January 18, 2026

Why We Write

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.”

So said Anais Nin, a woman whose journaling began at age 11 and continued throughout her long life. She described her relationship with the psychoanalyst Otto Rank soon after their contact:

As he talked, I thought of my difficulties with writing, my struggles to articulate feelings not easily expressed. Of my struggles to find a language for intuition, feeling, instincts which are, in themselves, elusive, subtle, and wordless.

How hard is it to understand others — to see them in full as they wish to be seen? To what degree can every word, thought, and expression be fathomed as it emerges, and when it does not?

Consider the quotation above. How much of a flavor is retained? To what extent does the act of remembering itself transform what has happened, even as it fades and alters with age?

The celephane-wrapped freshness of our past recedes in favor of a modified reminiscence.

Nin recognized something else. She was a student of psychoanalysis and realized that she required more than one language to convey what best fit her desire to communicate.

As Wikipedia notes, “she (first) wrote in French and did not begin to write in English until she was 17.[11] Nin believed that French was the language of her heart, Spanish was the (tongue) of her ancestors, and English…the (dialect) of her intellect. The writing in her diaries is (therefore)…trilingual.”

Our reflections change as we contemplate our former selves, our loves and losses, our encounters with books, work, failure, and success in a changing world. The growth and metamorphosis brought by aging offer new perspectives.

Heraclitus reminds us, “no man steps into the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.”

Time is a master teacher if we listen to its voice.

To the good, laughter survives in the form of stories, along with some of our private sentiment.

Enough.

In a week, will you recognize yours truly at my unchanging keyboard? Will you think of me as you do now? And what will your mirror hold?

Ask Anais Nin and Heraclitus.

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All of the images are sourced from Wikimedia Commons. Woman Writing with a Pen is the work of Kristin Hardwick. It is followed by Anais Nin as a Teenager about 1920. Finally, Nin’s Signature.

January 11, 2026

Unconfusing Our Confusion

I am confused some of the time. If I hear an idea that belongs to someone else, I am slow to say whether I agree or disagree. At least more hesitant than I used to be.

Why? I consider the thought or opinion from multiple angles. Perhaps from the point of religion, or my lived experience, or all the other thoughtful people I know. I ask the other to tell me how he arrived at his point of view. Have other intelligent public intellectuals taken the same position?

Where is the evidence?

When I offer my slant on a problem, if it is well organized and reasonable, my counterpart might react with, “That makes sense.”

Such acknowledgements are affirming. Still, I prefer it if my interlocutor asked a question rather than accepting my position without taking a moment to think through the concept or dig deeper. Challenges are desirable because they help me learn.

Information rains down on us at a level unknown to everyone who lived here before us. Even during the first years of television, most of us had access to three major stations; the networks signed off at midnight and returned to broadcasting the next morning.

Today, depending on the source, the news may be mere idiocy or deceit. We can be fooled without extraordinary effort. Moreover, many people find the ideas, reports, and news painful to listen to. They turn away because the full blast fire hose of disaster, unhappiness, and unfairness is too much to bear. The deluge feels like punishment, a form of battery and inundation.

It is easier to reach a quick conclusion about what is right and what is wrong than to gather information and inform ourselves. Instead, we choose to believe we have learned enough. Since we cannot tolerate more, we decide our knowledge is adequate.

In my way of living, I tend to take in more reportage and analysis than most, including different frames of reference.

Nor am I easily driven by emotions such as anger and hate. I have found that by gathering information, reading, and listening to multiple sources, I can reach a sober conclusion.

So I think.

Of course, I am not God, the Pope, or the Dalai Lama.

Yes, I have many concerns about the future of the world and the lives of my loved ones on this planet.

But.

Somehow, I sleep at night, believing I understand what I think is happening.

I have long been asking myself questions. Soon after I reached the age of double digits, I watched newsreel films about World War II on TV or in school. There he was, Chancellor of the Third Reich, wearing a toothbrush mustache—also called the Führer und Reichskanzler—ranting.

The typical response was “It can’t happen here!” Yet I found myself unsettled. What if the dark presence spoke English?

I’d reached 11 or so. Over time, I came to understand that under pressure, much of humanity is not at its best.

Part of our dilemma comes from our appreciation, enjoyment, and vulnerability to stories. Our ancient predecessors needed to be persuaded by a leader who hoped to protect their group of 20 or 30 from dangers, whether from natural disasters or enemies. Similarly, access to healthful food and avoidance of sickening or poisonous substances were essential.

Somebody would tell a story, and if the group survived, the information would spread.

We have long encountered secular, religious, and political tales, sometimes forthright, sometimes not. Their self-interested spin and opportunistic motives might influence others through storytelling.

Each country has its own history and mythology. Widely accepted origins, part legends, bind millions of people who will never meet into a community of trust, shared ideals, and cooperation.

The American history I learned in the middle of the last century made little mention of discrimination against religious minorities among early American settlers. Those books didn’t touch on how white male property owners alone possessed voting rights, or a woman’s lack of standing on numerous issues.

