Atlanta, GA

February 23, 2026

For the second consecutive night, I can’t sleep.

For decades I’ve railed against military misadventures and “intelligence” operations that’ve cost trillions and killed millions. Never mind those who were maimed, orphaned, mentally damaged, or forced from ancestral homes by American bombs.

Were US citizens made safer by any of t…

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Atlanta, GA

February 18, 2026

Atlanta is carved from a forest. Trees are thick throughout the city and on its outskirts. That’s where we are, on the rolling slopes of the Appalachian Piedmont.

Around us, deer roam, foxes frolic, and soaring hawks eye unsuspecting prey. A fence confines our property, to keep critters out and our dog in.

It doesn’t always wor…

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Atlanta, GA

February 12, 2026

Years ago when you were a child, you wrote me a note. In it you described your hero, and explained why he was me.

That letter hangs in a frame by my desk. I see it often, but don’t notice it enough. This morning, I re-read it. It elicited a tear, and this response.

From the day you were born you’ve made me proud. You were an ad…

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Athens, GA

February 2, 2026

Last week, one of our son’s friends had an auto accident. He suffered severe injuries, including clots and swelling around the brain.

His condition was critical. For two days, his loving family, devoted friends, and an expanding circle of unacquainted well-wishers prayed for a miracle.

It didn’t arrive.

George Whittenburg died Friday. Today we’re here to honor his life.

Upon hearing the awful news their child was hurt, his parents rushed to Athens from their home in Austin. They wanted to help George fight for survival, yet must be consoled that they were able to say goodbye to their son.

No parent can imagine having to do so, or to maintain dignity while others share in their grief. That’s why we’re here, to help support those who loved George… especially his family, and particularly our son.

We never knew George Whittenburg. But David did. They were classmates and fraternity brothers at the University of Georgia.

Like anyone who knew George (and many who didn’t), our son has been anguished since the accident occurred, praying that God would preserve his friend’s life.

We don’t know why relief didn’t come. But everyone here was grateful for the blessings George brought. Even those of us he’d never met.

Solemn and Dignified

The air was crisp and cool, with patches of snow covering parcels of ground the winter sun missed. Attesting the affection this young man evoked, cars covered lots around the church. Mourners came early and filled every pew.

The balcony was packed, and the narthex accommodated anyone willing to stand. George’s pledge class (which includes our son) and their sister sorority occupied half the main sanctuary. Other classmates spread across the aisle, joining scores of loved ones, alums, well-wishers, and the university president and his team to say goodbye.

George’s mother, father, and sisters took the first pew, the one parents hope they never occupy. Occasionally, familiar faces would greet them with sincere sympathy, say a few heartfelt words, and offer hugs before finding their seat.

This was a service no family wants to see. That of the deceased sat under the pulpit, solemn and dignified in their unimaginable grief. The parents comforted each other and George’s sisters, while all of them clung to whatever composure they could.

Reflections

Mixing humor with grief, classmates offered poignant reflections of their beloved friend. The pastor reinforced the power of God and the lure of Christ. Each emphasized George’s abiding faith, and love of the Lord.

He was an active member of Cru, the interdenominational campus ministry at the University of Georgia. The underlying (or, rather, the overt) theme of each speaker’s eulogy was how seriously George took his faith. That’s how he would’ve wanted it.

He didn’t merely announce his faith, and never flaunted it. He lived it. That meant wrestling and questioning it till it couldn’t be doubted… by him or anyone else.

George was open, honest, reliable, and vulnerable. And he wasn’t ashamed of any of these qualities, which meant he also was genuine.

His burning desire was to spread belief to as many people as possible. His struggle seemed to be how to do that, and to wonder whether he could.

This afternoon in that church, it was obvious he did. As often happens with God’s will, it wasn’t revealed the way George expected… or how anyone in the room wanted.

“Whatever the Cost”

The final speaker was the Director of the Cru Ministry at UGA. His memorial was emotional, candid, and eloquent, with affection flooding thru choked-back tears.

As he finished, he revealed a confession: the last one George ever gave. As the speaker put it, “George was known for his honesty. He’d hate it if I didn’t do this.”

It occurred during a conversation the day of the accident, very shortly before it happened. That morning, George had apparently been struggling, wondering how he’d fulfill the role he knew God gave him.

After praying, George confessed to his friend that God appeared to him, and promised “the Lord would use him whatever the cost… so other people could know God.”

During the next two days, as George’s condition became more dire, a prayer vigil formed. Attendees who’d never prayed turned to God.

In front of hundreds of people, they trusted Him, “with their confusion, their questions and their ache.” The eulogist relayed how during the vigil he “listened for hours to people who for the first time felt God touch them, heard God’s voice, and had a vision or an image of God. Just like George. His prayer was answered.”

Center and Circumference

It’s said that God is a circle whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere. We can’t comprehend his ways or know his plan.

God strikes the match of life, and decides when to extinguish its earthly flame. But sometimes, when He does, as the wisps rise to their final release, a radiant light remains with us.

That ray was in the church, illuminating the faces of everyone listening. We never had the pleasure of knowing the young man we came to mourn, but after this service we felt like we did, and wish we had.

It was obvious that everyone, even those of us he’d never met, was a better person because he’d lived. Even in death, George Whittenburg helped others improve.

It’s easy to take for granted the blessings we’re bestowed. But when they’re gone, and especially if they disappear suddenly, we wish we’d taken better advantage of the gifts we were given.

As the service ended and the crowd dispersed, we waited for our son. After he and his friends commiserated, David made his way to us.

When he did, I extended my arms, and told him I loved him. His mother did too. Then she embraced him, and gave him the tightest hug he’d ever received.

And the longest.

JD

Atlanta, GA

February 1, 2026

Certain scenes stay with you forever. And many of those last only a few seconds. Tonight sent us several.

We joined an “organ walk” for an eighteen year-old girl who’d died earlier in the day. I didn’t know what to expect.

Also known as an “Honor Walk”, these processions of gratitude have increased in frequency, and are held by hospitals when requested or approved by an organ donor’s family.

Available staff join friends and relatives to honor the benefactor as she’s wheeled from her room, down the corridor, onto an elevator, and out of the hospital.

The parents of the deceased invited us a few hours before the proceedings began, and just after they’d relayed their horrible news.

Lengthening Line

We picked up a friend and drove to the hospital. I dropped the ladies at the front entrance, and found a place to park. Then I wound my way toward the ward. It took a while.

As with most large medical facilities, this one was a labyrinth of halls, passageways, aisles, and cloisters that always return you to the place you started.

As I tried to find where I needed to be, I passed a queue of about twenty people approaching a small desk. A few minutes later, I wound up at the same spot. But now the line was twice as long.

