A flying trip to Tennessee for a special visit

     This photo has significant meaning for those of us who were Woodlawn High School football fans in the 1960s.

     What makes it special is not only the seven men pictured here, but where it was taken -- Lawrenceburg, Tennessee.

     The man on the left is Coach Jerry Adams, who has lived in Lawrenceburg with his large and -- editorial comment here, beautiful -- family since 1974.
      Primarily, he is the reason for this gathering. 
      Because the six men on the right in this photo -- (from left) Joe Ferguson, Clinton Ebey, Coach A.L. Williams, Ronnie Frazier, Coach Ken Ivy and Cayce Hand -- got on an airplane and flew to the deep south central Tennessee town and visited the Adams Family. 

     That Thursday, July 26,  was a good day for these Knights of old. It was a mini-reunion they all relished.

     "It was pretty good little time," Adams said of the four-hour-plus gathering at the big, old two-story house on a  corner spread in the neat old city. 

      In the 1968 season -- the greatest year of a decade of Woodlawn football excellence -- this group was much of the heart of the Louisiana Class AAA state championship team that went 14-0.

      Here were the three All-State players from that year -- Ferguson (the superstar quarterback), Frazier (defensive end) and Hand (cornerback) -- and the standout linebacker (Ebey) who made the most memorable and heads-up play of that perfect season.

      And here were the three coaches still living from that staff -- Williams (head coach), Adams (defensive line/linebackers) and Ivy (B-team football, head basketball coach and even tennis coach). 

     All have fond memories of those coaches no longer with us -- Billy Joe Adcox (offensive line), W.B. Calvert (ends) and Lowell Morrison (defensive backs). 

     Just about anyone who knew the 1960s Woodlawn coaches remember and still respect these men, beginning with the first head coach, Lee Hedges, who by 1968 was at Captain Shreve High.

      So here at this reunion was a time for stories galore, for reminiscing and for catching up with the most lively, most demonstrative, versatile and -- my opinion -- most interesting member of that coaching staff.
      Coach Adams was fun, mischievous at times, but also serious about coaching -- and winning. He was the slogan creator, the "fire-'em-up" guy, but also the main one appealing to players' pride and determination with the reminders that "you've got to want it the most."
       In that regard, he was much like his father-in-law, Miss Pat's Dad, the Neville (Monroe) High coaching legend Bill Ruple. (Personal note: Believe me, I have heard many an Adams-told Ruple story.)
     The Adams crew made frequent trips back to Louisiana, to Shreveport, Ruston (Coach's hometown, where in 1948 he was an All-State running back for Ruston High and then played some at LSU) and Columbia, where the Ruples had a farm. 
      Many Woodlawn people only saw him occasionally after 1974. When we were living in Knoxville, we made several visits to Lawrenceburg and were the Adams' guests some nights. 
     (In case you were wondering, Adams is 87 with a birthday next month, Williams is 83, Ivy 80, and the players either 68 or 67.)
---
      Ferguson and Ebey, who have stayed in touch and remained good friends for decades after their WHS and college playing days, generated the idea of the visit, having talked about it for several years. 
      Ferguson, with his long University of Arkansas ties,  lives in the Fayetteville area and has worked in real estate since the end of his nearly four-decades playing and coaching days. Ebey, who played at Northwestern State, has lived in Kilgore (actually on Lake Cherokee) for 11 years, but travels a great deal as regional manager for Ranger Boats.
      "We planned to drive up there," said Ebey. But when they told Hand -- also still a good friend through all the years -- he had a better suggestion.
      They could fly in the airplane Hand, who has a very successful construction company in Shreveport, shares with  partners. 
      And they did, with Cayce going along and paying the way.

      So in the seven-seat King Air plane, there was room for Frazier, who also played at Northwestern State and now lives in Stonewall (just outside Shreveport), having retired from insurance and then concessions-distributing careers, and the two coaches.
          "You know how Coach Williams is," Ebey said. "He doesn't miss anything, anywhere." Meaning, if there is a reunion or meeting or -- unfortunately -- memorial/funeral service that has touched the Williams' lives, A.L. and Sarah will attend, if possible.
      "Joe called me and said, 'What are you doing Thursday?" Coach Williams said. "I had to check with Sarah to see what was on the calendar. And it was clear that day."
      So he was in. So, after another Ferguson call to Sarepta, La., was Ivy, who lives on his family's old farm in his little  hometown. He has been retired for 10 years after 48 years of coaching.
      Ebey drove to Shreveport to board the plane with Hand and Frazier; they flew to Ruston to pick up Williams and Ivy, then to Bentonville for Ferguson (AKA "The White Knight.").
      Adams knew they were coming, but he wasn't entirely clear when. Ferguson texted Teri Adams Shackleford, youngest of the four Adams children and told her "we'll be there in an hour and a half."
      "I was going to do all these things -- send a bus, hire a driver, order barbecue ... I was going to do the do," said Coach Adams. "But it was a little rushed, so some it was unplanned."
      But ... get this. Bill Adams, son of the father and now head man at the Adams' Rent-Right store that Coach and Mrs. (Pat) ran for years, is also a part-time preacher and operator of a trailways bus company for tours and trips.
      So Bill drove one of those big buses to the Lawrence County airport to ... pick up seven people. On the return trip, Coach hired a driver to take them back in the bus.
      A bit much?
      "Aw, you got to put a little mustard on it," Coach Adams said. "Not gonna send a school bus out there."
---
      The barbecue meal came from one of Coach Adams' former quarterbacks at Lawrence County High. It must have been good, but probably not as good as the conversation.
      "We talked about everybody," said Ebey, "seems like we talked about everybody who played at Woodlawn."
      Anyone who has been around Williams, Ivy and Adams knows that they did the majority of the talking. The four ex-players were happy to listen.
      But Adams said it was a fair distribution: "Everyone gave way to everyone else; there was not a major guy. Everyone had their part to say. ... I was pleased with the sincerity."

