Autumn ambivalence

As I am with many things, also too am I conflicted about autumn.

Should I lament its brevity or rejoice in its beauty? Must I cling to the passing season or welcome the ritual of death that it renews?

Tonight I was reminded of autumn's beauty and impermanence during a vigorous sojourn among the sycamores and sugar maples, during an 80-minute walk down the canal feeder trail among the white oak and weeds.

The walking path rests above the Miami River waterway that once served canal boats decades ago as man and beast moved goods from Sidney and other points to the Miami-Erie Canal.

The rustling of the breeze and intermittent calls of birds joined the seasonal symphony, as my feet shuffled through the crunchy carpet that was once the canopy.  

The only other sound was the distant whine of wheels and motors, a fitting  juxtaposition with the canal trough below, the modern connected to the eternal.

Seeing autumn unfold is like saying goodbye to friends.

I don't know why some maples and oaks and poplar and paw paws still retain their armaments, while others willingly have ceded their cover, accepting winters' fate.

Stubborn trees aside, the empty multitude let in an array of light, but not enough to soak up the morning dampness that will hasten the leaves' decay, a crucial step in the forests' regeneration.

The morning light plays visual tricks, revealing everything so that nothing stands out. But the evening tone mutes the muddy background, magnifying the beauty of the turning trees. 

In darkness, beauty builds, no spotlight required.

At one point, I deemed it necessary to leave the asphalt ribbon and connect with the dirt, traipsing a trail carved into the earth.

To do so, I had to outwit a jealous branch of thorns guarding the path below a golden ceiling. My first reward was being allowed to traverse a dry gully funneling nothing but air toward the river below. 

At waters' edge, I paused to enjoy the languid stream succumbing to gravity, flowing south toward the Ohio River.

The world may move fast but time on earth moves slow.

Back on the natural scar, every so often a tree had been felled, a barrier reminding me to slow down but still keep going forward.

Where the water widened, a side trail connects to a sandbar, which begged to be bothered. While standing there calmly, I saw a deer grazing in the island of grasses and reeds. 

Sight betrays distance -- is that 50, 60, 70 yards away? I can't tell, but I am far enough away for my feet to rake across the rocks for a few steps without alerting the animal.

Then I paused, standing quietly for a few minutes before the deer finally caught the scent of an interloper. At that point, the deer surveyed its safety and decided to bound into the underbrush on the other side of the water.

And I made my return to the natural path before climbing up the hillside to begin my trip back to the trail's beginning.

There were some experiences to be appreciated in both directions. 

Twice I heard the flump-whomp-plunk of a walnut making its Newtonian plummet, bouncing off branches and whirring through leaves before splashing into the rivers' flow, the ripples accelerating upon impact before dissolving as quickly as they came.

As I was about to leave, the roar of a nearby freight train racing over the bridge signaled that life keeps moving on, here and elsewhere.

You woke up this morning? Good -- that means it is time to rewrite your obituary

Right now, if either of us died, our obituary would probably include the standard things that everyone else’s would have – who our family is, the towns that shaped us growing up and where we made our way in the world. It might include some of the charitable things we have done or the awards we have won, perhaps even some of our greatest failures and regrets.

But, if either of us were to die today, the obituary would be written, with no chance for modification, no chance to alter the facts contained therein. Like the stone atop a grave, our obituary would be the record of the brief blip of our lives on this mortal coil.


So, today, I am going to work to rewrite my obituary.
Tomorrow, I am going to shape my future in ways I never thought possible.
Each and every day I wake up to another sunrise is the chance to rewrite my obituary.


Today, I start working toward the goal of walking the Grand Canyon and the Appalachian Trail by my 45th birthday.
Tomorrow, I will work on the book whose idea has germinated for more than a decade.

And both days, perhaps, I will keep my heart open to the possibility of something more in my life besides an empty house at the end of the day.
 And the day after that, all three wishes! And the next, and the next, and the next.


For each day that I am given is special,  and each another chance to change the contents of that final word on the life that I have lived.