Many in it were high school or college age girls. Remembering who we were honoring, I realized this was probably the line I needed to join.

By the time I reached the front, I realized I was right. When I looked back, the line had tripled in length, extending around a bend a hundred yards back.

But I still hadn’t found my wife. After I checked in, she texted for me to come to the sixth floor.

After another ten minute hike, I found the elevator. I emerged to hundreds of people lining either side of a winding hall that had no end. Fortunately, I found my wife not far from the doors.

Somber, Reflective, and Heartbroken

As the crowd thickened, nurses suggested some of us go downstairs. Dozens of us piled onto employee lifts, and rode down one level. Down another corridor we went, thru throngs of bereaved on either side.

It was astonishing. At least 400 people were crowded into long hallways on those two floors. I felt like we were seeking spots in a parade. If only we were.

This audience was somber, reflective, and heartbroken. Which makes sense. A wonderful family had lost a darling daughter. Her parents are among the finest people anyone could meet, which is why fire codes were tested by the number of mourners who’d gathered to console them.

As throngs started to stand two-deep along constricted corridors, more of us would need to be moved. Nurses guided us to the Main Level, where we again took our place along the wall.

With those around us we shook hands and shared hugs. In whispered tones, we made small talk while we waited. Most was of the usual variety. We asked about kids, talked about the weather, and lamented the dreadful reason we were all here.

And we marveled at the crowd, and what its size said about the family who’d suffered this unspeakable loss.

Sense of Awe

Suddenly, the elevator bell was our signal to be silent. When the doors opened, a gurney came out. On it was an angel who’d gone to God.

Escorting her was her adoring family. They kept moving, but with poise, purpose, and heads held high.

Thru intermittent sobbing several hours after their daughter’s death, the parents thanked us for being there as they pushed their child down the hall. A sister and two brothers distinguished themselves by their poignant dignity.

Within minutes, the gurney reached exterior doors that slid open… and allowed the bereaved to leave. In their wake, tissues came out, and none of the multitude said a word.

Among attendees, eyes swelled, tears flowed, and embraces were exchanged. Sniffles and sobs were the only sound. Groups of teenage girls huddled together to weep in sympathy as they sought to make sense of what they’d seen.

But over the hall hung a sense of awe.

How special must a family be to attract such sympathy? What elicited this solace was obviously awful. Yet hundreds of people don’t descend on a hospital with several hours notice if the people they’re consoling haven’t made significant impact on a large number of lives.

Most would simply send a card. But this group wanted to be here. And if you knew the afflicted, you’d know why.

As the crowd dispersed, it witnessed another reason they came. The departed angel’s father returned to the hospital, and hugged everyone he could.

With unfathomable grief came incomprehensible gratitude. Through this girl God acted, and gave her father the strength to be an inspiration.

JD

Atlanta, GA

January 29, 2026

I’m not above sulking, whining, or feeling sorry for myself. Few of us are. If the power goes out, a flight is delayed, or the wi-fi doesn’t work, it’s like marauders invaded our village and burned our crops.

But we’re occasionally reminded how blessed we are…. and how quickly that can change. Our younger son sent a reminder last night, when he told us one of his classmates was in a horrible car accident.

He sustained a couple skull fractures, severed an ear, and lost a few teeth. As would be expected, much of his body is in rough shape.

Most ominously, he has a clot in the veins that drain fluid from his brain. This causes dangerous swelling that must be relieved. The pressure has put him in critical condition.

As my son put it, “he needs a miracle.”

This afternoon I went to church to pray for one. I was there almost an hour. The sanctuary was silent, filled with the consoling peace only quiet can provide. I said the rosary, and asked for the obvious.

When I rose to leave, I noticed Adoration underway in an adjacent chapel. Three others were in the room. I knelt as close as I could to the consecrated Host, and implored Christ.

We don’t know God’s will. Even if we did we probably wouldn’t understand. We usually don’t, especially if we don’t like whatever we think it is.

We ask for His help, and hope He gives us what we want. He doesn’t always do so. But I’ve always suspected He supplies what we need.

Often His response is tough for us to hear. Yet in our ignorance, we try to accept the answer with the serenity and humility only faith can provide.

That sounds good. And it’s easy for someone like me to say. I’ve not had to watch my son clinging to life. In the pew I thanked God we’ve not been in that position.

I then petitioned the miracle that would relieve a family of the pain they’re enduring. I don’t know if it’ll arrive.

God answers every prayer. But sometimes the answer is “no”. When it is, we don’t like it. That’s understandable.

But God’s calendar doesn’t always conform to ours. Sometimes we must change our plans to attend His schedule. As we were reminded last night, the invitation to meet Him could arrive at any moment.

As I prayed today and plead now, for my son’s friend and his agonized family, I hope that moment is decades away.

May God bless this young man as he fights for his life, and support his loved ones as they endure this trauma.

All other prayers are appreciated.

JD

Juneau, Alaska

June 8, 2016

Thirty years ago I walked into the Red Dog Saloon. I’d never been to Juneau.

We walked thru a couple swinging doors and into a place with sawdust floors, a live band, and a bartender at the ready.

My stepfather ordered drinks, turned to a patron standing beside him. He greeted him by name as if he’d seen him last week. The salutation was returned with equal equanimity.

“Oh hi, Jerry! How are you?”

I was astounded. We were at an Alaskan bar, and my stepfather bumped into someone he hadn’t seen in years. Yet he shook hands like they’d had dinner last night.

I’ve never forgotten that moment. It cemented who Jerry was. He made indelible impressions, and transmitted them to others.

As Jerry reacquainted with his friend, the band performed. They played “Ghost Riders”, which I’d heard before but never appreciated. This rendition was fantastic, perhaps enhanced by the scene I’d just seen.

I was reminded of it yesterday. With my wife and son, I’d returned to Juneau. Our first stop was the Red Dog Saloon.

We stopped again as we approached the entry. This time the swinging doors were blocked. IDs were needed for our boys to enter.

They’re only fifteen and twelve, so that wasn’t possible. But my wife and sons let me go in. For a few minutes I surveyed the scene.

There was sawdust, a live band, and a bar. But it wasn’t the same. The place was thick with tourists. The bar was packed; yet no one familiar filled the seats. The band was fine, but not what I remembered.

Jerry wasn’t there. And all the ghosts had gone away.

JD

If interested in impressions of the history, culture, and people of other places, consider my new compilation that captures observations and insights from far afield and near abroad. Click here for a ticket to Gateways and Retreats.

Atlanta, GA

December 21, 2025

Years ago, we lost the habit of sending Christmas cards. But as season’s greetings grace our mail and remind us of family and friends we seldom see, we’ve decided it’s time to re-embrace the custom.

It ostensibly started in Victorian England, when Sir Henry Cole commissioned cards designed with Christmas scenes that could be duplicated and sent to all his friends.

