Milestones

 

This year marked the 25th anniversary of my 50th birthday, a milestone I’m happy to have reached. After all, I know a lot of people who never had the privilege of being this old.

And this past week was the golden anniversary of the day I became a father. For my oldest offspring turned 50 on December 1, and he and my other progeny have made me proud for half a century.

To celebrate, he hosted a dinner in the Bay Area for his siblings and a few friends. I attended in spirit with the following ode, read at the party by my son Steve.

Scott often toasts folks at parties in rhyme.

   His tributes are thoughtful. Majestic. Sublime. 

But tonight, it is he whom we celebrate.

   (I hope that my musings don't seem second rate.)

The first of December in seventy-two

Began the adventures of ... you know who.

Those adventures have taken this lad far and wide,   

   And I, as his father, have watched with great pride

As he led the school band, was Christ in a play.

   And continued to dazzle me day after day.

From Stanford to B-school and Germany too,  

  Australia, triathlons, climb Tetons ... it’s true!

Then orchestras called, as you may have heard.  

   In LA then Portland, that’s not so absurd,

His musical talent and love of the arts

   Have made him a natural to play these big parts.

The birth date we honor was some time ago.

I've counted the days, and oh my! Did you know?

It comes to a number … lots more than a few.

   It's eighteen thousand, plus two fifty-two.

But age is a number. Just that. Nothing more.

   I'd rather count blessings. Of these I am sure:   

He's always so loyal, as uncle or friend,

   As son or as brother on whom to depend.

Now I've said my piece. I relinquish the floor.      

   Oh, wait! There is just one thing more.

We must have a toast, after these fifty years.        

   May love and good fortune be yours Scott. Cheers!

I had fun writing that, and I’m told that it was well received. I’m looking forward to many other milestones yet to come. ■

 

Thankfulness

I venture to say that November is no one’s favorite month. It is the cold damp between autumn and the dead of winter. It is perhaps ironic, therefore, that November is the month when, on the fourth Thursday, we give thanks for the blessings we have.

The Hermit Philosopher is especially thankful this November. Thankful that he’s nearly over the infection that has plagued him for nearly three weeks. Thankful that his family is recovering from the same ailment. Thankful that he doesn’t live in Buffalo under six or more feet of snow.

But he’s most thankful right now that there’s a glimmer of hope for our democracy, that people see the danger posed by the GOP and its far-right allies, and that T***p and “Cult 45” seem to be on the wane.

The day after the 2016 election—that bleak November morning so long ago—one of my family members asked sorrowfully, “What has happened to our country?!” The question has plagued me for more than six years. There is yet no clear answer. The cancer of the far right, while shrinking, remains with us as a reminder that mendacity, ego, and power are a dangerous combination. That combination has led to acts of political violence (think: January 6 or the assault on Nancy Pelosi’s husband), blatant disregard for facts (climate change denial, e.g.), and a dangerous level of demagoguery and depravity in the “party of Lincoln.”

The danger seems to lie with a large number of Americans—mostly working-class whites—who have deep resentments and serious delusions. They are people who spend too much time watching Fox News and plunging down Internet rabbit holes. They follow narcissistic wannabe heroes (Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley, Marjorie Taylor Greene, etc.). They seem to have decided that a cult of personality matters more than commitment to knowledge, truth, and fair-minded democracy. They even disdain the value of a university education. (In 2019, 59% of Republicans felt colleges had a negative impact on society, according to the Pew Research Center.)

There are, however, some reasons to be optimistic. The courts seem able to head off voter intimidation and similar shenanigans. Early voting and large numbers of young voters bode well for future elections. Some recent “firsts” included election of two lesbian governors, a Black governor, and a record number of women. And finally, the GOP seems to be growing tired of their former president.

Thomas Hobbes once wrote: “Hell is the truth seen to late.” Let us be thankful that more Americans are beginning to see the truth in time. Let’s hope that Emile Zola was right to say, “Truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it.” And my favorite new slogan: "Fight Truth Decay!"

So, despite all there is to worry about, the Hermit Philosopher remains hopeful and thankful. Happy Thanksgiving from Vermont, y’all! ■

The Case for Cats

I've been a "Cat Person" ever since a stray followed me home one day when I was five or so. Since then, except for a few years while in law school I've always had at least one cat in my life. 

In the Atlantic Daily for today, October 4, I read a nice article  by another Cat Person, Katherine J. Wu, and I'll quote from it here:

I see many reasons to favor the feline. Part of it has to be their luxurious fur; their super-silent, bean-padded paws; their fluid-like flexibility. Their vertically contracting pupils, their scritchy-scratchy tongues, their pleasantly pointy ears. Their love for laser pointers, their fear of cucumbers, their affinity for boxes. I’m also probably lured in by cats’ mysterious, melodic purrs—a form of communication that most other animals can’t mimic and that humans struggle to parse. And I’m definitely gobsmacked by their ability to right themselves within a second or two of falling and so often survive, even when the plunge is many stories high.