Today, I begin rewriting my obituary. How about you?

Farewell to a newsman's newsman, a collector and cantakerous, humorous friend

After soaking Sidney all day, the rain has stopped falling.
That would suit my good friend Eric, a former colleague and mentor, who died today.


Who enjoys rain, really? But it's impossible to experience the meteorological gloom that settled over Sidney today, and not make the connection.

Many a time, Eric and I would tentatively plan to engage in a weekend foray to some regional fair or tiny burg, or even simply decide to dine out during the week, and the decision whether to make the jaunt would hinge on the weather. Cold was abominable, but bearable. Same for the heat. He nearly wore out the heating and cooling system in that old Taurus of his.
But rain was about the worst nuisance, especially after Eric finally embraced retirement.


It wasn't always that way -- I can remember when he would almost derisively explain his mother's daily fixation on the weather wherever he was, the intrusions upon his daily life manifested in multiple telephone calls, even from several states away.

But then Eric got sick. And his mother died. Perhaps when she slipped this mortal coil, and he became the eldest (and last) in the American von Klinger clan, that worrisome vocation became his. Or maybe his grasp of time and what was important was colored by his bout with lung cancer.

Whatever the case, he suddenly became keenly aware of the weather. He didn't let it dictate his life but he certainly was shaped by it. Rain was cause for a grumpy exhortation. But then so were any number of slights, failures, or encounters.


If only it were thundering outside, to mimic his sonorous bellows at whatever injustice, mistreatment or stupidity he encountered, at the hands of the retailers who dared to stop carrying his favorite soup, or the newspaper carrier who couldn't manage to locate his apartment, time after time after time, or the neighbors who made a habit of helping themselves to that paper on Saturdays.

Eric was a journalist's journalist -- it was always about the story, and never about its author. If Eric knew of my need to put fingers to keyboard to sort this all out, he probably wouldn't be very happy.

Nor would he want to read this description of him, peppered with more "I's than a politician's promise.
Intellectual.
Irascible.
Inimitable.
Infuriating.
Integrity.


Those are just some of the things that I will miss.


No one could eviscerate a wrongheaded political argument better than Eric. His vocabulary and humor were unparalleled. He might even chide me -- gently -- for wearing out alliteration, one of my favorite exercises. Too trite, he'd say, always the editor, the coach refining my prose.

But it was his life in recent months that has refined me, like a crucible in the hottest fire, giving lessons for living as he drifted into dying.

Even on the bad days, that mischievous twinkle couldn't be totally hidden, upon the telling of a horrible (and horribly funny) joke, or reminiscing about past loves. And those weren't all women, ya know?
I never understood it, but it was a marvel to hear him talk about his childhood dogs, recounting their travels and characteristics as if they were in the other room.

And he always fought, for what he thought was right, what he deserved, and even for a few more months on this earth, after that cancer spread to his brain.


Sic transit gloria mundi. Rest in Peace, you cantankerous, hilarious, unforgettable curmudgeon.






The official obituary, for print:
Eric J. von Klinger, formerly of Sidney, died Aug. 22 after a lengthy battle with cancer.
Von Klinger, a former staff writer with Coin World, was 66 years old. He was born in 1946, the son of World War II veteran Joseph, a pharmacist and lawyer, and Louise von Klinger, a homemaker.
Von Klinger, a noted expert and researcher in error coins, and authored the Collector's Clearinghouse and Readers' Ask columns during much of his six-years on staff.
Prior to joining Coin World, von Klinger served in writing and editing positions at daily newspapers in Indiana, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Utah and West Virginia.
Von Klinger was also a veteran numismatic journalist. From 1993 to 1996 he served as an associate editor for Numismatic News and as a writer for Coins magazine.
While growing up in Wilmington, Ohio, he got his first exposure to numismatics.
When the Lincoln, Memorial Reverse cent was first released in 1959, von Klinger's seventh-grade science teacher brought a roll of the newly minted coins to the classroom, giving a cent to each student.
An intrigued von Klinger remembered that his father had a bag of old coins, and he began examining those coins, beginning a lifelong hobby.
His interests grew to encompass nearly every area of United States coins, early American coppers and tokens, as well as world coins.
Von Klinger was a charter subscriber to Coin World, which was first published in April 1960.
Von Klinger earned a bachelor's degree in English from Miami University of Ohio, where he also pursued graduate studies in English.
He was a member of the American Numismatic Association, Civil War Token Society, and Token and Medal Society.
He is survived by two nephews, Mike (Jenny) and Matt (Phyllis) Smuland, and former wife Shawnee (Mark) Culbertson.