      No doubt, one main topic was Ferguson's predecessor at QB for Woodlawn, the once-blond haired, strong-armed, four-time Super Bowl champion Pittsburgh Steelers hero and Hall of Famer. Terry Bradshaw almost delivered a state championship for Woodlawn; Ferguson -- for most of us the greatest high school QB we've seen -- did so three years later.
     One great memory was Ebey's play in the 1968 state quarterfinals, a Saturday afternoon game in New Orleans against Holy Cross.
    (Woodlawn's team two weeks in a row flew to playoff games in NOLA, an unheard-of luxury then and maybe now.The program by then was so established, so popular and so well-off financially that the coaches had planned before the season to explore the possibility of chartering a plane for lengthy playoff trips.)
     It was a get-even game for Woodlawn. Holy Cross had eliminated the very surprising 1967 Knights in the state semifinals, only to lose in the title game to Airline (Bossier City). 
     Woodlawn had beaten those Airline champs in the season's fifth week when, abandoning an ineffective running game after halftime and throwing on almost every down, Ferguson went from promising young QB to the memorable, accurate, quick-delivering passer for years to come. He was 29-of-48 for three touchdowns and a then-state-record 317 yards in a 28-14 upset.
     Against Holy Cross this time, turnovers got Woodlawn in early trouble and a 13-0 deficit in the second quarter. Then Ferguson, as usual, got the passing game cranked up. It was 13-7 at the half, but the Knights were on top 21-13 by the time they forced a Holy Cross punt in the third quarter. The bouncing ball was at the Woodlawn 45 when a Holy Cross player batted it down it ... but the ball was still moving.  
     Ebey knew the rule. It was not a dead ball until touched still or picked up, and with an official's whistle. In this case, no whistle.  
     So Clint, part of a talented linebacking pair with Frank Racine (a fast, rangy player who went on to start at a safety for LSU), picked up up the ball and raced the 45 yards for a touchdown while a stunned Holy Cross team watched. Woodlawn went on to roll 35-13. 
     Of course, for years and certainly in Lawrenceburg, that play has been recalled.
      It was a big game, too, for Hand -- two interceptions and a fumble recovery at the Holy Cross 13, which he fell on but easily could have run in for a touchdown. And, well, Ferguson that day was sharp throwing the ball.  
---
      Adams and Williams, as part of the original 1960 Woodlawn staff, were at the school longer than the others. Adcox and Calvert moved on after the 1968 season, and Adams became the first head coach at brand-new Southwood in the fall of 1970. 
      After four years at Southwood, Adams -- for a variety of reasons -- moved his family to Lawrenceburg, influenced by a former Shreveport neighbor who had moved there. Some land and a coaching job were two of the reasons. 
      Williams stayed at Woodlawn through the 1973 football season, winning a district title his last year (his fifth as head coach, the seventh -- in 14 years -- as a staff member). He went on to be head coach at Northwestern State and then his alma mater, Louisiana Tech, and settled nearby in Choudrant.
      Ivy came from junior-high coaching and summer swim team coaching to Woodlawn as a coaching-staff addition in the fall of 1965. He stayed longer (15 years) than any of the First Five coaches.
      His primary sport early on was basketball. In only his second year as head coach -- after WHS basketball had been a doormat, mediocre-to-worse program for six years -- the team went 24-5. His third team was 33-3 and the Class AAA state champion in 1969, giving the Knights a "double" to go with the football title.
     Ivy's Robert Parish-led teams were state runner-up and then state champion in 1971-72. He soon gave up basketball to begin coaching football full-time. 
     With Lowell Morrison -- Cayce Hand's primary position coach at Woodlawn -- as head coach and Ivy as chief assistant, Knight teams in 1976-77-78 reached the state semifinals. Morrison went on sabbatical and Ivy was the head coach in 1979 (9-3-1 record), then -- following Adams' path -- moved to Southwood as head coach for three years (1980-82), with records of 10-1 and 9-2 the last two seasons.
      His well-traveled path took him to Marshall, Texas, and Sarepta, and finally to Captain Shreve for seven final years as head football coach until his retirement in 2008.                 
      Adams, as he had years before, was on Ivy's case, especially because of Ivy's deafness in one year. "Gave him hell," Adams said, laughing. "HEY, IVY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
      Ivy's retort: "Adams, you haven't changed a bit."
---
      "The coaches taught me never to give up, work harder than the competition, give 100 percent," Hand said. "It helped me in life and in business."
      "We always knew that the coaches cared about us, as players and off the field," Ferguson said.
      "As coaches, we were grateful to the parents to letting us borrow their kids, and we felt like they were ours, we tried to treat them like our own children," Williams said. "All these years later, we still feel like they are ours."
      "We tried to talk to the kids about bigger things than sports," Adams said. "About life, about responsibilities and accountability, about careers and having families and kids."
     For him, there was a confirmation from the time with his recent guests.
     "The biggest thing I got from it," he said, "is that some of the people up here [in Lawrenceburg] could see what I have been talking to them about for years, how good those years [at Woodlawn] were."
     Health issues in recent years, such as knee replacement for his long weak knee that cut short his college football career (at LSU and then one year at Louisiana Tech) and a faulty aorta valve that needed replacing, are a part of his life now.
     And this, which he did not tell the Woodlawn group at the meeting but did share with a couple privately -- and with me, with permission to write about it: For several months, he has been dealing with cancer.
     Melanoma in his back required surgery and (ongoing) chemotherapy. 