Since we frequently lament lost traditions, sustaining the easy ones is the least we can do. And never let it be said we don’t do the least we can do!

But what we’re reviving is less the tradition of Christmas cards than of what preceded them. Before the 1840s, Brits would write lengthy letters to each other and deliver them every December.

Sir Cole was seeking a way to speed things up. In recent years, that was our goal too. We achieved it by doing nothing at all.

Yet scattered friends, lost loved ones, and an empty nest remind us to not take relationships for granted. At some point our mailbox could be empty, and there may be no one who’ll care to receive our card.

We should appreciate and reciprocate the good wishes people send. This note is my attempt to do so.

Different Directions

On Christmas we’ll be with my mother, brother and his family. Most years we are, but last year we weren’t.

Our son, Alexander, was stationed in Arizona, and unable to travel outside the state. Rather than leave him alone, we spent Christmas in Sedona.

From the desert we returned to Atlanta to start the new year. Our sons went different directions: one southwest to Auburn; the other northeast to Athens.

Alexander graduated from Auburn with a degree in Biomedical Sciences. But he’s always wanted to be an airline pilot.

Upon graduation, he joined the Alabama Air National Guard, where he works on F-35s while preparing to be in the cockpit. Based in Montgomery, Alexander lives in Auburn… understandably loath to leave the “Loveliest Village”.

David is a junior at the University of Georgia, where he was selected for the Institute for Leadership Advancement, is active in a wonderful fraternity, and is studying Finance, Information Systems, and Sport Management.

He plans to work in sports and is off to a good start. He worked for the Atlanta Braves in July.

The previous month he helped the Georgia Bulldogs assess potential high school football recruits. For the Fall, the team offered him a job assisting prominent alums and other VIPs at home games, when he’s with the team on the field.

For his sake we hope Georgia wins a ring. If they do, David gets one too (or several, depending on how many bowls they win).

As Georgia Tech graduates, we’ve never rooted for our rivals in Athens. But during these playoffs we’ll make an exception. We love our son more than we dislike the Dawgs.

Aside from this indiscreet confession, we’ll conceal our treason to Tech. Especially since Rita is currently Chair of the Georgia Tech Alumni Board of Trustees.

She assumed that role in July, and it’s been her honor to serve. Among the perks was being a featured speaker at this month’s graduation ceremonies, and riding the Ramblin’ Wreck in the Homecoming Parade.

Active Year

This has been an active year that was often hectic, though less chaotic than recent ones. Each of us kept busy, but in similar roles we’d already been playing.

Rita is Executive Director of Corporate Responsibility at Georgia Power, and remains active throughout the Atlanta community. Alexander enjoys living in Auburn, being part of the Guard, and working with planes while becoming a pilot. And David is thriving thru the back half of college.

Several years ago I left corporate life. Tapping my background in engineering, finance, analytics, and economics, I invest and write while cultivating skills I’d let languish.

Among those are speaking Spanish and French, picking up piano, and being able to build. I spent two weeks in November at the Shelter Institute in Maine, where I completed an extensive course designing and constructing a house.

The Best Part

But a family reunion punctuated our year. With my mother, brother, sister-in-law and nieces, we spent two weeks in east Africa.

The four of us started with a weekend in Paris. It’s a city we love and where I once worked, but that neither of our sons had ever seen. After our brief sojourn, we flew to Tanzania and met the rest of our family.

From Arusha, we ventured into Ngorongoro and across the Serengeti before entering Kenya under the eye of Kilimanjaro.

Amid elephants at Amboseli we visited a Masai village. We watched David hit a hole-in-one (his second) while golfing beneath Mt Kenya, spent a morning at a school in the Masai Mara, and surveyed the scene from a balloon in the sky.

But the best part was being together. Our family sees each other far too infrequently. To do so in an exotic place, with no distractions, and little cell service was a rare privilege at a time when electronics push people apart despite keeping them “connected”.

As Christmas approaches, we look forward to reconvening, and to letting time slow. While it lingers we’ll appreciate what matters, and remember why it does.

Whatever prompts the recollection… be it shepherds in a field, a star in the sky, a Heavenly angel, or a passing stranger who offers a smile… I hope you receive it.

I guess that’s all this card was really meant to say.

Merry Christmas.

JD, Rita, Alexander, and David

Bowdon, GA

December 17, 2025

And of his fulness we all have received: and grace for grace.

- John 1:16

The town of Bowdon is in west Georgia, just east of the Alabama line. After a ninety-minute drive, we arrived this afternoon, to honor and mourn a good man.

We weren’t the only ones. Dillard Wood died only two days earlier, yet sympathizers swarmed like bees to a melon.

When a resident of a small town dies, everyone knows it. Because everyone knew him. They saw him in the corner cafe, at church on Sunday, or the local drug store where he served as pharmacist.

In high school, he was a good athlete in every sport - an idol of men and a lure for the ladies, many of whom still admired his handsome photo as they paid respects.

He married the best one. His wife of almost six decades greeted well-wishers as she stood beside her husband’s casket.

Graceful and dignified, Joan thanked each of them, and engaged everyone in affectionate conversation. Had the receiving line been shorter, she’d probably have offered us tea as she accepted our sympathy.

We recently lamented Lou Gehrig’s illness. At his funeral, the eulogist looked over the assembled throng. No flowery words were necessary, he said. We all knew the man. And that knowledge speaks for itself.

That’s how this gathering felt. Not only the number of attendees, but the accumulated years they’d adored the departed. As often happens in small towns and close communities, relationships were deep, and spanned decades.

The service was heartfelt and sincere, laced with insight, lightened with humor, and laden with grace. It was officiated by a pastor who’d known Dillard since high school and admired him all his life.

Relaying fond memories thru choked emotion, he delivered a poignant eulogy. With moving metaphors and tender wit, he portrayed how his friend made him a better man.

Different Versions

I’d only met the deceased a couple times, long ago. But his daughter has always been special in our lives, and a testament to his.

It’s often said that life sneaks up on you. But if we aren’t careful, it walks right by. Mine almost did when I was in college.

My wife and I attended Georgia Tech at the same time, yet didn’t meet while we were there. Fortunately, both of us were friends with Shelly Wood.

I’ve told the story of the day Shelly introduced us, so needn’t repeat it now. Suffice to say, my wife and I have different versions. As Proust put it, “remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”

But we both agree - and are grateful - we each knew Shelly. She’s remained a close friend since, and our lives have followed similar paths.

Shelly married the year after Rita and I wed. Like us, she and her husband have two children… a daughter born six months after our elder son, and a boy born twelve days before our younger one.

Our first children are both out of college, and our second ones are in their third year at the University of Georgia. It’s hard to fathom how quickly it happened.