Love graffiti, or a bridge to nowhere?

There are objects everywhere waiting to tell you stories, if only you'll look for them.



If you ever find yourself nestled deep in Tawawa Park in Sidney, take a stroll and  look for the big red covered bridge.

The Ross Bridge, named as these things often are -- for a local mover and shaker -- crosses Tawawa Creek, which is more formally known as Mosquito Creek.

There is something alluring about a covered bridge, the more timeworn but viable the better. Objects of utility, their simple beauty is striking. And they once littered the landscape in Ohio amid the latter part of the 19th century. Just a few scattered sentinels can be found today, a reminder of a different era.

This bridge is a modern iteration of the type that were once found across west Central Ohio, made by Reuben Partridge. I wonder what Mr. Partridge would think if he saw the way people have left their mark on something meant to honor him.



Scratched and dug and gouged and chiseled into the beams and the rails and the window frames of this bridge are the names of thousands of people, mostly presented in pairs, likely reflecting the youthful glow of love's first gleam.

Who are Kevin + Jen?
Their names still stand out like supernova amid the heavens, but what about their love? Did it rage as brightly and flame out as quickly as their celestial doppelganger or does it still burn, strong and bright?

You can't help but wonder who exactly is BVF, and whether he is still in "LUV" with Virita, as he was in 1981.
Where has time taken these two? What joy and grief have they experienced, and were they there to share and bear it with each other?

Bill and Anita made their mark in 1974. But this is 2013.
One hopes that they are about to celebrate 40 years, marked by times good and bad, but always together, but time and love both have ways of playing funny tricks on people.

Does Joyce still love Don?
The romantic in me says yes, that each of these couples' love has stood the test of time, that it is deep and true and etched in their hearts like their names on that wood.

The cynic says that, given the explosion of divorce and rise of single-parent households, there is, at best, a 50 percent chance that these two are still together, seven, 23 or even 39 years after they made it public. Of course, maybe they have a better shot than that -- it must be true love if you're willing to attempt vandalism.


It is just a bridge, and these are just carvings. But when I see love graffiti, I can't help but wonder whether the metaphor of these hearts and names represent love as a bridge to nowhere, or the solid foundation for a life of love.

Season in Review (Or, Why Cardinals Fans Should Be Thankful)

This is a little tardy, what with losing the password and all, but here are some thoughts about the way the Cardinals' season ended.


That was hard to watch.

Scratch that -- that was really hard to watch.

Almost as painful as a 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' marathon.

How does it feel today, Cardinals Nation? Perhaps you woke up with a hangover, a heavy heart and despair? That’s just the inevitable crash downward after being so high for so long.

We Cardinals fans, we baseball junkies, have become so used to the adrenaline rush, the endorphin-boosting thrills, of winning do-or-die games so many times, we’ve forgotten what it feels like to be on the other side of the equation.

For 13 months, the highs had never been higher. Now, the low seems never to have been lower.

As rapturous as the Game Five victory against the Washington Nationals in the Division Series this year -- four runs in the ninth inning when the team was down to its last strike twice!! -- that didn’t guarantee a clear path to victory, to play in the final contest.


As surprising as the World Series championships were in 2006 and 2011, what were arguably the best teams of the past decade provided more clunkers than clinchers.

In 2004 it was the intersection of history and a bunch of "Idiots" from Boston that spelled the end of the MV3's first hurrah.

