A Holiday Wish for You

Funny thing happened the other day. I don't do it it often, but--I looked at the number of people who've been reading this. Google keeps track, but not for names. Facebook does, when I make this part of "my story" to give you a heads-up. Those people, I know about.

There are several that number in the dozens now. Several, meaning dating back months. They didn't have those kinds of numbers before.

I know what that means: You're looking back there, too. I want you to know that I am sincerely humbled, which is a deeper, other side of the coin from believing that you really have something to say and that someone would like to read it. My gratitude is always larger than my ego. It had better be. You have plenty of other things you could be reading.

Thirty-plus years ago, I had a weekly (for five years, twice weekly) newspaper column that lasted for eighteen years. It appeared in the sports section of the News Graphic Pilot, now the News Graphic in Cedarburg, WI. And it did cover sports of all kinds and all levels. The editors allowed me to range widely, for which I was always grateful. I was paid a nominal stipend, which wasn't a driving force, believe me. It won a statewide newspaper award one year, the plaque from which I still have in my bedroom (Inside baseball note: It was presented to me by a Milwaukee newspaper editor who, fifteen years earlier, growled at me when I wanted to be a summer intern during my college years. Somewhat cowed, I backed away. I probably shouldn't have, and I'm quite sure he didn't remember me. But that moment felt good in sweet irony. I have the posed picture somewhere in an old storage bin.).

Gradually, I inserted more social and political relevance into those sports columns. It began to pull me away from the relative safety of the sports world, which while enlivening is also maddeningly repetitious. I needed more. Politics, education and union activities drew me away. I thought I'd miss writing about sports, but I must now say that I don't. They can have their importance and I have been tempted to write about them in a more sociological way (as in, why are they so much more than a pastime for so many of us now), but eventually, it faded amidst new priorities.

I make not one dime for this. But it allows me a certain freedom which, if you know me personally, is a force undeniable. Now that I know that my audience is growing, it's becoming a staple of my existence. You will see more, I promise. Heaven knows, there's plenty to say.

Reading has always been a big part of my life and still is: Journals and magazines; the Sunday New York Times (which Starbucks no longer carries; a social crime of immense proportions, but I suppose I could actually--duh--subscribe and avoid worrying about it); and books galore partly because I happen to live, not by accident, one block from the best independent bookstore in Milwaukee, Boswell Books. I have a collection of a few hundred books, most of which are non-fiction, and I have given away several times that amount, mostly to libraries wherever I have lived (at Chippewa Falls, they're probably still in shock). I'll never read every page of every one of them. Who does? They feel cozy and I feel relevant, though, and that feels good. And though not quite as squishy as teddy bears, one can get comparable mileage out of them.

Call me a Luddite, but I tried the Kindle thing: It left me cold. I like how new books smell, how they crackle when you turn the pages, and the surprises they bring around each corner. I like returning to them, dogeared and covers a bit torn. Old friends sat on their park bench like bookends, sang Simon and Garfunkel. Can you imagine us years from today, sharing our park bench quietly? How terribly strange to be seventy. They got that one right. I'm nearly there. Can it be?

I can't keep up with everything. I have the feeling no one can. It can cause stress and too many piles that leak out of the office and onto surfaces meant for other activities. But I'd rather have that than just sitting around watching daytime network TV, the bane of civilization. It all feels like I'm a dog at the track, chasing the ne'er-catchable rabbit. But it's the pursuit that energizes, and the writing that comes from that energy. I'm working on some other stuff, too; a couple of books will happen before too long, I hope.

Let me take a minute to wish you and yours the best of the holidays. (No, this isn't part of the 'war on Christmas', which is the ultimate in victimization and gaslighting. See, there I go again.) I'll be back here at the turn of the year. I won't exactly be vacationing; writers never really do. I'll be thinking, though. And probably taking notes so I don't forget what it was I knew I wanted to say when I return.

As always: Be well, my friends. Be careful. And thank you so much. I'll see you down the road.


Mister Mark