If I’m being completely honest, maybe it’s the feline personality that’s my personal catnip. My cats are just as cuddly as any dog I’ve ever had—probably more. They’re affectionate and personable; they come running when we call; they greet us at the door. And every cat I’ve met has been such a distinct individual, such a character: bursting with strong opinions, clear-cut preferences, bizarre and memorable quirks. And those traits are steadfast. Whether they’re scared, happy, suspicious, or confused, Calvin and Hobbes [the author's cats] are always Calvin and Hobbes. I get that cats can sometimes be contrarian. I get that their outer shell can sometimes be tough to crack. But for me, that makes them all the more fascinating. Their trust and affection is hard-won. So when it’s earned, it feels that much more meaningful. 

 

That pretty well sums up my feelings. Thanks, Katherine! And thanks to my late feline friends Motorboat, Tiger, Sherman, Snowflake, Domino, Clara, and Sam and my current purr-fect love: WhoDat. ■

Best Books of 2022 (Thus Far)

The Hermit Philosopher apologizes for the delay, but has been busy with family activities, playing duplicate bridge, and writing the 10th edition of The Law of Healthcare Administration.

But he has managed to read 100 books already this year, a personal record, so he wants to share the names of a few favorites:

Nonfiction

• Nicole Hannah-Jones (ed)., The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story
• Todd L. Savitt, Race and Medicine in Nineteenth- and Early-Twentieth-Century America
• Paul Lombardo, Three Generations, No Imbeciles
• Edward Dolnic, The Writing of the Gods: The Race to Decode the Rosetta Stone
• Bill Browder, Red Notice: A True Story of High Finance, Murder, and One Man's Fight for Justice
• Joshual Kendall, The Forgotten Founding Father: Noah Webster's Obsession and the Creation of an American Culture
• Isabel Wilkerson, Caste: The Origins of our Discontent

Historical Fiction

• Martha Hall Kelly, Lilac Girls, Lost Roses, and Sunflower Sisters – based on true stories, the trilogy follows three generations of women of the Farriday family during the US Civil War, WWI, and WWII
• Emma Donaghue, The Pull of the Stars

Fiction

• Ann Patchett, The Dutch House
• Gilly Macmillan, To Tell You the Truth
• Mary Stewart, Thornyhold

If you have some you recommend, please let me know. ■

Reflections on The Good Place

 

Almost two years ago – January 30, 2020 to be precise – the 53rd and final episode of The Good Place aired on NBC. I have since watched all four seasons of this fantasy comedy on Netflix, and I just watched the final episode again. I don’t think I’ve ever been as enamored of a TV show.

For those who don’t know, the plot involves Eleanor Shellstrop (Kristin Bell), a woman welcomed after her death to the “Good Place,” a highly selective Heaven-like utopia designed and run by Michael (Ted Danson), a non-human afterlife "architect." To be chosen for the Good Place is supposedly a reward for a righteous life, but Eleanor and her three human companions are actually in an experimental “Bad Place.” They were chosen by Michael to torture each other emotionally and psychologically for eternity.

Eleanor thinks she’s in heaven, however, and she knows that she doesn’t deserve to be, so she tries to hide her morally imperfect past and become a better, more ethical person. She fails at this miserably, as do the other humans, but along the way they grow to understand what’s going on, and in the process they lay out a moral vision for us that’s quite sophisticated and deeply informed by principles of philosophy. It’s a vision that puts learning and trying to do good front and center, and it’s based in large part on T.M. Scanlon’s What We Owe to Each Other.

In the final episode, the four companions get to experience the real Good Place, and they find it boring. They decide that an endless afterlife, even an eternity of happiness, would lead to intellectual stagnation and loss of meaning. It’s too much of a good thing. As one of them says, it’s so perfect you become a “glassy-eyed mush person.”

They conclude that uncertainty is what makes life special, so Michael adds an exit door from Paradise to the unknown. If they leave through that door, they become like “a wave returning to the ocean,” as Chidi, one of the human characters explains:

Picture a wave. In the Ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And its there. And you can see it. You know what it is: it's a wave. 

And then it crashes on the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be for a little while. You know, it's one conception of death for Buddhists: the wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be. 

I love that metaphor. It’s a peaceful and comforting vision of the end of life. A gentle reminder that we’re all open parentheticals, waiting for the close parenthesis to come. At that point we will dissolve back into the fabric of the universe and will be at peace.

As usual, Shakespeare said it best: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and we round our little life with a sleep.” ■

At the exit door

  

Eleanor (Kristin Bell), Chidi (William Jackson Harper),
Michael (Ted Danson), and Janet (D'Arcy Carden)

One of Eleanor's favorite obscenities,
along with "holy forking shirtballs!"