You know the story. The Red Sox swept the Cardinals in four games, busting the Curse of the Bambino in the House That Steroids Built.


In 2005, we were reminded that not every postseason memory is positive, and not every positive memory had a happy ending. For as long as Brad Lidge remains on this mortal coil, Cardinals fans will forever link his name, and his baseball career, to one pitch in Houston on that fall night in 2005 when Albert Pujols launched a missile over the train tracks.

Before that pitch, Lidge’s career trajectory was rising meteorically, up, up, up, as Mike Shannon might say. Since then, his career has been closer to the other side of the parabola, the sharp slide toward earth (for the record, both he and Albert went on to claim a World Series title or two).


But as much as that moment of glory for Cardinals fans altered Lidge’s career, it didn’t derail the Astros. They kept on chugging, winning game 7 to earn their way to the World Series.

So what if the White Sox beat them? The Astros made it there. Few people take pride in losing, but losing to a winner softens the sting.

What do we remember from 1996?
What should we remember?

The horrible performance from the Cardinals against Atlanta after being up three-games-to-one, or the return to postseason under new ownership and new manager after a drought of success that was unfathomable after the riches of the 1980s and Whiteyball.

Failure is an orphan, and success has many fathers, but whatever you remember from 1996, or 2004 or 2005 or 2012, do not lose sight of the fact that the Cardinals had seven more games (eight if you count the spin-the-wheel play-in game) than all but a few teams.
Brandon Phillips and Reds Nation? Silenced, stunned by the knockout blow from Panda and the San Fran Crew.

With a rookie manager, a broke-down pitching rotation and three future Hall-of-Famers gone, the Cardinals came within one game of another World Series.

The Cardinals got to play seven more games of baseball than 14 other National League teams. Cardinals fans got to see St. Louis experience another Red October, the ninth time in 17 seasons. That is an embarrassment of riches virtually unparalleled in all of Major League Baseball.

It's also seven more times than the Little Bears from the City of Broad Shoulders in that same period.

Cardinals' fans like to pick on the Cubs and their fans. Easy, convenient target and all that.
But, aside from brief blips, the Cubs and their fans have been content to merely exist, as if playing meaningful games past April is too much to bear.

As baseball underwent three rounds of expansion (1969, 1992 and 1998), the Cubs chugged along, making their customary once-a-decade playoff appearances. "Hey, look at us, we made the playoffs!" the fans would say. And then the inevitable but inconceivable came true, time and time again. Thisclose to a World Series on more than one occasion (you might say the gap was as thin as a goat’s hair), the Cubs lived up to a record of futility rivaling Sisyphus.

Or consider the Kansas City Royals. Missouri’s "other" team, whose success has been minimized to one World Series Championship in their lifetime, and that one is courtesy at least in part due to the temporary vision problems that afflicted a first base umpire.

I’ve heard the love and reverence of Cardinals Nation described as a college football atmosphere.

Here in the state that is round on the end and hi in the middle, Ohio State fans blanket the state like smog asphyxiating Los Angeles, and the parallel is pretty amazing. People in this state live and breath Ohio State football, unless of course they root for Michigan. As annoying as these fans can get, their passion and knowledge defines their fanaticism. I'd like to think that Ohio State fans, in that regard, are just like Cardinals fans.

So, the postseason is over now (after the woeful blink-and-miss exit by Detroit), and it is time to rest. To restore and renew faith and energy for the Cardinals, to begin to prepare for the next season.

After all, pitchers and catchers report in a little more than 13 weeks.

O, Albert! My Albert!

O Albert! My Albert! Your time with the team is done;
Cards Nation will weather your defection, the prize we sought not won;
The park is near, the cries I hear, the people all disgusted,
Disappointed in The Machine, El Hombre we must miss:

But O heart! heart! heart!
bleeding drops of Cardinals red,
While the on-deck circle is bare,
5 no more is said.


