Seventy years ago this January, I walked into my first class, at elementary school, and had my first experience interacting with a teacher.  Next month, I will greet students walking into my class, experiencing my first day teaching a class of my own.  

      A lot has happened between those two days.

      Next month marks a memorable milestone for me. I will, for the first time, formally take on the title of “professor” and jump into a semester of teaching a graduate school class focusing on urban development. It’s a topic I have had directly in front of me for my entire career, as a practitioner.

But now I’ll be dealing with it in a teaching mode. …

       It’s the emergency room, but the situation does not feel all that scary.

       My wife has been suffering with a respiratory something. Our “primary-care physician” wants to make sure it isn’t a bacterial something. If he were to do the blood test in his office, we would have to wait a few days for the lab to send the results. So, we head to the emergency room—at 9:30 a.m. It is on the other side of town.

       I am not entirely a stranger to emergency rooms—having had a broken bone set or an unfamiliar symptom checked out upon occasion; having joined my aged mom there a few useless times after an overly jittery aide had called an ambulance.

       This time in the ER my wife, despite her honest account of some very non-acute symptoms, is gifted, quickly, with a doctor, the blood work and a chest X-ray . (Friend Neil suggests that the surest way to get prompt service in an emergency room is to report “severe chest pains.”) . . .

      It’s been just about a year.

      During the year, these last 12 months, I’ve traveled abroad and explored archeological ruins. I’ve run a 5K, hiked to the top of a (small) mountain and helped launch and kept functioning a new website (this one, in fact).

      I’ve been interviewed on podcasts and written about no longer caring much about baseball. I’ve eaten at nice restaurants and some not so nice, where I couldn’t hear much of anything because the restaurant was so damn noisy. I’ve read some wonderful books and some not-so-memorable ones that, in fact, I can’t remember much about.

      I’ve lived through a despairingly awful election and the despondency that came afterwards.  

      I’ve celebrated another birthday, another wedding anniversary, the birthdays of my wife and kids and various holidays. I’ve given thanks on Thanksgiving, really given thanks.

      That is, all in all, a pretty ordinary year. Yet none of it was a given, because just about a year ago, I almost died. . . .

      In a funny coincidence, a week after visiting my one-year-old grandniece, I read Darby Saxbe’s article “People Should Ignore Their Children More Often” in the New York Times.

      I had spent the weekend watching my niece attend to her daughter’s every whimper. My niece was exhausted and stretched thin. I gently encouraged her to let the baby be for a bit—she’s perfectly safe in the 10-foot-by-10-foot playpen! But my niece wasn’t having any of that.

      Saxbe’s article talks about how overwhelmed and stressed today’s parents are and makes the point that children in hunter-gatherer societies were probably often unsupervised, and when they were with their parents it was often when their parents were doing adult things—chores and such. Children in these communities got the gift of being bored, as well as the opportunity to observe adults doing grown-up tasks.

      Saxbe suggests trying to approximate this approach to parenting and calls it “mindful underparenting.” . . .

You might want to check out this from Axios’ Jim VandeHei and Mike Allen, who are experienced at this "spot-the-big-trends" big think. It includes comments from former Google chair Eric Schmidt and the usually wise, Ian Bremmer.

Read the full story here.

Governance, media, business and global geopolitics are all being reordered at breakneck speed — all simultaneously.

• It's the Great Upheaval, Jim VandeHei and Mike Allen write in a "Behind the Curtain" column.

Why it matters: We're witnessing more change ... across more parts of life ... at more speed ... than ever before. . . .

“In wildness is the preservation of the world” — H.D. Thoreau

      THERE, LOOK! ...…

      Two days before Thanksgiving, marching along the residential sidewalk, a troop of wild turkeys, their dusky browns and grays merging with Autumn’s smudged palette.  Heads down, one fowl in lead, two following abreast, then three, then three more, with one trailing—moving without pause or hitch down the sidewalk, their purpose known only to guiding Nature. Perhaps some biological imperative version of a promised land.

       Seeing that humble, determined band yanks me from my Slough of Despond—that ever engulfing, oozing swamp of worldly pain, suffering, and death—political, geopolitical, economic, sociological, psychological, climatological—though at end, nearly all anthropological—the humanity authored catalogue of catastrophic present and impending calamities. . . .

      Are you a party girl or nonparty? Were you a good girl or bad girl?

      More than 50 years ago I was on the receiving end of those questions—so their recent revival is a punch to my gut. I could hardly believe what I have been reading about Trump’s nominee to lead the Department of Defense. As the CEO of several nonprofit veterans’ organizations, this guy apparently pursued female employees, informally dividing them into “party girls” and “not party girls,” while creating a hostile, predatory environment for women employees.

     I thought as a society we had moved beyond such misogyny. I was wrong. . . .

      We came of age in—if you’ll forgive me—a “golden age” of murder stories.

      And this past week a story that seems something of a throwback to that era—the shooting of a health-plan CEO in Manhattan—has captured oodles of attention. Mine included. 

      It is important to keep in mind, of course, the tragedy at the heart of this story—the cold-blooded murder of a father of two. But much about this story is indeed fascinating in a tabloid kind of way:

•        The apparently meticulous planning behind the shooting.

•        The murderer’s also seemingly well-planned escape—which included, in a sylvan touch, a bike ride through Central Park.

•       And the hint that the murder was somehow in retribution for sins of the organization the victim headed . . . .

