"If this isn't nice, what is?"

Vonnegut's suggestion seems very pertinent right now.

One of the greatest bits of advice that I ever took from a writer came from the great Kurt Vonnegut. He was recalling something his uncle Alex said once, at a picnic, I think it was. And his uncle surveyed the scene, a beautiful day, friends and family and pie all around, he uttered: “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

In light of the frightening sturm und drang of our national politics, the suddenly violently horrendous weather and the awful news we seem to be subjected to every night on the national news, it seems to me that Vonnegut’s suggestion is a valuable one. Especially now. Right now. I even, out of the blue, sent it to a few friends last week with no further explanation. None, I felt, was necessary.

I hadn’t heard from my old junior high quarterback in a while — he usually comments on my stuff — so I reached out to him and got this back. He’d recently lost his wife and had been having a difficult time. So, I wondered why I hadn’t heard from him. I got this: “In NH for my uncle’s funeral and one of my old Summit Title employees. I am here for five days and will attend two funerals. That’s our future, buddy.”

That’s a quarterback’s audible that’s on the money. Like the New York Jets being pathetic, the price of ribeye steaks being out of sight and the nightly national news offering us an endless string of tragedies, some things are inevitable. And death is one of them.

To me, that makes Vonnegut’s comment all the more cherished. As far as we know, we’re only here once. When we have a moment of joy, even mild happiness, like the soft drink you like is BOGO or you get a green light or a good song comes on the radio, savor it.

We recently lost a wonderful friend from our weekly lunch group; the poor guy’s health fell apart like a sand castle and despite countless doctor’s visits, medications, the support from our group, there seemed to be nothing any of us could do about it. We miss him.

And sure, some of the conversation in this weekly lunch group is about doctor’s visits, ill relatives, recent deaths or even ablations, a phrase I’d never heard before. We’re old. As my QB noted, that is the play chart. So I always try to bring a rude joke or two just to lift the group’s spirits. Like my broccoli joke. A classic!

A while back a Substack reader asked me “How do you stay so cheerful?” It’s an excellent question. I am now and always have been a half-full vs. half-empty sort of guy, even after growing up a Boston Red Sox fan.

It’s not as if I haven’t had plenty of disappointments and setbacks, I have. I even worked in a funeral parlor for a day as a part-time job. That was enough to make anyone cheerful.

Writing on Substack, which I’ve been doing since May 8, I think has made me more hopeful about many things. Yes, there is a lot of bitching about Donald Trump — and I’ve added to it and will continue to — and yes, there’s way too much freely doled out, unasked for advice on “How to grow your Substack” or “Becoming a Writer” or “A Writer is Someone…”. For me, at least, it’s a chance to connect with all sorts of folks, some who are dealing with awful circumstances — a fading husband’s sight and mind, a lonely retirement where the job is now over, family offers little comfort and a daily deep-dive into meditation and ancient language seems the only way to get through the day, a partner’s sudden illness, or friends who are so distressed by what they’re seeing around them — which I completely get — that they reach out here.

Maybe I’m overdoing it — wouldn’t be the first time — but it could be that Substack is a way to heal, even just a little, just for the seven or eight or ten minutes it takes to read someone else’s ideas, words, voice. For the writer, too.

When you write frequently — this is my 346th post in the 330 days since I started this rig — you tend to get regular readers and sometimes, even comments from them that almost always are supportive, encouraging, even appreciative from time to time. Like I explained to a friend, to me, it’s like a one-sided conversation. You hear me and while I don’t always hear you, I am listening. And responding. Or trying to.

One comment I’ve heard from a few folks over this stretch is “How do you come up with so many ideas?” Another good question. It’s true, looking over the list of topics I’ve covered recently: UConn basketball, FSU baseball, Seinfeld bloopers, Bryan Ferry’s new album, axing the Department of Education (which earned me a long-overdue A+ from my 92-year-old former Journalism teacher), The Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper,” some really cute author being on local TV, Bob Dylan’s pissed-off “Shelter From The Storm,” the film “Hoosiers,” Ernest Hemingway’s “Big Two-Hearted River,” “The Female Brain” (which easily could have been a treatise), George Orwell, Charles Dickens and popularity, The Declaration of Independence and newspaper layout. Oh, and Pete Townshend’s overlooked classic, “Give Blood.” No, he’s not talking about me.

Agreed, this is a far-ranging bunch of things to write about; an indication that (A.) someone has a lot of varied interests, (B.) can’t prioritize, (C.) is under the impression that people ENJOY dining from such a diverse menu and (D.) there’s so much going on that continues to be interesting, captivating, worth checking out, who has time to think about death or illness? Even though, I’m sure, it’s gaining on me like it is on you.

I don’t think, like Forest Gump, that life is a box of chocolates. I find myself now more aligned with Ralph Waldo Emerson, a guy that I used to chide a college classmate about before I knew better. (I preferred Henry Thoreau — but there wouldn’t have been a Thoreau without an Emerson).

Anyway, Emerson said this: “All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better.” So maybe that explains my strange and varied interests and this compulsion to write Substacks — two in a single day! — and perhaps why, in spite of all the crap that seems to be going on around all of us, I remain doggedly cheerful. I don’t know no better. Thanks, as always, for reading me, friends.