As Woody Allen said, time flies; but it flies coach. The trip isn’t always easy. Yet our parents are there to smooth the turbulence.

Until they aren’t.

Several years ago we observed how infrequently most adults (including me) see their parents. By the time the average American graduates high school, 90% of the time he’ll spend in their presence has already passed.

Shelly made sure that with her parents that wouldn’t be the case. Living 75 miles away, she’s made a point to see them often.

During her dad’s final days, she was with them constantly. Her mother confided to me at a reception after the service that “without Shelly, I wouldn’t have made it.”

I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Sense of Serenity

Eleanor Powell observed that “God’s gift to us is who we are. Our gift to him is who we become.”

Who Dillard Wood became filled the sanctuary. After his nephews carried the casket away, mourners filed from the packed room.

Bereavement lingers when we lose a loved one. That’s natural, and healthy. Grief is an affliction only time can trim (though sympathy and shoulders are handy chisels). But behind today’s tears sat a sense of serenity, which helps sustain the afflicted as sorrow recedes.

Many attendees returned to their homes near this tiny town. A couple dozen collected for dinner at Joan’s home. This was the house where her husband was raised seven decades ago, and where he and his wife lived the last eighteen years.

She thanked us for coming as we prepared to leave. We offered to help however we could. She appreciated the gesture but assured us she’d be fine.

With a comforting smile, she said that was among the last things she’d told her husband. “I think he needed to hear that”, she said.

“The kids had to tell him too. After we did, he seemed at peace. He just had to know we’d all be OK. It’s hard. But thanks to him, we will be.”

The next morning, Dillard Wood passed away. He’d done his job, and he was ready to rest.

JD

December 10, 1968

“Oh no!”, exclaimed a disheartened female voice. “You don’t like him either!”

Over my instinctive screams, I could barely hear the words. Thru the haze, I couldn’t exactly make out who said them, to whom they were spoken, or who they were about.

Then…as I paused for breath while someone wiped fluid from my eyes and snot from my nose…I could barely make out the pretty young woman lying debilitated on the bed. She looked exhausted.

Approaching her was a handsome young man…tall, dark hair, five o’clock shadow, and blue eyes that warily met mine. About that moment, a frightened, somewhat horrified look filled his face.

He had just been called into the room, bringing with him the smell of a half-smoked cigarette. He looked at me like I was the one who forced him to put it out. In a way, I guess I was.

It also hit me that he and this woman were here together, that he was the person to whom she made her discomfiting exclamation…

…and that she had been talking about me!

But how could that be? I don’t even know these people. What could they possibly have against me? I feel like I just got here, yet have no idea where I am, how I arrived, or where I came from. All I know is this place is loud, bright, and hectic…yet sterile, dull, and drab.

A kaleidoscope of busybodies keeps poking at me, probing multiple orifices with the proficiency of prairie dogs burrowing into South Dakota plains. And they refuse to let me rest.

Well, two can play that game!

Truck Driver

I bet these people value sleep as much as I do, and I’m discovering I can expel things from my newfound openings more easily than they can insert them. I’ll bide my time. Over the next several months, I’ll exact my revenge.

I never heard the mortified man answer the weary woman’s assertion. But I soon understood why she made it. As I was tossed clumsily around the room, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a passing steel trey. I was battered, bruised, and disfigured. Is that me? What happened?

Plus, I’m enormous! I look like a truck driver…and the poor bed-ridden girl looks like I ran her over. She can’t weigh much more than I do. I almost feel like I could lift her. How did she get stuck trying to manage this strange situation, to deal with this large unwieldy being?

As I contemplated the scene, someone in a white coat suddenly hoisted me up, flipped me over…and smacked my ass!

“Whoa there!”, I yelled. “Where do you come off? Can I speak to a manager? Who’s in charge here?!”

I know everyone heard me, but I don’t think anyone understood me. That’s fine. Maybe they’ll understand my attorney.

Regardless, what kind of dysfunctional place is this that permits…apparently encourages…unsolicited assault on perfect strangers? The poor girl lying down looks like she made several trips thru multiple wringers. I can’t fathom what these lunatics must’ve done to her. I tried to avenge our honor by vomiting on my attacker, but instead emitted only another, louder scream.

Rather than make my point, the hostile ventilation appeared to provoke some sort of sordid satisfaction from the sadistic assailant. He actually seemed happy about what he’d done, and how I reacted. He smiled, praised his victim, and handed him to the nice, terrified young woman on the bed, who held me a while longer.

Begging to Stay in Prison

People in white coats…wielding assorted instruments, bottles, and cloths…hovered over and around us. They asked a slew of questions I couldn’t understand, and answered the steady stream that the worn-out woman reciprocated. Several of these clinicians smiled at me, made patronizing noises, and disoriented me by waving things in my face.

I’m not sure why everyone is carrying on about me. This poor woman seems to need more help than I do. Whenever I cry, squirm, or fidget, she is there for me. But who is there for her? She looks like she’s about to pass out from fear and fatigue.

Sure, these cloaked strangers are comforting and consoling her now. They say that if this scared girl needs anything, she should just ask. But then I thought I heard someone say she’d soon leave this place, be cast out, and left to her own devices. And that she would have to take me with her!

Uh oh. Then what?

Maybe…despite their tools, credentials, and clipboards…these people aren’t as smart as they try to look. Are they really planning to send this unfortunate young person out on her own, to care for a helpless human being? If anything, that’s exactly what she appears to be!

The prospect elicits looks of astonishment and despair from the overwhelmed woman, as if these people are consigning her (and me!) to certain perdition. Her expression is that of a parolee begging to stay in prison, certain she’ll be unable to make it on the outside.

A Moment of Thanks

This poor girl is clearly frightened. I guess I probably should be too. But for some reason, when I look at her, I feel safe. The more she looks at me, the more she seems to like me. I can’t help but like her, notwithstanding the grotesque looks, sounds, and smells to which I keep subjecting her.

I don’t know how she’s going to pull this off. Yet, somehow, I’m sure she will. She looks like the type who does what needs to be done, asks the right questions, finds good answers, and figures things out.

After she inevitably does, I’ll make sure I take a moment to thank her for giving me this weird day. And for instilling in me the ability to make my way thru however many more I’ll be blessed to receive.

JD

Atlanta, GA

December 5, 2025

The couple emigrated to the United States eleven years apart. They each originated in Germany, met in New York, and married at the start of the 20th century.

Three years later, their third child arrived. Of the four born to Heinrich and Christina, he was the only one to survive infancy.

His father was an epileptic alcoholic who was often unemployed. His mother was a maid, who wanted her son to become an engineer.