Neither were the brutality, unfairness, and intolerance experienced by the Native Americans, Chinese immigrants, and Japanese citizens of the West Coast a part of the story presented.

Ours was the land of the free and the home of the brave. Not of the Ku Klux Klan and the lynchings of black men.

The confusion of so many of us is exacerbated by algorithms designed to stir us up and drive us to return to the sources we visit.

We are no longer the children of devoted parents who make up stories at bedtime, as I did for my kids—a new one every night to amuse my daughters.

Now, as adults, we are left to ferret out which accounts are accurate and which play us for fools. Beware those who make us think that the other, who lives in another part of the nation, has darker skin, speaks with an accent or a twang, is our enemy.

How shall we reduce our confusion and not be overwhelmed? Take a break from the avalanche of supposed information every so often. Find joy in friendship and love. Eat well and exercise.

Talk about the turmoil, too, and find a connection so that you are not alone.

Learn new non-political things, new games that will keep your brain in shape, and remember what you can be grateful for. Then get back to a part of the news cycle you can manage, be careful of your chosen sources, and do your part to repair the world.

Yes, we are all confused, at least a bit, but there is goodness to be found in our land if we seek it and work to sustain it.

It is the work for all time and for our time.

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All the images above are sourced from Wikimedia Commons. At the top is a Confused Man by Notas de prense. Next comes Confused Young Woman by CollegeDegree360 on Flickr. Finally, Confused User Icon Red by OERDESIGN.

January 4, 2026

About (Your) Face

What does a face do? What unspoken message does it convey?

Man lives in a world of endless mirrors, so plentiful that he cannot escape himself.

Men and women do their best to make themselves presentable and attractive. Some study their default expression and attempt to alter it. The goal is to enhance beauty, masculinity, sincerity, intelligence, approachability, toughness, or fearlessness, among other characteristics.

Are they readable? Perhaps. Can one discover inner qualities based on peering into the face facing him? Sometimes.

Early in life, humanity displays the features it inherited. Later, the adventurous or the unhappy try to transform their appearance.

Others are transformed by their character.

Men display beards or mustaches. Tweezers pull out unsightly hair for both sexes, and high foreheads find long strands traveling downward to cover the upper section by intent.

Moisturizers keep the face soft, while sunscreen helps protect it from the sun’s harmful rays, which can age the skin and cause cancer. Makeup and lipstick play their part.

Time changes body language, and unconscious modification defines the impression one makes before he speaks. Hardness, menace, kindness, indifference, severity, or gentleness might become apparent.

Eyes are sympathetic or piercing. The orbs hold a glance or turn down and away. Inner strength can be read as contempt. The masked face of one who does not wish to be thought of as vulnerable becomes unbecoming. Faces range from welcoming and confident to haughty or insecure.

Lincoln said, “Every man over forty is responsible for his face.”

George Orwell added, “At fifty, everyone has the face he deserves.”

The phrase about-face is both a military order to change direction while standing at attention and a reversal in point of view.

So much of life is about face. A public disgrace or humiliation is described as a loss of face.

All manner of facial expressions can become a person’s arsenal for social interaction. Think of a smirk or frown, interruptions, talking over others, and raised eyebrows.

Add a visage full of contempt, the expressionless deadness of preferring the phone to a lunch partner, boredom, frequent laughing at a so-called friend, and an intimidating presence or state that makes an individual appear twice his size and scary to small children.

Better to unveil the face of an angel if one can.

I am close to a few.

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The top photo by Paul Aigner is of the journalist Olenula for the newspaper “Lukhovitskie Vesti.”

The poster below it features Konrad Adenauer, who served as Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany from 1949 to 1963 and was the first leader of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU). Both are sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

December 28, 2025

What If?

You were born very tall or very short?

What if you disliked your name?

What if we lived our faith — practiced it each day?

What if you were married for eternity and lived forever?

What if we changed the world to help those left behind?

What if marriages were all contractual and you could end them every 10 years just by saying so?

What if every day reached 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and water was like gold?

What if you were in line to speak with God for 10 minutes? What would you say? At the end of your time, what might he say to you? Next? 

What if men got pregnant?

What if everyone lost sexual interest at 35?

What if you were born impoverished? Or rich? How would life be different?

What if you could wear only clothes made by famous designers?

What if no one brushed their teeth or used deodorant?

What if hell required imprisonment with someone who disagreed with all of your political opinions?

What if the same person agreed with everything you said and had no ideas of his own? 

What if he believed in a different religion?

What if you suffered from pain every day?

What if you knew what people really think and say about you?

What if the dead could be brought back to life on earth? How would the world change?

What if everyone were taught to use the word love more often than four-letter words? 

What if you had a special piggy bank for charity and put loose change into it every day?

What if you took your kids to a food depository, brought along food, and filled the bags of other donors for those who can’t afford it?

What if you took a homeless person to lunch?

What if we taught kids that money isn’t the secret to happiness and told them what fulfillment really is?