O Albert! My Albert! rise up and hear the jeers;
Rise up, for you the banner's flung, Stan's harmonica goes still;
For you, bouquets and ribboned wreathes, for you the stands a-crowding;
For you they'll call, the swaying masses; their eager faces spurning;
Here Albert! dear hitter!
This cap fits not your head
A bad dream: the on-deck circle is bare, 5 no more is said.


My Albert does not answer, his lips are pursed and still;
My Hombre does not feel my wrath, he has no pulse nor will;
Clydesdales are stabled safe and sound, 11th victory lap long done;
To Junior League your fearful trip, no pennant win will come;

Exult, Anaheim! And ring the Angel's bells!
But I with mournful dread,
Look at the on-deck circle,
Where 5 no more is said.

A drying well for ink-stained wretches like myself, OR, the "Buy a Darn Newspaper Before it's Too Late" Project

Time marches ever onward, but in what direction? Onward to this Brave New World, where bits and bytes equal cash and cachet, and the physical realm has been replaced by the digital cloud?

Is it news anymore that media outlets are shedding jobs? Like the annual stagnation of the Chicago Cubs, the erosion of jobs in journalism continues unabated, the technological waves lashing and lapping at an ever-dwindling shore.

Like the drowning man watching a rope of salvation recede into the horizon, I've watched from afar with the sense of resigned detachment, that some day the same fate would afflict me.

So far, it has not, and for that I am thankful. But as I read the latest story of a media empire crumbling into decay (www.stltoday.com/business/local/article_344cb82c-ce99-11e0-8ca1-0019bb30f31a.html), I can't help but wonder when this will befall all of us veritable ink-stained wretches.

How long before the "hard copy" versions of newspapers are chopped for good? Reasons given will be many, with many calling it one of environmental friendliness, others leveling honestly that it is not all about going green, rather saving green.

That fateful hour approaches more quickly every day, with each Kindle and iPad shipped to stores, and as each App is downloaded.

So, do yourself a favor, and find an outlet for a newspaper, a gas station, perhaps (those still exist, don't they, since they haven't figured out a way to download fuel, well, unless you count electricity). Anyway, tomorrow, or this weekend, or before it's too late, go to a gas station and buy a newspaper. Plunk down one of those worthless dead presidents (sorry George, we really do love yah!) and buy a transportable snapshot of the world.

Feel the pulpy texture in your hands. Wash off the ink that accumulates from lingering on the Op-Ed page as you contemplate ideas put forth in a column by someone who ticks you off.

Clip a coupon or advertisement to serve as a visual reminder of the people who really support their local newspaper, the moms and pops (and the big guys) who pour their hard-earned $$$s into trying to reach an erudite, educated local customer.

Read all about your most recent local community meeting, be it a city council or school board, and learn what happened without having to go to the time and trouble of actually, you know, showing up for it. After all, a reporter was sent there to cover the gathering -- surely it's worth $1 just for the privilege of skipping it.

Perhaps you will be distracted by a fly while thinking about that opinion column. Go ahead and fold the newspaper while the fly dive-bombs your head.
Can your Kindle do that?

Take a swing and smack the fly.
Is there an App for that?

That is just one of the many tangential benefits to newspaper ownership. Everyone should have the pleasure of experiencing these sorts of thrills, so today, by the power vested in myself (D.C., I believe), I have declared Thursday, Sept. 1, National Buy a Darn Newspaper Before It's Too Late Day. Will you participate?


Set aside the screen for a second (OK, after you've finished reading this; you're almost through!), and consider this:

There surely are psychiatric studies underway or that have already been published exploring the ever-widening digital gap between whatever generation the current one is being called and those of us who of an age, ahem, where we can no longer be trusted.

Would you deprive a young child the joy of killing flies with yesterday's sports scores and a half-filled out crossword puzzle? Would you rip from the hands of a wee lad the one tool of violence he or she can legally possess?

And, if nothing else, think about America's animal community: birds and fish everywhere are counting on you.

So, on Sept. 1, buy a newspaper. You'll be glad you did.