To honor her wish, he went to college. Since high school, his athletic prowess attracted attention. A football scholarship carried him to Columbia. But his baseball ability got him noticed, and the New York Yankees offered a contract.

During his sophomore year, his father’s illness strained the family finances. Against his mother’s wishes, Lou Gehrig left Columbia.

Financially, his family was set. But for most of the next two years, Gehrig sat. He was back-up first baseman to Wally Pipp, one of the dominant players of the era.

A couple years later, Pipp’s performance mirrored his age. Complaining of a headache, he made the mistake of giving his understudy an opening.

On June 2, 1925, Lou Gehrig left the dugout to play first base. He’d do so every day for fourteen years, setting a record for reliability that lasted almost six decades.

No one mediocre could accomplish such a feat. In an era before batting helmets, Gehrig was occasionally knocked unconscious by pitches. Later X-rays revealed several fractures that had been undisclosed. Through it all, Gehrig kept playing, and never missed a game.

Talent is needed too. Regardless how dedicated, average players are routinely replaced. But even the best team in baseball needed Lou Gehrig.

He was among the greatest hitters the game’s ever seen. But he was also widely respected for who he was, and the character he exuded.

Dedicated, considerate, and caring, Lou Gehrig was admired by everyone in baseball. Into the late 1930s, he continued to produce. But in the summer of 1938, he suddenly slipped.

Gehrig reported declining strength and persistent fatigue. By the following spring, it was obvious something was off.

Gehrig’s power was gone, his speed had vanished. Some days he could barely walk, and once collapsed during a spring training game.

A month into the next season, as physical deterioration left him unable to perform, Gehrig benched himself “for the good of the team”. He never played another game.

The diagnosis came eight weeks later, on June 19, 1939. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) has few treatments and no cure. The condition was identified in 1869 by French neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot, who named it five years later.

It’s a neurodegenerative disorder of two variants. One withers nerves and muscles from the outside in, the other from the inside out. Each entails deterioration of motion, cognition, speech, and breathing.

On July 4, 1939, in a short address during a ceremony in his honor, Gehrig acknowledged his “bad break” while appreciating his “luck”. That afternoon at Yankee Stadium, he became the first Major Leaguer to have his number retired.

He died two years later, 16 years to the day after he replaced Wally Pipp.

Close to Home

Like many people, I became aware of Gehrig because of his eponymous disease. But for most of my life ALS was dreadful yet distant, known mostly for the great player it took too soon.

What happened to Lou Gehrig was clearly sad, and obviously a shame. But I had no reason to dwell on his illness. Unless his name came up, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. If I did, it was as a horrible ailment that afflicted a wonderful person.

In recent years, I’ve said that far too often, but not as an abstract afterthought. On too many occasions, ALS has hit close to home.

Three years ago, a fellow Georgia Tech alum succumbed. About that time, a dear cousin was diagnosed. And this Spring, one of our closest friends affirmed her lingering fear.

But my initial reminder came more than a decade ago, when a family friend died of the disease.

Most Poignant Piece

Dudley Clendinen was an accomplished reporter and writer. He married one of my mother’s closest friends, and lived in Atlanta when I attended Georgia Tech.

At the time, Dudley was senior editor for the Atlanta Constitution, after having previously written for the New York Times (where he’d later return). Dudley was also a talented author who wrote a couple books that were widely acclaimed.

But he penned his most poignant piece less than a year before he died. When his ALS was confirmed, Dudley (like most who receive such news) was given less than three years to live.

He confessed to being unsure he wanted to stick around. According to Baltimore radio host Tom Hall, who’d worked closely with Dudley on a series discussing his preparation for death, the disease made the decision for him.

Dudley brought ALS to wider attention, including mine. But for the next decade, it again receded to my mental recesses. That’s natural. Horrible as it is, why dwell on what I’d thought was a rare disease that took one person I’ve known?

Several years ago, it resurfaced… and seems reluctant to go away.

Major Leaguer

Like Lou Gehrig, Jim Poole was a Major Leaguer who studied engineering. Unlike Gehrig, Jim earned his degree. He did so at Georgia Tech, where he was friends with the woman who’d become my wife.

After being drafted by the Dodgers, Jim deferred being an electrical engineer to pursue his dreams on the diamond. Like me, Jim’s wife (who also attended Tech) was a civil engineer, which is how she supported his rise thru the Minor Leagues.

After years in small towns, dingy buses and poor hotels, Jim got the call. In 1990, he made the Majors. In his first game, on June 15, he struck out Tony Gwynn.

He was a good pitcher who played eleven years for eight teams, including three stints with the Cleveland Indians. While there, he became best known in Atlanta for yielding the home run that won the Braves a World Series.

Jim was a great man who’s unfairly remembered for one misplaced pitch. He once joked that he wished the Braves would win a second series, to make people forget the rôle he played when they won their first.

In 2021, the Braves finally granted his wish. Unfortunately, by the time they did, a deadly disease ensured Jim Poole would also be known for something else.

Jim was diagnosed on the thirty-first anniversary of his Major League debut, and eighty-two years to the week after Lou Gehrig received his news.

The optimistic, outgoing man who made good money throwing a ball was unable to pick one up. He couldn’t wield a pen either. But his wonderful wife wrote for him…with grace, dignity, and love.

Drawing on a deep reservoir of noble strength, she updated us on Jim’s decline, and left us wishing we could somehow reverse his dreadful disease. Unfortunately, no one could. Jim died a couple years after his diagnosis.

Intelligence, Charm, and Wit

A few months later, I learned the same scourge afflicted my cousin. Moira is a beautiful woman of intelligence, charm, and wit… traits she inherited from her parents and bequeathed to her kids.

Moira may be resigned to her situation, but she isn’t reconciled to it. A professional architect, she developed a blueprint to fight this foe. Fortunately, she has help.

With assistance from a remarkable family (including a loving husband, marvelous kids, and devoted sister) she’s persevered with grit and grace.

Why wouldn’t she? That’s how she does everything, with poise and character no ailment can abate.

Spray of Foam

This Spring one of our closest friends, who’d married a woman my wife befriended in college, received this dread diagnosis. He’d suffered strange symptoms for more than a year.

As his condition worsened, his wife suspected something serious. She’s a wonderful wife and a marvelous mother. To protect her kids, she kept her worst fear to herself.

But ominous signs mounted, including her husband’s mental lapses, muscle weakness, and inability to walk without a cane, walker, or wheels.

They suspected what was ailing him. But as Dudley Clendinen put it after his own diagnosis, “suspicion and certainty are two different things.” Having previously assumed what we’ve affirmed doesn’t always cushion the blow or alleviate the shock.

When it hits, it’s easy to second guess the ways of God. That’s normal, albeit pointless. As the Monsignor at our church once put it, “God wouldn’t be God if He were God the way we would be God if we were God.”