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The first photo is by Hisa Matsumura at the Tottori Sand Dunes, sourced from [email protected]. It is followed by an Elephant at Sunset in Amboseli, Kenya, in Early November 2024. It is the work of the photographic artist, Laura Hedien, presented with her kind permission: Laura Hedien Official Website.

December 21, 2025

Finding the Light in the Darkness

 

I don’t like November. Only later, well past the shock, did I figure out why. Not just the accumulating darkness of the fall winning the war with light.

I’ve always rooted for the forces of the winter solstice to claim their slow-moving victory. But, early on, I found the autumn gloom more personal than that. 

My father, Milton Stein, always left early for his 7:00 am shift as a postal supervisor downtown. His only weeknight recreation was bowling in a league. On Wednesday nights, I think. Since I would still be asleep when he went to work, I asked him to write down the scores he got the night before. 

I took them in as I sat down for breakfast and opened the daily newspaper to the sports section. School followed.

My dad was my hero, as almost all dads are. Funny, I’ve never said that before, even to myself. He’s been gone for 25 years.

But I was talking about autumn, wasn’t I? About November 1958. 

Someone from the office knocked on the door of my seventh-grade class at Jamieson School on a Thursday afternoon that year. The teacher called my name. I left the room and entered the hallway as requested. 

Mom was waiting for me. 

She shouldn’t have been there. 

Something was wrong. 

We drove home, and she told me when we arrived. Dad was in the hospital. He suffered a heart attack. She broke down as she delivered the news. I remember the place we were standing. 

Much later, I learned that he had been afflicted at least twice. Once at the bowling league and once on his way from the downtown Chicago Post Office the next day. He described a crushing pain, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Dad rested against a building until it passed.

My father didn’t exaggerate. He had survived the Great Depression and World War II. He had survived his father leaving the family apartment to live with another woman. What had it been like to endure such things? And now this.

When I returned to school the next day, a group of girls in my class surrounded me. “What happened?’ My voice cracked as I told them the story.

I was not yet 12.

Dad was sentenced to six weeks in Michael Reese Hospital, typical of heart disease treatment in the ’50s. It felt like a prison term to me and for me, a long one.

Kids couldn’t visit. Nor do I remember any phone calls. Just waiting. We wrote letters. I still have one telling Milton Stein that my brothers and I had saved some money to buy him a present. 

It must have meant something to him, because he saved it.

It was formal, though. I stuffed down my feelings.

Dad was a funny guy. He joked with his three sons—me, Ed, and Jack—about his alleged baseball career and imaginary time playing for the Chicago Cubs. 

Dad claimed he was so dependable that his nickname became “Rain or Shine Milt Stein,” a man who could compete for the team, pitching every day, no matter what. 

My brothers and I share the joke and much else. Dependability, keeping promises, and working hard. That was the creed of our father and his sons.

He returned to our house. At least someone who looked like him came back home, but I wondered. I needed to ask. He’d become like a Christmas gift in a dented box, portending something disappointing if you tore it open.

Dad and I were in the front room when I raised the question. I faced the street, and he sat on the couch with his back to Talman Avenue.

I was direct. 

I wanted to understand why he wasn’t himself. 

“I’m afraid,” he said.

Of that quotation, I am sure. Of the wisdom of honesty in that moment, I am less sure.

He offered more. Dad was scared of another heart attack. Scared of dying. He said this matter-of-factly, but the message carried doom, like a guided missile headed for the heart of his firstborn. Heart disease, the real kind, killed, and men his age all but piled up on the street. At least that was my sense of it.

From then on, mom started reading magazines on diet and disease prevention. From then on, my dad took nitroglycerin pills every day.

The Stein boys did neither, but took their fear to school with them. Every day. 

When “Rain or Shine” walked upstairs for the Western Avenue elevated train arrival, he stopped long enough to take a nitroglycerin tablet. With time, I wondered whether it continued to serve a purpose beyond mere reassurance.

Nonetheless, we all—sort of—tried to forget about pop’s vulnerability to heart disease: put it in a box that opened, but not as often as it had. Medical science learned a few things, too, and the death rate from the ailment declined. 

Still, when you love an aging parent, something I have become myself, there is the internal whisper reminding you of the Grim Reaper. This strange creature, a personification of death, has been a recurring subject in painting since the 14th century.

The dangerous fellow is out there, always waiting, his scythe ready to perform its inescapable task. In Dad’s case, the news came from my brother Eddie, who announced to Jack and me that the irreplaceable one was gone. 

The patriarch of our family made it to 88, a long life he defined as happy when he and I created his four-hour videotaped oral history at 75.

A friend who celebrates Hanukkah tells me that lighting the menorah (candelabrum) candles during the current Jewish holiday, as well as lighting candles before every Sabbath, is both a commandment and a good deed.

On the same day as the Bondi Beach massacre, December 14, people came to the village hall in her town on a cold night to celebrate the holiday, but carrying the heartbreak.

The rabbi acknowledged the crowd’s pain while reminding them that they must never give in to despondency. He told the assemblage that the reason for lighting the menorah for eight nights—by adding another flame each evening—was to reinforce its message: never give in to the darkness. Increase the light instead.

