(Eighteen killed, 13 seriously injured. News report.) 

When I saw the news and latest updates from Maine this morning, two thoughts came to mind. The first was a word game, where my restless mind took the number of fatalities, 18, and played with it. Thinking about the Bobby Darin song, only transposing its 18 yellow roses into 18 vessels of life, cut short by evil machinations from our political system. Wondering about all the ways there would be 18 fewer things in life, as a result of one sick killer’s murderous acts.

My second thought was this…In the Jewish tradition, the number 18 is called Chai. Chai also means Life. That makes 18 a lucky number. To give $18 is to give two gifts: one the money, two the luck that goes with it. 

Unfortunately, for me, after yesterday’s mass shootings in Maine, the number 18, in my heart, has shifted from signifying Life, to certifying Death. 

And certifying so much more. 

Certifying 18 lifeless bodies, many unrecognizable from the bullets that thoughtlessly tore them apart… 

Certifying 18 empty places at multitudes of family dinners, birthday parties, weddings, Christenings, confirmations, town meetings and Saturday morning soccer games…  

Certifying 18 empty seats at lifetimes of tennis matches, baseball games, family car trips, Cub Scout Pinewood Derbies, church services, Sunday family dinners, Christmas eve services and Friday night poker games. Living as we do, on an earthly plain, there are also 18 lifetimes of sumptuous meals, inner cravings, fits of laughter, sexual stimulation, minor human foibles, all just waiting to be missed. 

The human condition times 18. 

Yesterday, you could almost hear the cries of pain as they hammered and echoed across the land. Almost hear the sighs, involuntary and hushed, of the millions who were not touched personally by the tragedy, yet who felt strongly its terrors and anxieties. 

 Not living in Maine, we were safe from this latest act of domestic terrorism, America’s 556^th mass shooting this year! A uniquely American statistic. And an ugly outcome from the Republican Party’s intransigence over gun control, their catering to the gun lobby’s agenda as they struggle to remain relevant and influential in today’s politics, even with their diminishing numbers. 

 If you’re keeping score, that’s 18 for the NRA and its political shield, the Republican Party. And zero for the rest of us.  Which means, of course, that, in the curious way my mind works, zero now also equals 18. 

I know. 18 is just a number, and numbers don’t inspire empathy or compassion. But not true for number 18. Not today. Today, that number equal’s 18 American citizens who will never get to run for office, or ever vote again, for that matter. 18 who will pay no income taxes, or get to send children to school. 18 who will never buy or read another novel, never get to revisit Mark Twain as an adult reader. That’s also 18 citizens who will never go to their high school proms, never learn to drive their father’s car, and, sadly, never fall in love for a first or second time. 18 who will never enjoy rounds of golf, joining the Rotary Club, or playing in a men’s basketball league, Tuesday evenings at the JCC. 

18 yellow roses were sent on their way yesterday. Pulled rudely from their lives by a man so sick he should have never been allowed near a gun. 18 yellow roses, their rose-like beauty shredded to bloody scraps by the bursts of the AK-15.  The sad truth is, we will remember the number 18 far longer than the lives that number signifies: the 18 slants on life, the 18 relationships with God, the 18 struggles for perfection, the 18 realizations of life’s futility, the 18 searches for the Truth, whatever form that might have taken. 

Remember the number 18 next time you vote, and let it remind you not to vote for anyone who lists themselves as Republican.  

Do it for the 18.       

Do it for all of us.

A PRESIDENT YOU CAN BELIEVE IN.

Recently, the thought crossed my mind that America could have been sailing through these latest dangerously roiled waters in Ukraine and the Middle East with Donald Trump at the helm. Trump, the master of self-serving behavior and chaos-inducing leadership would have thrown kerosene on both conflagrations, UKRAINE AND ISRAEL alike, as he searched for any possible means to make both crises about the only thing that matters in his world, HIMSELF.

THANK HEAVENS FOR JOE BIDEN! Under Biden’s balanced and thoughtful leadership, Russia is stuck in a quagmire, and paying a heavy price for its lawless aggression against Ukraine, while Israel has been reasssured and supported in its moment of abject vulnerability, yet forced to temper its anger and thirst for revenge…at least for now.

With all he has accomplished in his two and a half years in office, Biden still remains shockingly disliked and unsupported by a scary majority of the American public. Scary, because it signifies an opportunity for a grifter or demagogue like Donald J. Trump to once again grab hold of the reins of power in our country. I don’t know about you, but I can’t name one single Trump legislative accomplishment during his presidency, besides a Tax Bill that virtually ignored the middle class in its rush to make billionaires like Trump even richer.

Here is a reminder of some highlights from Biden’s tenure in the White House. So far, in his two-and-a-half years as president, UNCLE JOE has…
–Created over 13 million jobs, including over 750,000 manufacturing jobs
-Decreased the unemployment rate to a fifty-year low
-Appointed over 145 judges to the federal bench
-Passed the first major piece of gun legislation in 30 years
-Signed the Inflation Reduction Act which includes the largest investment in combating climate change
-Enabled Medicare to negotiate prices with drug companies (for example, caps the price of insulin at $35 per month).

Biden is not just smart. He is a compassionate human being. Honestly comnpassionate. Weigh the comforting hugs and one-on-one connection Biden customarily offers to victims and their families, in almost any tragedy’s aftermath; weigh that aginst Donald J. Trump throwing rolls of paper towels out to victims of Puerto Rico’s island-devastating hurricane. Or the boorish manner in which Trump attempted to buy off the aggrieved parents of a boy who was accidentally killed by the wife of an American diplomat. The parents, whose child died in a car accident, were here in America to lobby for the culprit’s return to stand trial in Britain for the child’s death. Within minutes of going in to meet with Trump, the British couple came out of the meeting, flushed with anger, outrage, and, possibly, shock to be offered a bribe to go back home and forget seeking justice for their dead child.