Like a spray of foam trying to assess the sea, we can’t know why God does what He does. All we can do trust His guidance and beseech His blessings.

It’s fashionable to belittle “thoughts and prayers.” But only among people who haven’t experienced their power.

Moira and I share a paternal grandmother who went to Mass religiously, usually every day. To her prayer was essential, not incidental; a steering wheel, not a spare tire.

Our grandmother didn’t pray only when needed. Prayer was always needed. And now her granddaughter needs it more than ever. So do friends who face a similar fate.

They have mine, and any other support I can possibly provide.

JD

Atlanta, GA

November 27, 2025

“I have endured many horrible things, some of which actually happened.” – Mark Twain

Logs on the fire, football on the TV, butt in the seat, turkey in the oven.

This week we’re home. No travels, limited work, few obligations.

But one we must fulfill is to reflect on our blessings, on people who enabled them, and on those to whom we hope they’re bequeathed. And, gazing into the mirror, we spare a thought for those who don’t always appreciate them.

Then again…it’s Thanksgiving. Everybody does that.

Litany of Loathing

Instead, as we approach the dining room and find our fork, let’s take the road less traveled by…and reflect on things that tick us off, drive us crazy, and get on our last nerve. When we say grace, let’s give ourselves plenty to pray for.

Let’s cross ourselves, clasp our hands, bow our heads… and lift to Heaven our litany of loathing:

“We detest nanny devices that try to save us from ourselves. We deplore motion-sensor faucets that have replaced manual valves, and that dispense water only after we’ve spent thirty seconds miming the mannerisms of an over-caffeinated butter churner. We abominate low-flush toilets and low-pressure shower-heads. We castigate cars that speak, brake on their own, or reduce radio volume when we shift to reverse.

“We heap opprobrium on the smartphone….mother of modern ‘efficiency’, mother-in-law of modern incivility. We bemoan merchants who deny us the preference and privacy of cash. We despise the foursome ahead of us who spends five minutes surveying each putt they’re about to miss. We rebuke using the phrase “beg the question” to mean “raise the question”.

“We disdain queuing up at a bar behind a parade ordering rounds of mixed drinks, when all we want is a single glass of wine. We condemn commercial breaks both before and after the kick-off. We denounce late night World Series games.

“We excoriate being ‘upgraded’ from a window seat on the Exit Row to a middle seat in Economy ‘Comfort’. We scorn those who place their purse or briefcase in the overhead bin, displacing larger luggage that won’t fit under the seat.”

We could continue with things we resent, deplore, or abhor. But we pause in our prayer…and remember that the lens we wear determines what we see.

Neglected Miracles

Since we brought up the travails of travel, we must step back, and reflect on the observations of Louis CK, who reminds us…as we gripe about limited leg room, poor in-flight movie options, spotty wi-fi, or limited beverage service…to consider one thing.

That as we bicker that our seat doesn’t recline enough, that the one in front reclines too much, that drink service ceased one row away, or that airborne video is intermittent, we bear in mind…

…that we are sitting in a chair…in the sky!!

How quickly, as he put it about other marvels we take for granted, does the world owe us something we didn’t know existed ten minutes ago! We are so spoiled that we no longer notice the miracles:

Pearls and Diamonds

Most things that bother us aren’t really worth caring about, and will be forgotten by tomorrow.

We complain of chores…of cleaning clothes, of washing dishes. But “cleaning” and “washing” means pushing buttons on a machine. Most of us need not draw water from a fickle well, carry it from a distant stream, or do without it during midnight strolls to a backyard outhouse. Almost all of our ancestors did, till their faculties failed before they were fifty.

Like those predecessors, we must feed our families. Which for us means going to a grocery store and filling a cart with food others have hunted, herded, killed, skinned, grown, picked, packed, and delivered.

And then hauling it home in our air conditioned automobile… to store it in an electric freezer… so we can eat it at our convenience.

Or we have the food delivered to our front door, or simply go to a restaurant. No need to rotate crops, herd buffalo over a cliff, or draw straws to determine who must sample strange berries. This is not the historical human condition.

We all have problems. But we forget they usually aren’t as bad, or as real, as we presume or pretend. So, lacking ubiquitous mortal perils, and with a dearth of real foes, we become our own worst enemy.

We conjure, worry, fret, and stress about things that don’t matter or that we can’t control. We forget that if there’s no solution, there’s no problem. Or that oftentimes, even if a problem seems imminently legitimate, it’s ultimately beneficial.

As St Teresa of Ávila put it, “there are more tears shed over answered prayers than over unanswered prayers.” Blessings, like pearls or diamonds, often come disguised.

Weeds and Roses

Our family was large and, till I was an adult, Thanksgiving was a large event. My parents would usually host, my grandparents would always join, and an assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends would complete the scene.

The set was frequently filled: the TV with football, the oven with turkey, the glasses with wine, the table with people, and the people with opinions.

But it wasn’t like what passes for “debate” today. Thoughts could be shared, as from one wick to another, without extinguishing light.

Regardless how heated, the earth wasn’t scorched, and bridges never burned. Relations were warm after any dispute.

Yet rancor was rare. And if ignited, it was quickly quenched with laughter, doused in drink, or smothered in song. Leftover dinner and dessert lasted the weekend. Bottles of wine seldom lasted the night.

Over the years, as the world has shrunk, the distance between us has grown, and we assemble less often. Many loved ones are no longer with us. I regret how infrequently we see those who remain, but am pleased how often they’re in our thoughts… as they are today.

Problems are easy to imagine and simple to see. Perspective tends to hide among the weeds. But every once in a while we inadvertently trip over it, falling face first into the roses we rarely stop to smell.

And when we do, we are reminded that we never had it so good.

Whether we like it or not.

JD

Atlanta, GA
October 17, 2025

Thirty-six years ago today I decided I’d move to San Francisco.

Like millions of Americans, I was watching the World Series. Moments before the third game, the earth shook…and the game was over.

I was a senior at Georgia Tech, finishing my degree in civil engineering. Before, after, and between classes, I worked at the local off…

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NB: As students return this week for Fall semester at Georgia Tech, I’m reminded of two great men linked (one intimately, one tenuously) to my Alma Mater. This essay originally appeared here.

Atlanta, GA

May 2, 2022

Life is a continuous series of forks in the road. Some are …

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Atlanta, GA

April 28, 2025

Like a siding salesman or an IRS audit, trouble often comes unannounced. It’s rarely a scheduled arrival on the 5:15 from Boston.

More often, it shows up as an unexpected light on the dash, spot on the ceiling, or twinge in the chest. Or when its recipient returns to find a wet dog in what he’d thought was a dry house.

Bensonhurst…

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Augusta, GA

April 17, 2025

“It seemed as if this land had been lying here for years, waiting for someone to lay a golf course upon it.”