photos provided by Teri Adams Shackleford

     "I don't want to deal with the details -- the drugs involved, the procedures," he said. "I don't go there. Let's just go do what we need to do. If it works, great."
     But he sounded robust and strong in our 34-minute conversation -- which included his usual story-telling, philosophizing bent -- and he looks good in a photo with a promising 10-year-old athlete from Nashville he met with and talked to (about athletics and life) at the young man's grandfather's request.
      Life goes on -- a haircut and toenail job at oldest child Mary's shop near Spring Hill, 30 miles or so up the road where Coach is taking medical treatments, work in the yard and his craftwork in his shop, puttering her and there, coffee with the bunch in downtown, long talks with daughter Sarah (just retired as a college professor), time with the grandkids and great grands.
      He is, I would say, a contented man.
      "He is an absolute wonder," said youngest daughter Teri. "We are so thankful that he is responding to the chemo with insignificant side effects."
     And Coach Adams was grateful for his old friends from Woodlawn coming to Tennessee.
     "I appreciate the pain and effort it took for them to come here," he said. "They seemed to all be fine with it. ...
     "Why would they spend the money and time to come up here. I can't figure that out yet."
      We can figure it out. They wanted some stories and some laughs, and some memories. 
---
Joe Ferguson, an NFL quarterback for 18 seasons (1973-90), talking about today's game.

      

     

A collision, a settlement ... and no more car

     To begin, we -- especially Beatrice -- are blessed to be walking around mostly healthy. But ...

     Youngest grandson Eli, as sympathetic and bewildered as a nearly 4-year-old can be, observes that "Granny and Opa are carless."

     He is correct. We are carless.

     Eli adds: "You bumped into somebody."

     Well, not quite. Somebody bumped into us -- but it was more than a bump. It was a collision. 

     We no longer have the silver 2010 Toyota Camry we bought brand-new eight years ago. It is gone to the salvage yard.  
     The last day we drove it was ... Friday the 13th. It was a bad-luck day for us, but not entirely. The good luck was that we walked away from a T-bone collision.
     No one ever said I am a good driver, but this accident was not our fault. 
     Driving to our senior-resident facility from a morning yoga/stretch class at the Fort Worth Central YMCA (downtown), three blocks from home, another driver crashed his car into the right side (passenger side, Bea's side) of our vehicle.
     The young man ran a red light at Henderson and 10th Street. A few moments -- and two wrecked cars -- later, he immediately took responsibility. 