When Milton Stein died, I had a tough period of about six months. My malaise prompted my kids to ask my wife, “When will dad be himself again?
 
My sire got over his fear long before he died, and I returned to my best self after he departed. Life went on without him, but his memory is never far away. 
 
What must we do with such things?
 
As Elizabeth Barrett Browning advised, “Light tomorrow with today.”

==========

The first image includes my parents. The second photo from the left, first row: Jack, Gerry, and Eddie. Second row, from the left, my parents, again.

December 14, 2025

Thinking About Indifference

At times, I am at a loss for words. Yesterday, listening to a speech about indifference, for example.

We live in a complicated world. We are all alone in the sense that neither we nor anyone else can get inside the mind and emotions of our companions, parents, strangers, or children. Indeed, one of the first impossibly puzzling thoughts I had in my childhood years was this:

Why am I me?

I recognized that my consciousness was accessible only to myself. Moreover, I wondered why my private ideas and overall awareness were planted solely in my brain and body. Why not in someone else’s being, I asked.

My question for today is different but related. Our separateness guarantees an imperfect grasp of others and the impossibility of being as easily touched by their sufferings as we are by our own. Of course, exceptions exist, as when our children are in pain, but it is not hard for some to look away from others. Indeed, it can be automatic, a defense mechanism that makes the world tolerable.

To look, to see, to recognize leads to searching one’s conscience and a question. Do I have a responsibility to help?

I met only one person in my long clinical practice who lacked the capacity for indifference to others’ distress. She was a bright, young teenage woman whose parents brought her to my office.

This girl could not watch television news without being tormented by human tragedy. It was unbearable, and her heartbreak was beyond her mother and father’s understanding and my own.

The most worthwhile discussion of indifference I have ever encountered was not offered by another mental health professional, but someone who had experienced it. Here is an excerpt from a speech he gave on April 12, 1999. A video of the speech prompted this essay:

What is indifference? Etymologically, the word means “no difference.” A strange and unnatural state in which the lines blur between light and darkness, dusk and dawn, crime and punishment, cruelty and compassion, good and evil. What are its courses and inescapable consequences? Is it a philosophy? Is there a philosophy of indifference conceivable? Can one possibly view indifference as a virtue? Is it necessary at times to practice it simply to keep one’s sanity, live normally, enjoy a fine meal and a glass of wine, as the world around us experiences harrowing upheavals?

Of course, indifference can be tempting (and) more than that, seductive. It is so much easier to look away from victims. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. It is, after all, awkward, troublesome, to be involved in another person’s pain and despair. Yet, for the person who is indifferent, his or her neighbor is of no consequence. And, therefore, their lives are meaningless. Their hidden or even visible anguish is of no interest. Indifference reduces the Other to an abstraction.

In a way, to be indifferent to that suffering is what makes the human being inhuman. Indifference, after all, is more dangerous than anger and hatred. Anger can, at times, be creative. One writes a great poem, a great symphony. One does something special for the sake of humanity because one is angry at the injustice that one witnesses. But indifference is never creative. Even hatred, at times, may elicit a response. You fight it. You denounce it. You disarm it.

Indifference elicits no response. Indifference is not a response. Indifference is not a beginning; it is an end. And, therefore, indifference is always the friend of the enemy, for it benefits the aggressor —never his victim, whose pain is magnified when he or she feels forgotten. The political prisoner in his cell, the hungry children, the homeless refugees — not to respond to their plight, not to relieve their solitude by offering them a spark of hope is to exile them from human memory. And in denying their humanity, we betray our own.

Thank you if you are still with me, reading this, pondering, and feeling this. If you live in the United States, I am sure you are aware of the magnetic pull of indifference, the offer of escape from the endless news stories about poverty, cruelty, and unfairness.

I am sure you are aware of people taken into custody on the street, the reported lack of due process, and the 60,000 to 65,000 people said to be in ICE detention.

It is enough to cause some who are not victims to throw away their cell phones, computers, TV sets, and radios.

It is enough to enter a fantasy world of everyday life, or refuse to discuss anything political, day or night.

The man who wrote the words quoted above was Elie Wiesel, a Jewish survivor of the Holocaust. His entire speech is below. He hoped his audience would reflect on a topic called “The Perils of Indifference.”

The last word he utters is “hope.”

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The top photograph is called “Smokey World,” a 1959 work by Fan Ho. Next comes his “Triple Play.” The final image is “As Evening Hurries ” from 1955.

December 7, 2025

What We Do with Time and Thought?

Sometimes advice comes from looking closely. We talk about being readers of speed or slowness, as if a shoulder pressed hard on the grindstone.

A smaller number read and reread, while some avoid books altogether.

But the wise man who penned the capitalized letters above looks more closely. Perhaps he suggests another way to find your way — to think about a life of hesitation, or spontaneity.

To ensure the time is honored and absorbed in full, with little wasted.

Whether we can absorb everything at one go is questionable. Yet it might be worth the effort. Some call it living in the moment, but this is different.