- Bobby Jones

My grandparents grew up in Augusta. As a kid, my grandfather lived down the street from Ty Cobb and became childhood friends with Cobb’s daughter, Shirley.

My grandfather’s older brother was a local businessman who was friends with Cliff Roberts. When Roberts and Bobby Jones converted the grounds of a commercial nursery into a golf course, Jerome Franklin became one of the club’s initial members.

Jerome is still known as “Member Number Three” at Augusta National. He was the last surviving founder, and is buried in a cemetery not far from the course. Along the way he accrued prominent friends:

Last Saturday, for the second consecutive year, my wife had the privilege of attending The Masters. Almost forty years ago, my stepfather and uncle were honored to play the course. This week, I finally had a chance to follow their footsteps.

“We Need a Fourth”

The only major tournament I’ve not attended is the one held each year at the club my family helped found. I’ll need to wait at least another year to do so.

But this week, I received the consolation of playing the course. It’s said that success isn’t about what you know, but who you know.

That’s not true.

It’s about who knows you! This week, one of those acquaintances placed a call.

Not recognizing the number, I didn’t answer. Fortunately, he called back. I still didn’t pick up. Mercifully, he left a message.

“JD, I know this is short notice. But if you can get to Augusta tomorrow, we need a fourth. Let me know as soon as you can.”

I returned the call before I heard the last sentence. After The Masters, privileged members of the media can play the course. But one of them had a death in the family so couldn’t make it.

A few hours later, I was in Augusta. The next morning, I made my way to the club.

Eyesores Evaporate

Augusta is a beautiful town. But Washington Road isn’t indicative, and was a disconcerting contrast with what I was about to see.

This stretch emblemizes what’s wrong with urban “landscapes” in modern America. It’s littered with fast food, gas stations, strip malls, parking oases, unwalkable streets, and fluorescent signage that pollutes most cities in America.

But the eyesores evaporate on Magnolia Lane, a narrow passage back in time. As expected, security greeted me at the gate. I considered the “do you know who I am?” move, but decided against dropping my great-uncle’s name.

I instead gave mine, and was allowed entry after the guard confirmed my host had already arrived.

The drive to the clubhouse is beautiful. In its way, it evoked memories of Plan-Tanes colonnades in Aix en Provence, or Palm Drive on the entrance to Stanford.

Only better. Because anyone could drive on those roads. But at this moment, I was the only one on this one.

Under the shaded canopy that gave the lane its name, cheap, crass, commercialism yielded to Southern serenity, elegance, and grace. I was directed where to park, and was met there by the man who was kind enough to grant me this honor.

After welcoming me to Augusta, he apologized for the commotion of grand stands and television towers being removed after The Masters.

I rejected his apology, told him I refused to play, and that I’d report his club to the Better Business Bureau.

Just kidding.

Instead, I thanked him profusely, and went to the trunk to remove my bag before he changed his mind. There I met another man dressed in familiar all-white attire.

Players and Caddies

“Good morning, sir. I’m Tommy.”

My caddie shook my hand, grabbed my clubs, and showed me to the clubhouse. It is as elegant and understated as Bobby Jones.

As we entered, I glanced at pictures along the walls, seeking photos of my great-uncle. I’m sure I saw some without knowing it.

I wanted a tour, but when one wasn’t offered I didn’t press my luck. I gladly settled for a brief lunch before we played.

After washing down our pimento sandwiches with iced tea and water, we made our way to the Par-3 course for a warm-up round. This was a nice way to ease in and become acquainted with my caddie, who wasn’t who most people might expect.

As club chairman, Cliff Roberts essentially created The Masters. Even the name was his idea. Bobby Jones thought it too pretentious. But Roberts leaked it to the press so it couldn’t be rescinded.

Roberts was also the man who controlled how Augusta National was presented. He signed one-year deals to keep networks on a leash. If anyone uttered the wrong word, that announcer was out.

Roberts came up with the idea of calling customers “patrons” rather than “fans”. I suppose that explains why he banned CBS broadcaster Jack Whitacker for calling 18th fairway fans (patrons) a “mob”.

Roberts reputedly proclaimed that as long as he was alive, “all the golfers will be white, and all the caddies will be black.”

My caddie’s melanin deficiency reminded me that Cliff Roberts is no longer alive. Prior to 1982 (Roberts killed himself in 1977), even Masters participants were assigned one of the club’s caddies.

They’ve since been able to bring their own. Today, Augusta National contracts with an outside company to manage its 120 or so caddies, about two-thirds of whom are white.

Endless Horizon

I was shaking as I approached the first hole. Twice the ball fell from the tee as my hand trembled.

I hadn’t played much in recent years.

A couple weeks ago I joined my son for his fraternity’s father-son tournament. Six months earlier, I’d been part of a “college-Am” scramble at East Lake. I played a wonderful weekend with an uncle, cousin and friend in Wisconsin last August. Otherwise, it’d been at least a year since I’d swung a club.

Sometimes, that works out well, especially when rust restrains bad habits. That’s what happened on the first hole. My drive was exquisite… landing softly in the center of the fairway.

I glided toward it as if walking on air. The course was like undulating felt rolling under our feet. Thru the pines, it seemed to grasp for an endless horizon.

A good opening drive eased some of the anxiety the setting inspired. My stroll became a strut. Confidence rose as I approached my ball. Not only was I playing this course; I planned to humble it.

I was soon reminded that the hardest shot to recover from is a great drive. Tommy handed me a six-iron for my next swing.

Standing over the ball like I knew what I was doing, I eyed the green, envisioned a perfect approach within a few feet of the pin… and chunked the ball into the fairway trap.

I escaped to a spot just short of the green. To be safe, I decided to putt. It was like trying to maneuver a marble on the hood of a car. With four attempts, I got plenty of practice. I headed to the second tee at three over par.

I finished the first nine shooting forty-nine.

“That’s OK”, Tommy consoled. “The second nine is where champions are made.”

Nod to a Champion

He told me the tenth hole was originally the first, and is traditionally the most difficult. Off the tee, my drive bisected the fairway, leaving an ideal line to the green. But I chose a different target.

When my step-father played here, he holed out from the fairway bunker. As his caddie exclaimed at that birdie from the beach, “even da big boys don’t do that”! (Left unsaid was that “the big boys” are rarely in that trap.)

In Jerry’s honor, I wanted a shot from the same spot. Tommy was right that this is where champions were made. It was time to honor one of them. From my perfect perch on the right side of the fairway, I took aim at the bunker.

The ball nestled into the soft sand. From there I took aim at the flag. I rolled past it and missed the putt.

After I tapped the next one in, I tipped my cap to Jerry. On this green he never needed a putter.