The crushing blow:  Our 2010 Toyota Camry -- gone to the salvage yard

     No one was badly hurt, thank goodness.
     Bea's back and spine have been stiff for a couple of weeks afterward, but she has not needed medical treatment. Gentle exercises and a couple of hot-tub visits have helped.
     The airbags on Bea's side of the car deployed, for the most part, saving her from more severe injuries. The young man had a burned area on his right arm from his airbag. Only issue I had was a small bruise on my right wrist, presumably from gripping the steering wheel tightly as I twisted it to the left hoping to avoid his car.
     No chance.
     I had come from a red-light stop on 10th, slowly starting across the intersection because there is a dip in the road there. Saw the black car flash on my right ... tried, but no way to avoid it.
     Pardon me: Damn!
     First reaction, after pulling the car to the curb, was to look over at Bea. She was shaken, but seemed OK. 
     Next thought: So much for giving this car -- close to 108,000 miles -- to our daughter this fall.
     I got out, looked for the other car and driver. Not there. Where did he/she go? But one of the license plates was in the road, so in case of a hit-and-run ... 
     I walked around to the right side of our car (Bea was still inside), and it was crushed. Yuk. Wondered why our windows were so darned fogged up? Duh, that was the airbags.
     Next: Who was going to call the police? We did not have our phones with us (no need for them at the YMCA). 
     A break: There were witnesses. Two young women in the car behind the other driver pulled up behind us; they had seen the collision happen. They already had called 911 and reported the accident. They were concerned about us and the other driver, and they told us they could stay until the police showed up.
     They also told me that the other car had run the red light. I was pretty certain of that, but not sure what the other driver would say.
     A polite, neat-looking young man emerged from behind the nearby pizza place where he had managed to drive his car. He immediately said, "It's my fault; I ran the red light."
     He explained that he was thinking about having to make a left turn into the Walgreen's that was a block ahead on his  left, and he completely forgot to look at the traffic light. My estimate is that he was going about 30-35 miles per hour.
     He quickly added: "I called my father. ... This is my sister's car. I am not looking forward to having the conversation with her."
     Honestly, we felt badly for him. And when we walked around to look at his car, the front end was a total mess.
     A young policeman was on the scene within three minutes, and he could not have handled it better. He was very concerned about our physical conditions.
     His only confusion was that he saw Bea emerge from our driver's side door, so he questioned who was driving our car. Bea told him she had to climb out that side; the passenger side door was inoperable. 
     The damage was as bad on the inside of our car -- seats torn, glove compartment stuck -- as the outside. 
     The young man's car was going to have to be towed. We could drive our car the remaining distance home, but the policeman followed us to be sure we got there safely.
      Parked it in our large parking lot, so it could be easily accessed -- and that was the last time we were in it. 
---
     We have had some mishaps with cars over the years -- a mattress dropping off a truck as we followed, and the mattress stuck under our front right tire in heavy early evening Houston freeway traffic. Near Tyler, a tire off the back of a car bouncing all the way across I-20 to the other side and sailing over our roof. A few minor bumps here and there. The right side on this car previously smashed in while Bea was at a grocery store (so this was our second right-side); extensive hail damage (our mistake for leaving it outside) a couple of years ago.
     Never had anything this jarring happen before. But this was also a good-luck accident for us. 
     One friend's car was T-boned a few years back, leaving her with extensive injuries and a long rehab. Another friend, with two of his young children in the car, drove into a driver who ran a stop sign; fortunately, no one hurt.         
     So we count our blessings.
     Among those, a smooth insurance-settlement process. Maybe others have experienced insurance issues. Not in this case. Took a few phone calls and online exchanges, but it went as well as one could hope.
     Our insurance company -- thankfully -- declared it a total loss, and arranged for its salvage dealer to haul it off from our parking lot exactly one week after the accident (and take our signed title in the process).
     It also arranged for us to use a rental car for a week, and we needed that for a couple of planned trips out of Fort Worth and one or two short journeys here.
     Now what?       
     We had planned to give up our car in the fall. We think we can do it. The timetable just moved up.
     Don't like  driving anymore -- the roads are crowded, and so many other drivers are just wild -- and we figure to save money without paying for insurance, maintenance ... and gasoline. 
     We are provided transportation in several fashions by our living facility, we have the option of Lyft or Uber, or the city buses, and if we need to rent a car for a trip -- say, to see the kids in Tennessee or even Prosper -- there are three rental places within a mile radius.
     We loved our baby Toyota Camry, though. Bought it new, paid it off before the original due date, and maintained it as well as any vehicle we have ever had.   
     On the last day we drove it, we were happy to walk away from it. We are "carless," but grateful.       

Life is good in our new place

     A little more than five weeks in our new senior-citizen retirement community, and we really like it.

     This is home, a welcoming, friendly place.

     We have been greeted and recognized as "newbies" about 48 dozen times, and that is a good feeling.

     Now we have been here long enough that we are among the greeters for the latest newcomers. And hopefully they will be as happy as we are.

     We have walked into a community of walkers. You might know that I am a daily walker -- or try to be. So, fine. But this  is a twist on words.

     Yes, there are those who often go walking for exercise -- for example, a woman (Earline), age 81, who has walked from here to Central Market and to Hulen Mall ... those are extensive hikes. There is a 7:15 a.m. walking group every Tuesday and Thursday.

A familiar sight here: the lineup of walkers outside
 the dining room.

     (No extensive hikes for me, just aiming for a good workout. And no walking group; I am a solo act, so I choose my own routes.)

     Back to the point, the walkers I mentioned above are the ones used to assist those unable to walk on their own. They are a common sight here (see photo), most noticeably outside the lunch/dinner area.

     It is, after all, an older community. At ages 73 and 71, Bea and I are -- a guess here -- among the youngest 10 percent of the population here.

     Another guesstimate: About 35 to 40 percent of the people here use walkers or motorized carts, or require a cane or other walking aide. (It is 50 percent on our floor.) Many others are wobbly. 