We must think, think about, think through, think enough, and think with clarity about what we are doing, as Hannah Arendt pleaded in her book, The Human Condition.

Making sensible choices isn’t easy.

Let us start with these few ideas.

Should I live with abandon or instead, with care and well-thought-out intention and planning?

Must we take the blame and apologize out of insecurity or out of our need for approval?

How do you determine what is worth giving your life for, and what is worth standing up for despite the risk of defending a principle?

What responsibilities does the status of citizen confer on us?

Are you now, or have you ever been put to the test by telling the truth, lying, or taking arms? How about fighting against a deadly illness, saving the life of another, or donating an internal organ?

Have you come out as a person of unconventional and despised sexual nature, or decided to take on the danger of being unpopular because of political or religious beliefs?

Do you recognize that the loss of your soul, honesty, or morality doesn’t always happen in your response to one significant event, but in small steps that erode your character over time?

If you have a bucket list, consider how long you have postponed fulfilling your desires.

When you reach middle or old age, do you realize that many of the early entries on your list have lost their interest?

Such promissory notes to yourself can be like the suit, dress, pants, or shorts you hope to wear again, only to discover they no longer fit. An old saying applies: You have missed the boat.

Small children tend not to recognize that death lies ahead. As you become somewhat older, the thought occurs to you. When you are older still, would it be wise to remind yourself of your mortality?

Would it be necessary to raise this idea at least once a year?

In middle age and beyond, such a practice becomes less necessary. Your life and the deaths of others announce the issue without your help.

Do you believe you are self-aware? We all miss things. How might you go about learning them? What might be the cost to others and to you?

What is the value of rushing around? What is the value of taking your time?

Have you failed to speak to old friends in years? What is holding you back? What is the value of such people?

Why is it worthwhile to help strangers, including those who are different from you? Do you offer your helping hand face-to-face?

Many external influences have changed you. These include reading news on your phone, using the AI Chatbot, which some describe as a friend, and text messaging.

Are these worthwhile utilities? What do you gain and what do you lose? Do you believe you are saving time as opposed to losing competence to learn and solve problems on your own?

Are you lonely or lonelier than you used to be? Eating alone in the USA has increased by 53% since 2003. The number is much higher among the young.

Do devices like Zoom, frequent job changes, working from home, and a loss of understanding of how to make and keep friends contribute to this problem?

If this is your issue, how do you fill your time when there’s no human contact? Pets, perhaps?

One additional thought about the ticking clock of life. When we are free of essential demands, what do we do?

Meditation can sweep clean awareness of the Earth’s movement around the Sun. What else do we focus on? Exercise, food, the desire to consume, worry, our career, money, relationships, avoidance, and more.

Plato thought of other matters: the contemplation of beauty in moments of quiet.

He focused on the eternal, not immortality, but big and lofty questions regarding the soul, things, and ideas, including nature, beyond temporary joys, lusts, and sorrows.

What do you think?

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The writing at the top of the page is sourced from Edward Zaydelman on Substack.

The weather advice is sourced from MzNickey in East Jesus, TN
November 30, 2025

George Altman and the Art of Living

george_altman_autograph

Some men are great, but not good. Only a few are both good and great. Such a man was George Altman, who died at 92 on November 24.

His story goes beyond being a sports hero for a moment in time. It is about the way he lived his life.

Nineteen-sixty-one began well for George Lee Altman. The year also looked positive for Jack Randolph Stein — my brother, Jack — the ballplayer’s best nine-year-old fan. Jack studied the newspaper box scores and memorized Altman’s statistics. He defended Altman to any “unbelievers” who might have preferred some other big league star.

No defense, however, was needed in 1961: by baseball’s All-Star break, Altman led the league in hitting. The 6’4″ black outfielder blasted a home run in the game. Only a better Cubs team would have made the world of George and Jack perfect.

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Ah, but the baseball gods are capricious, and the long ball Altman drove over the fence proved the high point of his Major League career. After another All-Star year in Chicago, he was traded to St. Louis and then to the New York Mets at a time when a ballplayer might be considered a “well-paid slave,” to quote Curt Flood about his own baseball career.

But this story ends well, so don’t lose heart. George Altman never did.

I offer you two stories here: one, a brief recounting of the life of an extraordinary athlete and man; the other, of a little boy who admired him. A tale, too, of the unexpected turns you meet if you live long enough.

—

Altman was 27 years old in 1961, and Jack was at the age when boys acquire heroes. Baseball permitted the love of a man of a different race in a way not allowed by almost any other public activities of the day.

Jack modeled himself after Big George. He adopted a similar left-handed batting stance and played the outfield as his hero did. My brother even hoped to spend time with him, something impossible after a ballgame in an ad hoc autograph line.

Jack wrote to the athlete at Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs. “Mom will cook you a meal of steak and beer,” he included as an enticement. No brewery inhabited our basement, and no beer lived in our refrigerator, but the letter found its way out the door. Jack waited. The whole family waited and wondered.

My brother received a picture-postcard with Altman’s photo on one side and his autograph on the other. No mention of steak and beer. No comment at all.