I took my putter and bogey to the most famous enclave on this fabled course.

Amen Corner

As we started Amen Corner, my prayers were answered with a perfect drive on 11. At the crest of the ridge, I took a moment to soak in the scene.

Looking up at the trees and out toward the green, Tommy suggested a six-iron. I asked for a seven. Shaking his head as if he’d seen this before, my caddie decided to teach me a lesson.

He gave me what I wanted. And I got what I deserved.

Ben Hogan once said “if you ever see me on the 11th green in two, you’ll know I missed my second shot.” I didn’t think I did.

I hit the ball well… but it ended up left of Nancy Pelosi. Tommy suppressed a smile as it landed short, and rolled lazily into the lake.

“Well, guess you can keep that seven-iron”, he smirked. “It’ll be handy pitching from the drop zone”.

It was. I then three-putted before stepping toward the ominous twelfth.

This is the most famous par-3 in golf. Bouquets of azalea bushes back a tiny green tilting treacherously toward Rae’s Creek.

Wind is the wildcard. It seemed calm as we approached the tee. Tommy again looked up. Then at the green. The flag pointed toward the eleventh pin, which waved back a knowing salute.

The banners were drawn to each other like opposing poles, revealing winds blowing different directions. Tho’ we were closer than I’d been on the previous hole, Tommy again handed me a six-iron.

This time, I shut up and I took it. I assumed I’d have no problem clearing the creek. My fear was that I’d carry the green. Behind it were traps from which it’d be easy to chip back into the water.

My well-hit shot soared toward the target, then drifted left, and came to rest just short of the trap. I chipped to within a dozen feet. Three putts later, I said goodbye to “Golden Bell”, and sulked toward the next tee.

Tucked deep in the back pocket of Augusta National, the 13th is often called the greatest par-5 in golf. It’s certainly the most beautiful hole I’ve ever seen.

Like a protective father of a beautiful girl, a tributary to Rae’s Creek acts as a chaperone walking quietly to our left. It guides suitors toward the green it guards, daring them to see what happens if they try to get home in two.

The hole is called “Azalea” for good reason. Along the fairway and around tee and green is a resplendent array of 1,600 eponymous bushes. I had ample opportunity to enjoy each one.

My drive was fine, tho’ not great. I sauntered over the Nelson Bridge, found my ball, and decided to go for the green. Why not? What else would do? Give it a shot the next time I was here?

No. I had to go for it. Worst case, I’d find the creek, just like countless professionals have done before. I grabbed a three-wood, and swung as hard as I could in case I hit it.

I did. Barely. My dribbler bounced left toward the stream. Fortunately, it came up short. From “the second cut”, I could still reach the green in regulation.

I did. For a few seconds… till the ball retreated into the water.

Having seen so many players suffer this fate, I took solace being in good company. Unfortunately, my companions and I then parted ways.

From the creek, the pros usually take their bogey and move along. I opted for a second swim. After holding my third attempt on the surface, I comforted myself with my first one-putt of the day.

Having saved triple-bogey, I bid adieu to Azalea, and a fond farewell to Amen Corner.

Indians and Arrows

Stumbling toward the 14th tee like Napoleon’s Army on its way out of Russia, I ceased caring about my score. With five holes remaining, I decided to savor every step.

My contrived indifference revived my game. I managed to par the next two holes. On 15, a bad drive gave me a break, saving me from myself by keeping me from trying to reach the par-5 in two.

A few steps from the 15th green, I found myself on another hallowed plot. Were it not for the 12th hole at Augusta, the 16th might be the most recognizable par-3 on the planet.

It was on this green beside Ike’s Pond that Jack Nicklaus sank a putt that won the ‘75 Masters. Thirty years later, Tiger Woods did the same with what might (along with Gene Sarazen’s 1935 albatross on 15) be the most famous shot in the history of golf.

I just wanted to be on the green. Or, at the very least, not in the water. I asked Tommy what he thought. He handed me the six-iron.

“Really?”, I joked. “You sure it’s not a five?”

He handed me the club as if he didn’t get the jest.

The hole wasn’t in its traditional back left location. Thank goodness.

To honor the golden anniversary of the Golden Bear’s putt for birdie on this green, the prior Nicklaus hole location was replicated. It was more toward the center of the green, which is where I aimed. Miraculously, that’s where the ball went.

Part of me thought it was going in. It didn’t.

But it stopped near enough to be annoying, and far enough to apply pressure. From four feet, I sank the putt… which let me brag of a birdie at Augusta National.

“See, told you that was the right club”, Tommy told me as we left the green.

“It’s not the arrow”, I clichéd. “It’s the Indian”.

Tommy’s eyes rolled us up to the 17th tee. Karma demanded I double-bogey that hole. After I did, we reluctantly arrived at the last link on this iconic course.

The Last Six-Iron

My tee shot thru the chute was perfect… middle of the fairway and about 170 yards from the hole. Once again… I looked to Tommy. For a final time, he handed me a six-iron. As always, he was right.

I hit it pure. The ball landed on the green, just past the hole. I started to smile as I began to walk.

“Wait”, Tommy said, with one hand holding me back.

I followed his eyes to the green. From the bank below the second tier, my ball started easing its way toward the hole. It gathered speed, hit the flag… and disappeared.

At that moment, I saw a light and heard a sound. Through the window, rays of light pierced the curtain. From my phone, the alarm went off.

The dream was over. It was time to wake up.

JD

PS - The dream started with the section titled “We Need a Fourth”. Everything before that is true.

Atlanta, GA

March 8, 2025

Today’s my brother’s birthday. Out of respect, I won’t divulge his age… other than to say that four years ago he’d lived half a century.

When you turn fifty, you begin to feel old. When your younger brother turns fifty, the hankering for prune juice becomes insatiable.

Suddenly, the urge to go to bed early, get up in the middle of …

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Atlanta, GA

February 23, 2025

I don’t have many fond memories with my father (my biological one, not my real one).

This will sound awful, but most recollections that linger are of therapeutic laughs at his expense. When he died, my brother, an uncle, and a couple aunts (this one, and this one) attended his funeral.

Hearing about…

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Atlanta, GA

February 19, 2025

Our uncle Hugh wasn’t home. But the door was unlocked in anticipation of our arrival. Or, more likely, because our host simply forgot to lock it.

For several years early last decade, we were regularly in Washington. Uncle Hugh was always hospitable. This particular visit, about ten years ago, was just my son and me. We’d not b…

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Atlanta, GA
January 19, 2025

This weekend marks the 39th anniversary of the first time a holiday honored Martin Luther King.

In 1983, the third Monday in January was designated by the US government as the official annual recurrence. It took effect three years later. Over the ensuing decade-and-a-half, states adopted the day at varying rates and to differen…

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