     But please understand: This is not meant as a negative. Not at all. This is just the way it is.

     Here is what we quickly learned: The people who live here -- if they possibly can be -- want to be so independent, so determined to live their remaining time as best they can.

     Found this out the second day we were here. We have a 98-year-old woman -- sharp mentally -- who was about to do her laundry in the area on our floor, and when I offered to help, she let me know she could do it herself. 

     Next day I met a 97-year-old man upstairs (he's on a walker, but he's obviously still alert enough. The following day I saw him driving his car out of our garage).

      I sat with a 96-year-old confined to a motorized cart, listened to his stories, his movements slow and labored, but with total recall of events, places and names 6-7-8 decades ago. 

     We have a 91-year-old retired minister in our easy yoga class (which isn't all that easy), a witty, upbeat man. Just yesterday, we visited with a generous 89- and 81-year-old couple prominent in their past communities -- and still contributing.

     We have met at least eight doctors (we have a radiologist and a veterinarian -- both retired -- living next to us), a few nurses, oil/gas entrepreneurs, a half dozen clergymen, attorneys, a judge, and -- as mentioned previously -- one baseball Yankees/World Series star and ex-president of the American League who is an entertaining storytelling presence.   

     Interesting, vibrant people, all with their own interesting stories and accomplishments, and we meet more each day. And many stay involved; there is, if you want, plenty to do:

     -- Exercise classes -- yoga, "sit and be fit," strength training, water aerobics, tai chi (don't laugh, we are learning), a "better balance" class, a [river] bank-run group (no, thank you) ... and the walking group.  

     -- Regular games: bingo, poker, dominoes, Mexican dominoes (without a wall), pinochle, something called Manipulation; team gin rummy. 

     -- Regular trips to area venues -- grocery shops -- and special events/facilities. We went to the Kimbell Art Museum last week, a day after a group went to the Perot Museum in Dallas. 

     -- Group outings to various restaurants (can we resist Jason's Deli or Babe's Chicken?).

     There is a social hour each Thursday at 4 p.m., with delightful -- and some unusual -- musical performances, plus the occasional musical special ("Dancing With The Stars" tickets on sale now). There is a party to celebrate birthdays each month; .

     Every other week, we have a Saturday Morning Coffee program (they have not asked me to host yet). There was an entertaining sing-along program one evening (they asked me -- no, told me -- not to sing). On the Fourth of July, there was an ice cream social at noon (ice cream for lunch -- yes!).

     There is a ballroom dancing class, a knitting group, "cop and coffee" meetings, and the pool table, the wellness center, a therapy pool, and the indoor heated swimming pool. There are lobbies and rooms to sit and read, a library with plentiful selections, an area with computers and office needs, meetings rooms.

     Bea has joined one of the various book clubs, and as a former antique/collectibles dealer, she is working toward helping with one of the big monthly attractions -- the White Elephant Sale.

     The extensive operation of goods/furniture/clothes -- much left over from estate-type apartment sales after deaths of residents -- benefits the community's work force.
      And the staff -- top management to workers in all departments -- has been very courteous, pleasant, helpful,   well-organized and efficient.
      (Reality check: Since we have been here, there have been five deaths, including the oldest resident -- 103.)

     There is an extensive health-care operation, with memory-care floors, therapy units, and support groups for specific areas (Parkinson's, dementia, etc.)

     For those interested, there are religion-based services and meetings.

     We are provided transportation, housekeeping and laundry services. We are grateful.

     The lunch/dinner venues currently are next to the 16th floor in our building, nice views of downtown in several directions. A new dining facility is under construction in our building, and management -- in the meantime -- is providing daily breakfast, coffee and soup (2-4 p.m.) in a downstairs lounge area.

     We think lunch and dinner choices are plentiful -- too much for us, really; more than we want. Takes discipline to keep from having too much, discipline we too often don't have. Ice cream and/or yogurt and all sorts of cakes/desserts with every meal ... dang, stop it. (Staying away from the weight scales.)

     So, more exercising is necessary. And back to where we started, about walking. For my friends who have inquired, yes, I have found new walking trails -- gone in every direction already. 

     There are many parking garages nearby (almost empty after working hours and on weekends, and some shaded to keep me out of the blazing sun) and the nearby Montgomery Plaza parking lots are huge; prime territory for me.

     Won't be driving much any more. In the next blog, you can find out why.

