even for the worst-case scenario. Even if that preparation is primarily mental in nature. The night before your father goes in for a major medical procedure, the worst-case scenario is an obvious, albeit a morbid, one. Although I didn’t want to imagine losing my Dad, I knew I had to prepare myself for the possibility. That, of course, made for a very long night.

Up until about 8 years ago, I considered myself fortunate. Beyond a great-grandmother who’d passed away when I was barely a teenager, my family and friends had a funny way of staying alive. Eight years ago, that began to change. I’ve since lost a mentor, two grandparents, a nephew, and various other people I’d grown to know and love. Their losses have not always been easy for me to bear and I don’t think they should be.

The morning he underwent the procedure, I remember being struck by my father’s appearance as he lay in the hospital bed waiting for the hospital staff to come and prep him for surgery. He was still himself; he laughed, joked, and seemed quite relaxed. He told us that he loved us, told my Mom not to worry even though we all knew she would. Yet there was something different about him. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but when it hit me, it hit me all at once: the previous night, I’d been mentally picturing my Dad as I remembered him when I was a teenager. The man lying on the bed before me was decades older.

I began to think about all the people I’d lost over the past few years. Their mental pictures were younger, too. And then I started to wonder: How long do we carry around the snapshots we have of our parents from childhood? What leads us to fix on the images that we do? And how am I viewed by those I know and love?

It was an experience that, all these days later, I am still trying to wrap my head around.

Fortunately, the bypass went smoothly and my Dad is back at the home place. His recuperation seems to be going well and, if he follows doctor’s orders, should emerge with a brand new lease on life. I now have some time to allow my perspective of my Dad to expand so that I can see him not as he was when I was 16, but as he is now.

I couldn’t ask for a better Father’s Day gift than that.