A new bridge to the "island"

There's a new bridge to "the island," so today on a trip home, I had to try it out.

"The island" isn't really an island at all. It is the area of land across a small creek from my parent's house, with a much larger creek interrupting the "island" from the large hill beyond it. Trees created the rest of the border defining the land we called "the island," separating it from a large swath of field.

The island, creeks and hills around are where I spent many hours of my childhood, climbing up in a tree house made by my brother, riding bikes, building forts, and clambering through the water, looking for signs of life in the tiny pools of water cut off from the rest of the stream.

During the summer, I'd tend to a tiny garden in the adjacent field, or pick raspberries along the edge of that field, or play baseball with my brother. I'd also blaze trails through the weeds with my mini-bike, carving an outline of the field at 35 miles per hour. In the fall, walnut and hickory trees provided a bounty if I chose to harvest what was there for the taking, racing with the squirrels to pick the crop before they could carry it away. It was a place to get lost, to separate from the world, so in that sense, it truly was an island, an oasis.

During my recent visit, the island resembled little of the place I knew in my memories, the paths to the creek taken over by Mother Nature as she reclaims what has always been hers. The tree house has been long gone, a casualty to 15 years of rot that necessitated its removal, lest it entice a new generation of explorer who would find an unstable, unsafe hideaway.

The biggest change, of course, happened more than a decade ago, when the owners of much of that adjoining land -- which contained the field, the hill and much of the large creek -- sold the land to a developer to make homes.

The field where I once harvested peppers and tomatoes and green beans hasn't been broken by till since the Clinton administration. Four-foot tall grasses provide cover for insects and rodents, and this late spring play host to the chorus of periodical cicadas that has emerged for its massive birth ritual.

The sound of 10 million cicadas -- give or take, I stopped counting -- couldn't drown out the memory of my reaction years ago when the land was sold, and how I retaliated. Just a day before my 19th birthday, I learned that the land had been sold. I was devastated to know that it would be carved up and made into housing sites.

The creek would be bridged, altering the stream forever. Paths that provided the perfect trails for walking most of the year, or sledding in the winter, would be turned into roads. The woods were no longer ours. Never mind that they never were ours; the owners had so kindly allowed us to roam them and use the field for a garden for nearly 20 years, but the increasing age of the six sisters forced their hand. They had to sell, the sooner the better.

When the developer began his work, I looked away; I couldn't bear to see what was happening to "my" woods and "my" creek. After the first phase was complete, I couldn't help but be curious, so I wandered over. And that's when I acted out.

Fliers advertising the new sites for homes were an easy target, and in my anger, I snatched a small stack of them from the rack enclosure, intent on keeping people from moving in. It was a small -- OK, very small -- silent protest that made no perceptible difference, but I couldn't stop myself, on at least three occasions. Most times I left a few, so as not to make it obvious that all were disappearing much too quickly for explanation. They were there for taking, and that's what I did.

Time marched on, and my meager efforts at sabotage failed to affect much change. More than 10 years later, there are still just a handful of homes up on that hill. The woods and creek are irreversably changed, but that happened regardless of my silent protest.

I guess I always understood that it all (the sale, the houses) was necessary, but even today I remain ambivalent about the whole episode. But that's what I thought of today as I walked across the new bridge to the "island."

Jeff's Christmas letter, OR a blow-by-blow account of 2010 in the Starck household

I should be writing out my Christmas cards right now.

Scratch that, I should have written them a week ago.

But Christmas approaches and, though the mail carriers may not be held back by sleet, rain, snow and wind, I am more easily deterred.

Instead of placing my trust in the United States Postal Service, which can't even seem to deliver its own paychecks these days (the deficit this year alone is $4.2 billion), I've taken to the digital realm to disseminate the first annual (and, if you're lucky, last) Christmas newsletter exploring the joys and travails in the Starck household during 2010.


Nobody wants to be that guest who arrives at the party as the others guests are already leaving, but I'm still proud of the fact that, in 2010, I finally joined the digital age.