          

            

Rose and Louis -- in the New York Daily News

     The article below was published Tuesday (June 26) on the op-ed page of the New York Daily News, and it is centered on my parents, particularly Mom.
     It is about the Holocaust -- and today's world, today's America. It is about the President's rhetoric and policies, OK.
     I suggest you put your political beliefs aside as you read this. Perhaps you cannot do that, but it is about Rose and Louis, so give it a try.
     This is written by Brandon Friedman, co-founder and chief executive officer of The McPherson Square, a public relations firm based in Washington, D.C.
      Here is why Friedman is aware of my parents: He was born and raised in Shreveport, he graduated from LSU-Shreveport and he has a master's degree from University of Texas.
       What many of my readers might not approve of: He served in the Obama Administration. What they will approve of: He served -- with some distinction -- in the U.S. Army, a rifle platoon leader in Afghanistan and Iraq.
        (I was alerted to the article by Lisa Nicoletti, professor of art history and visual studies at Centenary College, guiding force of the Holocaust studies there, and -- with husband Steve -- great friend to my parents. We thank her -- again.)
      The article:
---
     What 'Never Again' Holocaust educators would say now about civility and fascism

     By Brandon Friedman
     As a kid, I was surrounded by people who went on and on about “Never Again.”

     Holocaust survivor and educator Rose Van Thyn was one of those. She spoke to classes often, and what I remember about each time she visited my school over the years was the conviction in her voice — as if she really believed it could happen here.

     Rose was sincere. She had been through a lot. Like the others, she had a number tattooed on her arm. She was a survivor of Auschwitz.

     Still, I took her warnings with a grain of salt. I think all the kids did. No one really believed her. Because that had happened a long time ago. It was Europe. And this is America.

     Nevertheless, Rose spent her entire adult life in north Louisiana warning anyone who would listen. She never stopped. Then her husband Louis, also a Holocaust survivor, died in 2008. She died two years later.

     I didn’t hear about their deaths. Life had gone on. I had grown up and I was busy. I found out when I googled it this week.

     And then something occurred to me: Like the Van Thyns, many of the most famous Holocaust educators and Nazi hunters have died in recent years.

     Simon Wiesenthal, the most famous Nazi hunter, died in 2005. Elliot Welles, who the New York Times called an “indefatigable Nazi hunter,” died in 2006. Tuviah Friedman, who helped track down Adolf Eichmann, died in 2011. Elie Wiesel, the author of “Night,” died in 2016.

     I bring this up because we’re in the midst of a national discussion about “civility” in the face of authoritarianism. And in all this talk about civility in America’s political discourse, it occurred to me that the passing of Rose’s generation has left us extraordinarily vulnerable. In fact, I don’t think today’s resurgent fascism — and the dark enthusiasm that animates it across America — is coincidence.

     Rose was a tiny woman, but she was unrelenting. She was not violent, but she was also not willing to negotiate with a racist ideology. She knew that going along just to get along made things worse — not better.

     Her fellow survivors were the same. They knew that calls for civility in the face of oppression had been used as a weapon against them. And they knew what we took for granted.

     They knew that Nazis weren’t an aberration. They were regular people. Your friend. Your neighbor. Your uncle who forwards racist memes.           They knew that Nazis are what happens when hate goes unchecked by polite people who fear confrontation.

     They also taught us is that dictatorships and genocide don’t happen all at once. They don’t start with extermination camps. They start when vulnerable classes of people are blamed for society’s problems. They start with state propaganda.

     They start with the encouragement of violence at political rallies. They start when elected leaders call the press the “enemy of the people.” And they start when people don’t push back forcefully and publicly — early and often.

     As with any cancer, the time to stop creeping fascism is not after the arrests and the killings begin. By then, it’s too late. The time to stop fascism is when the President calls some Nazis “very fine people.” That’s the time, before it metastasizes and spreads further.

     President Trump has called for his followers to “knock the crap out of” political opponents. He threatened this week to suspend due process for immigrants. He said immigrants “infest” America — a literal use of Nazi terminology. Meanwhile, the government he runs is holding children hostage in cages until their Mexican and Central American parents agree to deportation.

     I don’t think I fully understood the urgency of Rose Van Thyn’s warnings when I was younger. But now that I’m older, I understand power. I know that human nature doesn’t change. Most importantly, I know that when a leader flouts the rule of law and begins “othering” minorities, the time for civility is over.

     What does that mean? In my view, political analyst Josh Berthume said it best yesterday: “Racists, misogynists, homophobes, bigots, fascists, and every single one of their enablers should feel the sting of shame and ridicule. When their behavior is not challenged, it is encouraged.”

     That’s a sentiment every Nazi hunter would get behind, and I share it. We must shun these people back into the shadows. It’s the only way to ensure that what Rose experienced does, in fact, never happen again.
Friedman has spent 17 years in politics and government, including time as an Army infantry officer in Iraq and Afghanistan.

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Bio links:
http://www.mcphersonsquaregroup.com/brandon-friedman
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brandon_Friedman
  

We have been on the move

     Had to wait a couple of days for this: Thank so many of you for your birthday/Father's Day messages. Think I hit the 300-plus mark on messages.

     There was a reason for the thank-you delay: We moved.

     If there was any doubt that we are now senior citizens -- you did not really doubt that, did you? -- it now is official.

     We now live in a "retirement community" (which means senior citizens). And we are happy about it.
     This was Bea's dream. Over the past five years, skeptical me became convinced this was the right thing to do.
      So this move is my 71st birthday and my Father's Day present this year.

The view from our sixth-floor patio looking southeast in Fort Worth.

