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Inseparable

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  My dear, loving Nephew-Son, I love you, Robb.  I hope you know your value to me and the love I hold for you are opposite sides of the same coin  I've sat here for some time trying to sort out my feelings since I received the startling news of the choice (which really was not a choice!) that you had to make yesterday.  Rufio has been "put down!"  Euphemisms drive me bonkers, even as I understand why we use them.  "Put down" attempts to soften the gut-wrenching, heart-splitting truth.  Rufio. Is. Dead.   How harsh and impersonal a declaration.   Yet, "dead" falls far short of this permanent turn of events. Your mom didn't have to tell me how you agonized over the non-choice: You couldn't bear the thought of life's final ending for the "gentle" giant of a friend.  Your dependable, best friend,  and literal "Road Dog."  I was visiting Chicago fourteen years ago when you chose each other and the team coalesced.   Just that ...
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WWMD, or What Would Mother Do?

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When (the late) Bill Withers crooned, "Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning, Grandmas's hands played the tambourine so well Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning, She'd say Billy don't you run so fast Might fall on a piece of glass,"  Grandma's hands." he could've been describing Velma Beatrice (nee Lambus) Taylor.  Except everyone---blood relatives, neighborhood kids, adults, merchants, even medical professionals---all knew her simply as "Granny."  A self-made Southern woman from the Mississippi Delta, Velma couldn't finish high school.  For us, though, she came closest to fitting our definition of a Renaissance Woman that the Near North Side of Chicago could produce. We believed she could do anything .  We wondered where she got it from.  Yes, her  mother, "Mama," personified strength in the face of untoward obstacles. And for certain, the "acorn doesn't fall from the oak tree." Yet,...
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Exhale!

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I remember holding my breath as a young kid, either from anticipating Christmas-to-come or choosing September birthday party favors.  Not for storing up the air with which to blow out candles---more just in waiting for the event to occur.  Certainly not as a prelude to a temper tantrum.  Neither Mother nor Daddy played that!  During my teen years, holding my breath would come as I awaited the announcement of the winner in a speech contest or in waiting to see which varsity team would shoot the tie-breaker basketball shot.  And win the State championship ! (My high school, by the way, won the title three of the four years before I graduated.) College changed the focus of my breathing when  I discovered graduates of the male persuasion.  Lawdy! They spent considerable time and energy learning suave and debonair postures.  And growing sparse wisps of fuzz to transform the upper lip or not-so-strong chin.  They practiced their "lines' o...
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