Readers of this blog (all three of you) might know that I'm referencing the stunning debut of this here corner of cyberspace in late August.
Still in a period of infancy (and lunacy), in just a short time, Starck Reality has notched double-digit readership numbers, the kind of exposure CNN news anchors would die for.

The prospect of baring my soul in some impersonal, bits-and-bytes based world has always been tempting, but it took a summer day and the national pastime to spur me to action.
And, four posts later, here we are.

So what if blogs are so 2005, right? Everybody and their grandmothers have them by now. In a world of Facebook and Twitter, blogs are the MySpace of the social media atmosphere. Blogs are the Pluto of planets, the Billy of the Baldwin Brothers.

The debut of this portal into my brain just means that I'm right on time in adopting technology, if you measure in Starck-years.


Growing up, when new technology debuted, offering covetous features like color on the television screen, or a static-free signal to boot, my family usually took a pass. Too fancy for our liking, I suppose.

Now, I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure that our family's first VCR could already be found in the Smithsonian by the time my parents finally bought one.

I like to think that the inauguration of a blog about five years after it is all the rage just seems to uphold a family tradition.


One area in which I was on the cutting edge in 2010, literally, was surgery.

Nothing instills the true value of life like the threat of losing your own, and my third visit to the operating table in six years was memorable and exciting in its own right.

It remains remarkable, though, because my physician did not leave to buy a house, or pack for vacation, delaying the surgical procedure in a way all-too-familiar.


Speaking of the value of life: let us pause to remember another low point of 2010, an event that struck us like the blow from a 2x4 upside the head. 2010 will always to me be the year the family lost its matriarch, Grandma Starck, and there is nothing funny, or sarcastic about that.


As fun and exciting, and sad, as all these events have been, the year might be best summed up in the word "travel."

From jetting off to New York City to Berlin, to Chicago and Boston, and St. Louis a few times, I've put a lot of miles between myself and the earth.

Unfortunately, all of these trips pre-dated the recent re-branding effort by the TSA, which apparently changed its name to Touched in Special Areas, so I haven't had a chance to tell a TSA creep to stay out of my junk drawers.

With business trips planned again in early 2011, soon enough I'll get to enjoy a level of humiliation and invasion of privacy that some folks pay good money to experience.

You can read all about it in next year's newsletter.

Until then, Merry Christmas and have a blessed New Year.

The center is gone

The center is gone.
Perhaps the only way to describe my grandma is that she, and her house, were the center because, for as long as I can remember, "Grandma Starck's" house was more than an extension of home, but the center of our world.

When we were in grade school, Jamie and I would go to Grandma Starck's after school to wait for our dad to come back from working with our grandpa.
Several of our cousins would usually also be there, and Grandma would always have a soda and a snack waiting for us. Dinner would be cooking on the stove, and, if there was a day game, the voices of the Cardinals' announcers would be emanating from the little radio on the counter.

Summertime and the scene replayed, without the pesky interference of school.
We'd play outside, chasing pop-flies, taking turns on the swingset, or riding bikes up to Glaser's store, and when we were finally ready to let the sunlight fade into the western sky without us, we'd return to the house, hunting for dinner, and there she was.

As we grew older, even when we no longer needed to seek refuge there after school, Grandma's house remained at the center.

Sunday meant church, and after church the Starck clan would almost always gather for lunch at Grandma's, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends filling the limited spaces, dress shoes clip-clopping on the linoleum floor, voices rising like a geyser in spurts and bunches.

This scene was replicated on countless holidays, family gatherings and get-togethers, the storyline the same even as the family gained more actors.

Usually a boisterous place, Grandma Starck's was also a place for sadness, for standing together to support each other as we celebrated the lives of passed family members.

She, too, was the center of the family; she was the one who kept the family together, drawing the line in the sand that forced grandpa to drop the bottle for good.

For some people, the house actually was their home: when Jamie and Sam and John and Stacy and Jason needed some place to stay, it was to Grandma that they turned, and were welcomed with open arms.