      Our new home is on the edge of downtown Fort Worth, a complex of three high-rise buildings -- and it is a well-respected, highly recommended and well-run facility.
     We visited here -- by invitation -- more than a couple of times and became more and more convinced this was the right community for us. So, yes, I was recruited.
      It is our 16th move in 41 years together -- it has been a long road, folks -- and we are 99 percent sure it is our last one.
     The apartment we just left, near the Trinity River and Colonial Country Club (about 100 yards across the river from the fourth green), was almost new when we moved in eight years ago. We liked it, but it is not so new now. We lived there longer than any place in our time together.
     Moving in here -- sixth floor, in the original of the three buildings -- we have had to downsize considerably. But we have been doing that for years. 
     What that forces is to choose practicality over sentimentality; we let go of things we had for decades. For instance, I had clippings, photos and magazines/newspapers from way, way back. They are gone. Copied what I could into computer files.
     But we came into a completely scrapped and then refurbished apartment. Everything is new. 
     That was one incentive. Also, health care is a top priority here, with an extensive program and facilities. And there is a long-term financial guarantee.
     Sure, it is costly. Honestly, I did not think we could do it. But with the guidance of our financial advisor and the help of our sales rep here (the can-do-it-all Gretchen Lincoln), it became doable.
     Some expenses -- such as utilities -- were cut. And because transportation is provided in many instances, we are not going to need our car as often, and eventually plan to do without it. (If we need to rent a car for trips, there is a rental company within five minutes.) 
     We have found the management staff and workers here so competent and cooperative. And the people in the community have been overwhelmingly welcoming these first three days.
     Lots of older people here; yesterday I met a woman who is 97 and a man in his mid-90s, both residents here for more than 20 years. 
     So we are among the younger residents  and we think, we hope, we can be helpful here. A number of residents are not-yet-retired doctors and attorneys and many others carry on busy lives outside this community.
     I will not be the biggest baseball fan here. One fairly new resident is baseball royalty -- a New York Yankees World Series star, high-ranking baseball executive who has had a rich, full life of excellence in medicine, too.                
     There is a general store in the building, workout facility, a heated indoor swimming pool, all sorts of exercise and wellness areas, a library, an office-type workroom, rooms for visiting (with card games and puzzles), and there are many scheduled activities (shopping trips, speakers, exercise, special occasions).

      Bea already is set to work in "white elephant" monthly sales shop (clothes, furniture, knick-knacks, etc.); various book clubs are available; and Bea wants to start a coloring (book) club.
     We can walk -- if the weather is decent -- to the YMCA where we exercise 3-4 days a week and the Fort Worth Central Library -- a frequent stop for us -- is across the street from the Y. 

      If, long-term, we need a car for trips, a rental company is closeby. So are banks. So are big shopping areas; we already have tried that walk. And our new facility provided us with a shopping cart.

      Because we now have one bedroom, one bath and a smaller living area and kitchen, we carefully chose what to bring. 
      Moving is never easy, but we are experienced and Bea did most of the packing because one of us knows what they are doing.
      It is a new adventure, and it is exciting. The facility's assistant executive director, extending a welcome Tuesday, said, "You are on a cruise ship now. Enjoy it."

      We intend to enjoy it. Come see us.

Here's your ticket, and the cost is ... $220

      Took a $220 right turn at a "STOP" sign this morning.
      Received my first ticket in a dozen years for it. Did not deserve it. 
      But Mr. Motorcycle Cop -- excuse me, Mr. Motorcycle Policeman -- said I did. We disagreed, and it was not a pleasant conversation.
      I did not like it. I do not like it. 
      I told him at the end of our little disagreement -- after he handed me the ticket (and he did not have me sign a summons), I would challenge it. He said I had that right. 
      (I ended up not doing so. More on that below.)

The dastardly STOP sign and
intersection, today's troublemaker.

      This is one of life's no-win situations. When you fight the law -- especially on a simple stop-sign violation -- the law is going to win. You can take it to court and challenge it, but the fight is not worth the hassle.
      This was a stop sign we encounter 4-5-6 times a week, less than a mile from our apartments. It is often a busy intersection, traffic rolling off the nearby parkway or headed toward the busy University Drive and/or Interstate 30.
      So I darned well know the stop sign is there, and I always stop, and make sure nothing is rolling past us or turning from the other direction. (It is a three-way stop.)
      At any stop sign, I make sure the car rocks back a bit before I continue on. Have made a habit of that for years. Try to never dart out into the intersection, even delay a count.
      OK, I am coming back to this, and explain why I know I stopped and why I got the ticket. Hint: I was not the only one stopped.
      First, though, we went on to our intended destination -- the Wednesday yoga/stretching workout with Ms. Lorie at the downtown Central YMCA.
      Amazing how well you can exercise if you are a little fired up. I did have a slight pain in the back, but then -- thanks to the ticket -- I already had an encountered a pain in the butt.
      Here is why I know I stopped:      

Stopped here, the angle to the
left is where the motorcycle
policemen were sitting,
clearly within view.

