When the world is just too much, take a walk. Preferably in a park. Pay attention to the birds. Listen to them.
Be prepared to cheerfully acknowledge other walkers, but don’t try to initiate conversations. Make an exception for dog-walkers. Always say, “That’s a good-looking dog.â€
No one takes offense.
Hardly anyone. One day I was walking in the Kennedy Forest section of Forest Park and a woman and her dog were approaching and I said, “That’s a good-looking dog.†Actually, he looked like the Hound of the Baskervilles. No sooner had I said he was good-looking than he leaped at me. I stumbled backward in terror, and his leap came up just short. He ripped my coat but missed my throat. The woman said, “He’s very protective.†Or maybe he despised insincerity.
But he was the exception. Most dogs don’t even realize you are talking about them, and their people are pleased.
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As pleasant as a walk in the park is, it is essentially selfish. You are helping yourself. If the news is so bad that you want to make the world better, go hear live music. By supporting your local music venues, you are helping save the city. Live music is part of our culture. Don’t let Netflix and the fear of crime erase that culture.
Last week, I went to the Blue Strawberry Showroom and Lounge on Boyle Avenue to hear Bob Case celebrate Bob Dylan’s 81st birthday. It was a tribute to both Dylan and Case that the lounge was packed on a weekday night. I do not want to break newspaper policy and review the show, but it was excellent. Also, it was my crowd. We were ready to ride down Highway 61, but we wanted to be home in bed by 10.
Case is mostly known for blues and Mardi Gras, but here is something to consider — he once hitchhiked to California. In fact, as I looked around at the audience, I figured that most of the crowd had probably hitchhiked or had picked up hitchhikers. I myself have done both. What were we thinking?
Do not go there. It leads to the question of whether things used to be better or did we just not realize how bad things were. I am afraid things used to be better. Not perfect, but better.
When I was a child in Chicago, a fire at Our Lady of Angels elementary school killed 92 children and three nuns. That school was on the west side of the city and I lived on the south side, so I didn’t know anybody from the school, but still, it was unsettling. In addition to the fatalities, dozens of children were injured. Some jumped out of second-story windows with their hair on fire.
But my elementary school was made of brick. I didn’t worry too much.
Besides, when the adults talked about it, the consensus among the men seemed to be that the city fire inspectors probably ignored problems because the church had connections. All things were explicable in those days. … Where was I? Oh yes, go hear some live music. Or go have dinner at an independent restaurant. Or see a play. Save the city. Save the culture.
Back to the more selfish side, watch kids’ sports. It would be great fun to unobtrusively watch a sandlot game. (Adult spectators are not appropriate for sandlot games.) There probably won’t be enough kids for full teams, so anything to the right of second base is out. Without a first baseman, it’s “pitchers hand’s†out. With no umpires, close plays are determined by consensus. Teams are picked by the two captains, who are the acknowledged two best players.
But wait. You probably won’t find such a game. Even on the Hill, baseball diamonds are seldom in use.
So wander down to the Affton Athletic Association fields just off Gravois Road. There will be plenty of games to choose from, and the concessions are not expensive.
I have taken to following a first grade team called the Recruits. They look a lot like the Holy Redeemer soccer team that I followed last fall. The Recruits are pretty darned good. The other night, an opposing player hit a ground ball to the shortstop who picked it up and, without prompting, threw it all the way to first base where the first baseman caught it while standing on the base.
I know a few of the players by name. There’s Brock and Kian and Luke and Lucas and William and Will and Apollo.
The player I tend to watch is Tino. He is usually in the outfield. One of these days, an opposing player is going to hit a fly ball to him and he will catch it. It is just a matter of time.
He is a very good hitter. He is also ready to slide on a moment’s notice. He is a fine player to concentrate on.
When he started first grade last fall, his mother visited his classroom and was slightly taken aback. She thought, “This is likely the first room an intruder would come into.â€
I never thought about that with my children, and I am quite certain my parents never gave that a thought, but life is very different these days.
How different? When I was in high school, many schools had rifle teams. My vague memory is that the fellows on the rifle team were generally nerdy guys. It was a fringe sport. Like bowling. My best friend was on the bowling team. He had trouble getting a date. So did I. I was on the swim team, but I was not very good. Football, basketball and baseball produced most of the popular crowd.
I was on the swim team for four years, and my parents never came to a meet. Nobody’s parents came. In fact, hardly anybody came. I was grateful for that. Because I was not a fast swimmer — endurance was my game — I was a distance swimmer. The longest distance was 400 yards, so that was me. Sixteen laps of the pool. Often, I was lapped. I have no explanation for why I continued the humiliation for four years. I sometimes think it scared me.
None of my friends was on the rifle team. I am not sure where the rifles were stored. Maybe in the guys’ lockers. The point is, we did not think about it.
There is too much to think about today. I have lived the news for many years. It has been my livelihood. But there are times — and they seem to be increasing — when the news is just too much. Violence in the cities, mass shootings, insurrection, a house divided that is clearly falling apart.
Take a walk. Listen to live music. Cheer on Tino. These things work for me. And, of course, cheer on the generation behind me, who has to deal with a world in which a mother notices where her son’s classroom is situated and a young man cannot ride his thumb to California.