How lucky we were to have such an anchor, a foundation for this crazy family. I'm going to miss you, Grandma.
Love,
Jeff

Getting political: Gore blasts e-mailers, announces new alternative energy venture

Gore criticizes e-mail users
for ‘carbon copy’ footprint
Plans Second Chakra energy


By Jeff Starck

Disassociated Depress

(TOKYO) – E-mail users need to change their ways, claims Al Gore, chief evangelist of the global warming movement.

The use of the “CC” function in sending e-mail messages is a leading contributor to the phenomenon known as global warming, Gore told reporters at a press conference following a worldwide gathering of global warming action group Keep Our Oxygen Klean.

“It may come as an inconvenient truth, but the wanton use of the ‘carbon copy’ functionality in e-mail messaging has created an untenable situation,” Gore said, at the global conclave. “Those who use the ‘CC’ function, for any reason, are recklessly inflicting harm to our Mother Earth. You may as well stab your momma in the back.”

Between school, work and entertainment, residents of the overdeveloped world use computers an average of 10 hours a day, itself a massive contributor to global warming. But the 230 e-mails that people send daily, on average, is the true culprit.

“I’m sure these messages have filled up your Inbox. Whether it’s racist rhetoric questioning President Obama's heritage, jokes about stupid conservative voters or a chain message claiming Bill Gates will make you rich if you forward e-mails, everyone who uses the ‘CC’ function is to blame,” Gore said.

The harshest e-mails for the environment, Gore said, are those questioning whether global warming actually exists, according to global warming's chief hypocrite, er, messenger.

“I will not let dangerous talk radio spouters like Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck defeat democracy and destroy our Mother,” Gore said. “They’re dastardly defiant refusal to accept what we know about global warming is definitely cause for alarm.”

Because talkers like Limbaugh and Beck have millions of listeners and e-mail subscribers, the impact of their carbon copy footprint is multiplied, according to Gore.

But, there’s a simple remedy concerned citizen soldiers in the global warming army can employ to decrease their carbon copy footprint, Gore said.

“As most of you know, all you have to do is list all the e-mail recipients using the ‘To’ function. This eliminates excess carbon emitted using the carbon copy method,” he said.

For e-mail senders that desire a little privacy, the ‘blind carbon copy’ option will also work, Gore said.

“Because none of the other e-mail recipients can see those listed on the blind carbon copy line, the carbon copy footprint isn’t traceable, and thus doesn’t count,” Gore said.

Following the KOOK gathering, Gore returned to his Montecito, Calif., mansion and began drafting plans for a new venture in alternative energy, tentatively titled Crazed Poodle Industries.

Gore said that homeowners who find a way to tap into their "second chakra" can lower their heating bills by half, mostly offsetting the cost of divorce lawyers that would result by engaging in such carbon-saving activities.

Upon Further Review: A sleeker column about a game of catch

It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth, and it involves my first love: baseball.

Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.

When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.

I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.

But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, after all) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? Not at all.

See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and other sports, and it was all he could do to interest me. Most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And many a time I did.

It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).

Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.

Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.

On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.

It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.

I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.

That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.

In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).

Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.

And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.

For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a something to ease his painful heart.

There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)

Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.

And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.

As you might imagine, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.

Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.

Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?

Inaugural post: A simple game of catch?

It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth. A particular folly, but a youthful one at that, and it involves my first love: baseball.

Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.

When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.

I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.

But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, I hear) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? No, that's not it at all.

See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and the million other sporty games that most young boys play.
It was all he could do to interest me, but most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And I did, many a time.

It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).

Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.

Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.

It wasn't much, but then inflation sure has taken its bite out of the ol' dollar.

On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.

It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.

I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.

That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.

In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).

Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game (I went to the 2009 All Star Game, alone, because I had to be there) or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for five, seven or 11 years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.

And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.

For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a salve to slather on his repentant heart.

There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)

Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.

And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.

But, like the sound made by one hand clapping, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.

Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.

Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?