-- As I came to the corner, I looked to my left and saw the two motorcycle policemen stopped at their stop sign as they had come off the parkway. So I knew they were there. You think I wasn't being careful?
      -- At any stop sign, I make sure the car rocks back a bit before I continue on. Have made a habit of that for years. Try to never dart out into the intersection, even delay a count.
      -- Bea, in the passenger's seat, was as surprised as I was. "They're pulling you over?" she asked. I thought maybe I had not turned on my right-turn blinker. To be told that I had not stopped properly was stunning.
      -- These two motorcycle guys, I contend, were intentionally looking to hand out tickets. 
      Moments after I stopped and the one officer -- I know the name, but I will keep it to myself -- approached me, the other officer pulled over two more cars. So there were three of us on the left side pulled over on the left side of the road.
      Maybe it was because it is Fort Worth Invitational golf week at nearby Colonial, and it is a busy, busy area. Maybe Fort Worth needs the money. Maybe these guys were trying to justify their existence. Maybe they were bored.
      Maybe they were being hard asses. My guy sure acted like it. 
      OK, he didn't like it that when he came up, and made his check to see all our licenses/tags were in order, asked for my driver's license and as he was punching in on his hand computer, I asked -- not happily -- "Why did you pull me over?" 
      He asked me why I was asking him that, that he didn't understand my question. I replied: "What did I do? (More loudly) "I STOPPED THE CAR." 
      He did not like that, any more than I liked his attitude. "Because I said you ran the stop sign," he told me. Don't think he appreciated me questioning his judgement and he told me I "was being disrespectful."
      His attitude basically was "because I said so."
      Then he told me to get in the car and wait for him to bring me the ticket.
      When he did, I assured him I was not trying to be disrespectful. I do have a lot of respect for law officers; I know how tough their jobs can be. We all should know that, and respect that.
      I then told him I was not trying to be disrespectful, but I wanted to talk to him about my (non)-stop. It was obvious he wasn't going to discuss it any further.
      He felt, as an officer, he had the right to stop me -- and he does. I felt, as a citizen, he made an incorrect judgement.
      Felt to me, with the others also pulled over, they were on a mission.
      Guess he did not have to explain himself, and I know they should be business-like; they are not there for chit-chat. But my guy seemed pretty full of himself, self-important, entitled, arrogant. Sorry I feel that way. He likely felt that way about me. Obviously he did not like me questioning -- or challenging -- him.
      Also, it seems as if this is a nitpicking violation/situation. No harm done, no one endangered. In basketball, the rule is "no harm, no foul." OK, I am whining.
      I am not a great driver (right, Laurin Baum?), never have been. But I am a respectful and courteous one -- use my blinker even with no one around, try not to speed or switch lanes carelessly (not careful enough at times), never honk my horn at anyone (haven't for years, don't believe in it), let people cut in front (sometimes to my wife's dismay), try not to swerve or crowd the car in front of me, stop at stop signs.
      Swerving caused my last ticket -- also undeserved -- at 12:30 a.m. leaving downtown Fort Worth after work. A group of kids in a convertible pulled up next to me at a stop light, loud and likely to have had some soda pops. So I swerved right to avoid their intrusion; unfortunately, a police car behind me pulled me over. He thought I was the one who had been drinking. I was too tired to be disrespectful that night.
      It was 12 years ago; in fact, the address the Fort Worth municipal courts system -- where fines are paid -- had for us was in North Richland Hills, two residences ago.
      So I have to rationalize this. Figure that one violates driving laws from time to time -- run a red light, go over the speed limit, drive recklessly (but not intentionally reckless) ... whatever. And you are not ticketed because no police is around.
      Today the timing was such that the motorcycle guys arrived at the stop-sign intersection just as we did. That's the way it goes. There was no stopping those guys' intent. 
---
      Went downtown in early afternoon, was sent -- after some paperwork -- to the traffic-court judge and she gave me my options.

      A trial date? No thanks. My word against the policeman's word (and if he brought his partner, it's one-against-two).
      The pro tem judge -- let's call her a veteran judge -- was nice enough, willing to set the court date. Said court costs would be involved. Asked her what my chances were, and she told me discussing that was not her task.

      Pay the fine and probation? OK. And the cost is ... ? Answer: court costs $102.10; special expense fee $117.90. That's $220. Go to the cashier window and pay.

      Done.
      It is not so much the money; we have it. It is the principle. The word of a man with an officer's badge is stronger than a 70-year-old driving -- driven -- to exercise.

       Going to cut way back on our driving soon, and planning to give up the car. As for the money, believe me I have found more on my walks this year. But it does cut into the profit margin.

      Told the judge that I was going to write about this. "Be sure you say that you had options," she said. Assured her I would be fair ... "unlike the guy this morning," I added.
      I think she laughed. But if not, fine. I already paid mine.

      Sure that Fort Worth needs the cash. Maybe to pay the police.