—

A little history: George Altman played a part in advancing race relations in the United States.

In 1947, Jackie Robinson, enabled by the Brooklyn Dodgers’ General Manager (Branch Rickey), broke the informal collusion among Major League Baseball’s owners to keep the game white: the color line. From Robinson’s arrival, it took until 1959 — the same year George Altman joined the Cubs — for every team to have at least one black player.

Big George was among the last to play ball in the Negro Major Leagues (a gifted dark-skinned player’s only alternative to the barred door of the Majors). They began to unravel when some of their best athletes found jobs in the newly integrated big leagues.

A rough road greeted “colored” men (as they were then called), even if they did leap the first barrier. Salary was modest, most took off-season jobs to survive, and racism among some of their white teammates presented itself. Managers were all white, and informal limitations prevented “too many” dark-skinned men from taking the field as “starters.”

Blacks had to room with blacks, whites with whites. Segregated hotels sometimes further separated the races. Little interracial socialization occurred after the game ended, and even in the dugout, the dark and the light often sat apart.

altman-ernie-bily

—

Altman had another superb season in 1962, but his trade to St.Louis left both the ballplayer and brother Jack disappointed. Injuries cut short much of Altman’s time in the big leagues, but he eventually became a brilliant star in Japan for eight seasons. Even then, however, he was a person on the outside. No longer an African-American in a white world, nor a college-educated man among men of more limited learning, he became an American in Asia.

—

George Altman grew up in North Carolina. His mother died of pneumonia when he was four. Willie Altman, his dad, made a living as a tenant farmer who became an auto mechanic. The senior Altman could be a hard man, a man of few words and hidden feelings; one who didn’t encourage his talented son’s growing athletic success or attend his games. But the junior Altman gave his all to succeed at everything he tried, including the back-breaking labor of picking cotton and tobacco during teenage summers.

Altman graduated from Tennessee State thanks to a basketball scholarship. He later became “semi-conversant” in Japanese during his playing days overseas, and a commodities trader at Chicago’s Board of Trade representing himself from the seat he purchased with some of his relatively high Japanese earnings. Along the way, he beat down colon cancer.

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Before he left Chicago, George Altman started a chess club for young people and helped build the Better Boys Foundation. In his 80s, he focused on high school-aged kids and combating the evils of drug abuse, but the Windy City continued to claim a special place in his heart.

The tall childhood hero once again came to mind with the Cubs’ 2016 World Series Championship. Perhaps, Jack hoped, a 55-year-old meal ticket could be punched as well. My brother tracked down his 1960s idol and made a date to visit him near Altman’s Missouri home.

—

The men who broke baseball’s color line are thought of as having advanced the status of their race despite the initially punishing reception of white baseball. Surely this is correct, but not the whole story. They also served all Americans of the time, not only by displaying their particular genius for the game.

Blacks were not just stereotyped, but invisible in mid-twentieth-century America: no black newscasters, no blacks in commercials, few blacks on TV or in the movies; and then, almost always in roles fueling the worst stereotypes of the time.

That changed with the vanguard of “Negro” baseball players. Even bigots now observed African-Americans in a new role, heard them speak in radio and TV interviews, and read human interest stories written about them. Unseen, anyone can be stereotyped. A man or woman in the flesh becomes a person, not so easily molded into an object of derision.

The black athletes of Altman’s generation played baseball well, but they played a more critical role in transforming America. The frozen, deformed national consciousness of people of color was reformed by their courage. We are better because of them, if still not perfect. We are better because of George Altman.

—

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Expectations nurtured over time become unspeakably high. The goal, once achieved, usually disappoints: too much pent-up anticipation. Not this. The still trim Altman met my brother at the appointed restaurant. The ballplayer didn’t remember the “steak and beer” invitation, nor did the pair dine on the menu items Jack had promised.

Still, the 55-year-old’s wish was otherwise satisfied — and not only because of the former Chicagoan’s pleasure at the success of the World Champion players who wore the same uniform he did. Here is Jack’s voice:

After a while I brought up some of the tragedies he endured, from poverty to racial prejudice to his son’s death in a head-on collision with a drunk driver; the loss of his grandson, too. Despite all this, George was an absolutely positive guy who appreciated his life and how he handled his most difficult times.

Since George was not legendary ballplayer, he seemed surprised anyone would drive a long distance to spend a couple of hours with him over lunch.  He enjoyed my detailed interest in his career and the recollections we shared of some of his greatest games.  For me, as I have learned more about George from his autobiography and our meeting, the hero of a nine-year-old boy became his hero again at 64-years-of-age. It was a happy experience for both of us.

Responding to a note of gratitude from Jack, George Altman wrote this:

Jack,

I thank you for the honor of your visit this afternoon. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment. You reminded me of some great experiences I had in baseball. Thanks for the memories. I’m honored that you would drive almost 700 miles (round trip) to have lunch with me. I am amazed at your knowledge of my career.

God bless you and your family.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Geo.