     Barb Nolfi agreed to be my midwife back in 1977. I wanted a home birth. Barb coached me and guided me through my pregnancy. She was deeply knowledgeable, lived close to the Earth, and approached my care with the wisdom of an all-knowing old soul.

      After the baby was born, I asked Barb to use a satin ribbon that belonged to my husband’s grandmother to tie off the umbilical. She was hesitant but agreed. When it was all over, we fried up the placenta with lots of butter, onions and garlic. We believed in the health benefits and humans are the only mammal that does not eat its placenta, and it is the only meat that comes from birth and not from death.

      Back then—living close to the land—we wanted to be true to our animal instincts and Barb Nolfi supported us in every way. She was one of us. . . .

Here—from Robert Reich’s Substack and so we are alert to all possibilities—is a possible worst-case scenario:

    “Trump may force a second civil war on America with his plan to use the military to round up at least 11 million undocumented people inside the United States — even if it means breaking up families — send them to detention camps, and then deport them.

     “As well as his plan to target his political enemies for prosecution — including Democrats, journalists, and other critics.

     “What happens when we, especially those of us in blue states and cities, resist these authoritarian moves — as we must, as we have a moral duty to? . . .

After working on our story about The 10 Biggest Changes in the United States in Our Lifetimes, I began thinking more personally. So, here are the ten biggest changes in my life, in some kind of ascending (or maybe descending) order:

10. In first grade, I learned how to tie my shoelaces. This was years before Bass Weejun penny loafers became popular in my demographic and made my new skill irrelevant.

9. At the age of 10 or so, I went with my father to my first professional baseball game, I immediately dedicated my life to becoming the New York Yankees’—and major league baseball’s—first left-handed shortstop. 

8. In late 1963, I heard and saw the Beatles, in a TV clip . . . .

One would think

By the time one reaches one’s seventies

One would have learned

That succumbing to the temptation of procrastination

Ultimately leads only to vexation

Learned that

The time between now

And when it gets done,

If it even gets done, . . .

      If I had that kind of power, would I protect my son against dire consequences—even those of his own making? Of course I would.

      It’s a hallmark of our generation—a willingness to shield our children from harm and smooth their path, get them into the best preschool, drive them to the field hockey select games, work with them on college applications, help them out with student loans, put them on our health insurance plans and cover the deposit for their first apartment.

      Even when our children struggled, we’ve talked to the physics teacher about why a C+ rather than a B-, and we have interceded with the aggrieved neighbor about the bouncing basketball that destroyed a flower bed.

      Or maybe our kid was caught with a joint in the school bathroom—maybe we laid down the law at home, but we talked to the principal and the school resource officer and worked to soften the penalties. 

      But none of us is the President of the United States. . . .

      We have lived and are still living through tumultuous times. The America we inhabit today in many ways bears scant resemblance to the post-World War II world into which we were born.

      So much has changed that it’s hard to fully grasp, let alone place it in any kind of order. But we have had a go at it. Here is our list, in ascending order, of the ten biggest changes in American life our generation has seen.

      What did we get wrong?

     In August 1965 Sonny and Cher sang “I Got You Babe” on The Ed Sullivan Show.  I was 13. The moment I saw that doe-eyed waif in bell-bottoms sing to her shaggy-haired partner in a bobcat vest, I knew I was leaving my crew cut behind. I’ve been a fan ever since.

      For over 60 years, Cher’s expansive talents have not only blazed multiple trails, but been amazingly resilient. She has garnered Oscar, Golden Globe, Emmy and Grammy Awards and is the only artist to chart number one records in seven consecutive decades. In October, Cher was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

      Now 78, she has written a compellingly candid chronicle of her early life, “The Memoir, Part One.” . . .

      Timothy Snyder, the Yale University historian, wrote the book On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons From the Twentieth Century in 2017, at the beginning of the first Trump administration. Here, in very abridged fashion, are his first 10 lessons, more relevant than ever these gloomy days.

      1. Do not obey in advance. Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do.

      2. Defend institutions. It is institutions that help us to preserve decency. They need our help as well. Do not speak of “our institutions” unless you make them yours by acting on their behalf. Institutions do not protect themselves. So choose an institution you care about and take its side. . . .

“The occasional dose of disorientation, discombobulation”

A Video

A minute-and-a-half long

Click here to view video

      An advertising billboard on I-40 got my attention with the proclamation: The best is yet to come.

      But I'm thinking—wait, what if we're so busy hoping and waiting for the Best That Is Yet To Come—that we miss the precious immediate miracle of the Now?

      And, what if—This ... right now … is the Best of Times? . . .

A classic dish for your holiday, updated for this perilous, querulous era.

***

Ingredients

35 years of family squabbles, still stewing

1 gallon of raw anger

1/2 gallon of steaming rage

1 pint of unadulterated guilt

2 quarts of mild frustration

6 cups of exasperation

2 pints of low-fat antagonism

3 pounds of constant complaining

4 ounces of raw milk, spilled . . . .

          No radio on in the car. Television only to watch the new second season of “The Diplomat” on Netflix and old seasons of “The Morning Show” on Apple TV. Instead of reading the front page of The Times, I go directly to Spelling Bee, and frequently stay there all day (not to brag, but I’ve gotten to Queen Bee level multiple times, and never give up before at least reaching Genius level).

      In other words, I’ve tuned out.

      I can’t bear to watch or hear or read the news. I can’t stomach each new outrage, each Orwellian appointment, each more outrageous reminder that the world is and will be different and awful. Most of all, I can’t bear to hear that voice or see that smirk.

      Apparently, I’m not alone. . . .