—

Where do resilience and grace come from? In the dedication of his autobiography, Altman first thanks God and then his mother, “whom I never really knew. Everyone who knew her said that she was a beautiful, kind, and loving person. I have tried to use her legacy as a guideline for my life.”

Then he names his wife, Etta, and his children, relatives, and friends, all acknowledged for “their love, comfort, and support.” Lastly, gratitude is expressed to five coaches, perhaps father figures, who are individually identified. As John Donne famously wrote, “No Man is an Island.” Whether he knows the line, George Altman knows the lesson.

—

The Stein family, ca. 1960. Left to right in the front row, Jack, Gerry, and Eddie.

The Stein family, circa 1960. Left to right in the front row, Jack, Gerry, and Eddie.

Back in the childhood I shared with my brothers, we never thought about players writing books or their lives in retirement. We were too busy watching those still active. The “stars” were, quite literally, in our eyes.

Mid-twentieth-century America presented an easy opportunity to believe in heroes. I mean the celebrated athletes of the time, especially baseball players. As Homer said of the combatants in the Trojan War, some were “godlike” men.

The human imperfections of anyone in the public eye today, however, have become inescapable. Each man’s and woman’s Achilles heel is x-rayed, dissected, and shamelessly exposed. We live in an age of full-frontal news. We know more, but are perhaps poorer because of it.

And then there are George Altman and other people like him, quietly living out their lives. There are never too many: intelligent, decent, and hardworking; gifted, grateful, and resilient.

How many of us can stand comfortably on a pedestal erected by a worshipful nine-year-old? The 64-year-old version of that little boy, my brother Jack, would tell you he met one: a man who made a difference, the rare example of a life well-lived.

————————————–

Most of the information about George Altman’s life comes from his autobiography, George Altman: My Baseball Journey from the Negro Leagues to the Majors and Beyond, written with Lew Freedman. The second image above is Norman Rockwell’s “The Dugout,” which appeared in the September 14, 1948, edition of The Saturday Evening Post. The painting well symbolizes the futility of most of the Cubs teams my generation watched as we grew up. The following dugout image includes, from left to right, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, and George Altman. I do not know the names of the other players, but I would be pleased to be informed by those who do.

November 23, 2025

A Balanced Life?

When I think of a balanced life, I imagine going to the circus. There, you find someone walking the high wire. The pole they hold horizontally helps to keep them aloft as they walk from one platform to another. 

Yes, people have traversed the tightrope for over a mile, but most settle for much less. 

On or off the high wire, it is hard to maintain equilibrium.

Those who talk or write about balance focus on work and life. They add friends, hobbies, religious observance, a partner, raising children, exercise, vacations, meditation, continuing education, and a satisfying home life.

What they don’t mention is death, and they may wonder why it is worth contemplating:

Why should I? I’m trying to have a full life while I am alive, not dead. The thought of my death depresses me.

What is there to fear in your death? Pain, yes, but many encounter severe discomfort well before their demise and live with it for years. Moreover, medical and hospice care near the end of life can often treat and reduce suffering. 

A death that ends anguish may be welcome.

I agree that a loss of a life, in full bloom or before, is a tragedy. Existence robs one of a host of opportunities, the possibility of joy, love, achievement, song, excitement, and more.

Those who do not ponder the brevity of life may, without intention, rob themselves of discovering what might fulfill them. An endless life would not. Infinite survival could well be tiresome, boring, routine, and disappointing, without the chance of escape.

Seneca said, “Life, it is thanks to death that you are precious in my eyes.”

Failing to remind oneself of the end of one’s time, there is less urgency to make the most of the time he has. Awareness of the ticking clock encourages homo sapiens to live more in the moment.

Thinking the unthinkable can create some comfort with the idea of one’s ultimate expiration. Those who take this position, however, should be prepared if the subject alienates others.

Many superb books nonetheless touch on death. They tend to be thoughtful and enlightening, helping you discover where authenticity and growth lie in your season under the sun. 

Somerset Maugham wrote this in The Razor’s Edge: 

“Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.”

Maugham’s principal character in the novel is Larry Darrell, whose best friend in WWI died saving him. He returned home transformed, preoccupied with all the essential questions. Who am I? Why am I living and not my friend? What is the value of life? How can I best find the answers? 

He refuses jobs that would lead to conventional success and wealth. Darrell lives modestly, is put off by social climbing, and instead associates with people of more humble means than his old friends do. 

Larry chooses to work in a coal mine, later lives with Benedictine monks, and travels to India to discover the wisdom of Hinduism. His homecoming to the United States continues his rejection of money, power, and high station in a materialistic society.

This man is fearless and curious about the ways of the world. He does not know all the answers, but he knows the questions and what he must pursue to learn more.  

Ancient philosophers came to terms with the idea of the end of our being, something more immediate in a time when life expectancy was short. According to the Daily Stoic, Socrates said philosophy is “about nothing else but dying and being dead.”

The practice of bringing death to the forefront is called Memento Mori (Remember you must die). Buddhists and Sufis also have long histories in this approach to living.

It would not surprise me if you remain unconvinced of the value of more attention to your departure from the planet. In that event, you might take the words of Oscar Wilde as a model of how to approach the question: 

My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go.

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All of the paintings are sourced from Wikart.org/ The first is Paul Klee’s 1923 Rope Dancer. It is followed by August Macke’s 1914 Tightrope Walker. The final image is Remedios Varo’s 1944 Tightrope Walkers.

November 16, 2025

How Happiness and Perspective Change as We Age

We take many things for granted. Healthy young people don’t think of their bodies as an enormous gift. They take their physical capabilities as they are, with little thought.

Vision, walking, listening, and talking fall into the same category.

I understand a bit about hearing loss via accident. Six years ago, an ENT (ear, nose, and throat specialist) tried to remove wax from my left ear using a suction machine. The device made a screech (her word), impairing my ability to enjoy music without distortion thereafter.

Within six months, I’d come to accept my circumstances and bounce back to my baseline level of happiness. This year, I obtained new AI hearing aids that mitigate the damage to a degree I never expected.

A remarkable gift.

Humans tend not to anticipate the loss of others until they are gone, unless the relationship is already strained or heavily dependent on continuing support. One of the first experiences of such heartbreak in a child’s life occurs when a friend and her parents move away.

A possibly apocryphal story involves the famous baseball player Mickey Mantle, who had nightmares after his retirement. The dream found him attempting to crawl under a fence to return to playing at Yankee Stadium.

The slugger never made it onto the field in his sleeping fantasy. He got stuck beneath the imaginary barrier.

Some of those who were upset by the November 2024 election have discovered how much they assumed the republican form of democracy would last, as it had for almost 250 years.

When something is lost or we live with dread about the possibility, the value we place on the person or skill often increases. In cases where the prize remains retrievable, the individual may make an effort to prevent its disappearance.

Think of getting a new doctor to save a life, trying a painful or experimental treatment, or taking political action to defend a nation,

There are limits. Mickey Mantle never got back to his old ballpark except in a non-playing capacity. Performers on stage cannot retrieve the gifts of their youth and sometimes make the mistake of continuing their professional appearances to the point of embarrassment or worse.

Applause is like an addiction.

Arturo Toscanini, the famous symphony conductor, made his final appearance as leader of his NBC Orchestra in 1954, at the age of 87. In the next-to-last composition on the program, he froze. The maestro was later thought to have suffered a TIA (a mini-stroke).

Changes in attractiveness call up the issue of human vanity. The Wicked Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs did not accept it when her stepdaughter began to outshine her in beauty. Rather than be less than “the fairest of them all,” as her magic mirror had always told her, she decided to murder her young competitor.

Humanity’s challenge is to adapt, from the beginning to the end of life. That said, the youthful can’t comprehend how much they will be changed by the hand of time. The future alterations of their qualities and the people they care about must be lived through to be understood.

Too often, appreciation of health and good fortune comes late.

A few are wise about this, however.

Sandy Koufax, the legendary Los Angeles Dodger pitcher, retired at age 30 due to chronic elbow pain, not wishing to cause permanent damage to his arm. The lefthander did not look back with regret, having achieved the top of his profession.

I’ve got a lot of years to live after baseball and I would like to live them with the complete use of my body. I don’t regret one minute of the last twelve years, but I think I would regret one year that was too many.[

As a consequence, Koufax, now 89, is remembered for his glorious final seasons, escaping the decline many performers experience in their last days on the field.

From the outside, the audience has an easier time adjusting to such things.

I attended numerous recitals by the pianist Rudolf Serkin. When age caught up to him, I decided not to attend any more of his performances. I wished to remember him as he was at the peak of his artistic technique and imagination, not as a man who should have left earlier.

Mother Nature has her way, with some surgical exceptions. Cosmetic surgery is a prime example of the value placed on appearance.

Losses also confer unexpected benefits. Research reveals that men and women tend to be happier in old age than in youth and midlife.

Loren Olsen notes in Psychology Today that improvements in perspective and attitude can be associated with aging, despite the unwanted physical and mental changes that aging entails. His list includes:

  • Acceptance of self and others
  • The desire for a deeper connection
  • Wisdom and empathy
  • Capacity for forgiveness
  • Gratitude
  • Resilience
  • Less emotional volatility and impulsivity

Urgency due to the shortness of time ahead need not cause anxiety and terror. Many make the most of their remaining time instead of wasting it. The value of time increases when Mother Nature does not compromise the body and brain excessively.

I don’t imagine you want to become old, but you might be surprised at how much pleasure you take when you are.

As WFMT radio’s Studs Terkel used to say, “Take it easy, but take it.”

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The list quoted from Loren Olsen was obtained from the online version of Psychology Today, July 21, 2023: To Be Happier, Start Thinking Like an Old Person: The Paradoxes of Aging, Mental Health, and Positivity.

The photos, in order, are of Mickey Mantle in 1956, Mantle hitting a home run in the 1952 World Series on YouTube, Sandy Koufax in 1964, Arturo Toscanini, and Rudolf Serkin.