If you’re not comfortable with Biden’s age, so be it. But don’t let feckless Republicans convince you that Biden is too old, too feeble, or not as mentally sharp as he needs to be. I trust Joe Biden, as much as one can reasonably trust an American politician. I certainly trust BIDEN enough to believe he wouldn’t run for a second term if he wasn’t fit for it, wasn’t clear in his thinking, or fully confident he could effectively serve out his term.

So far, Biden has accomplished far more than any president in recent memory. He took office at a time of great disturbance and division—in our country and around the world. And he has provided great benefits for all of us us, while stabilizing both our government and our communal family.

To repeat myself, I have great confidence in Joe Biden, certain that he would not commit to another four years in office if he honestly felt he wasn’t fit for the journey. I said it once, and I’ll say it again, THANK HEAVENS FOR JOE BIDEN!

We are in a bathroom in the basement of Mar-A-Lago, world famous residence of Donald J. Trump, former President of the United States of America, bogus billionaire, dishonored real estate mogul, beleaguered defendant in multiple criminal and civil trials, candidate for re-election to the presidency, and CEO of the criminally cited and soon-to-be-defunct Trump Organization. Donald J. Trump sits on the toilet, beige golf slacks in folds around his ankles, staring in shock at the uncluttered bathroom in which he now sits. A bathroom once filled to the height of its crystal chandelier with stacks of banker boxes crammed with mementoes from his presidency, as well as top secret documents revealing military plans and nuclear capabilities of the United States. 

Instead of reading classified material as he has been doing until recently, Donald J. Trump holds in his hands the 35-page judgment handed down in a New York State court the previous Tuesday by Judge Arthur Engoran. The judgment, with great malice and prejudice, Trump decides, has found the defendant, Donald J. Trump, 45^th President of the United States, guilty of fraud, repeatedly, across decades, in his dealings with banks, insurers and anyone stupid enough to do business with the Trump Organization. 

“MY GOD, WILL NO ONE RID ME OF THIS MEDDLESOME JUDGE?” Donald J. Trump demands in the echoing reaches of the box-free basement bathroom.  

“OFF WITH HIS HEAD!” he commands, enjoying the air of authority with which he issued the order. But then another angry thought sails through his mind. 

 “SONS-A-BITCHES!” Donald J. Trump shouts into the quiet of the empty bathroom, cursing the government lackeys who dared remove his reading material from his favorite reading room. It’s no coincidence that Donald J. Trump has been irregular and prone to constipation ever since the boxes were taken out. 

“CURSES ON ALL THEIR HEADS!” he proclaims.

“MAY THEIR CHILDREN BE DRAGGED SCREAMING TO THE MEXICAN BORDER AND PLACED IN CAGES.” 

“Oh, I like that,” he tells himself, realizing he just broke new ground in the profanities and curses he can use against the BASTARDS and WITCH HUNTERS that yip at his heels almost constantly these days.   

“THAT THESE PIGMIES WOULD SIT IN JUDGMENT OF SOMEONE SO FAR ABOVE THEIR STATION AND DARE TO THREATEN MY ASSETS AS WELL AS MY GOOD NAME!   

“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!” 

“WHO THE HELL DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?” he asks himself. 

“DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM?” he pursues. 

“I AM THE MOST IMPORTANT MAN IN THE WORLD,” he finally declares with conviction. “Yes, the most powerful ex-president America has ever seen. And, in case those idiots have forgotten, I’M THE MAN WHO ALMOST BROUGHT AMERICA TO ITS KNEES.  

“ME, DONALD J. TRUMP! I DID IT! NO ONE ELSE. 

“NAME ONE THING THAT THAT HALF-BREED OBAMA, OR INTERN MOLESTER CLINTON, EVER DID THAT EVEN HALFWAY COMPARES?  

“GUESS WHICH PRESIDENT HISTORY WILL MOST REMEMBER? AND IT WON’T BE CROOKED JOE BIDEN, THAT’S FOR SURE.  

“AND I AM NOT DONE YET, so don’t make the mistake of counting me out. Or foolishly betting on America to survive the rematch.  

“IF THEY HAVEN’T SEEN IT YET, WAIT TILL THOSE PIGMIES REALIZE HOW MUCH POWER I STILL HOLD, almost three years after I left the presidency. AN OFFICE I WON REELECTION TO, NO MATTER WHAT THOSE CHEATERS AND TRUMP-HATING VOTE COUNTERS MAY SAY. 

“DERANGED JACK SMITH and his gang of CROOKED PROSECUTORS know it’s true. Most American presidents are diminished when they leave the presidency. But me—WHEN I LEFT THE OVAL OFFICE, IT WAS THE PRESIDENCY THAT GOT SMALL, NOT ME. Just ask Kevin McCarthy, that whiney ass-kissing Speaker of the House. Or Lindsey Graham who couldn’t even get himself indicted in Georgia. 

“Oh, what the hell, OFF WITH HIS HEAD, TOO! 

“Just ask anyone if the Office of the President hasn’t shrunk since DONALD TRUMP LEFT OFFICE? Shrunk in stature, shriveled in reputation and ridiculously ineffective IN DEALING WITH WORLD LEADERS LIKE PUTIN, KIM JONG UN OR XI-JINPING. Do you think those HEAVYWEIGHT BRUISERS WET THEIR PANTS WHEN THEY FACE A SENILE AND DODDERING JOE BIDEN?  

 “AND NOW SOME TRUMP-HATING, RACIST ATTORNEY GENERAL AND HIPPY, POWER-MAD NEW YORK STATE JUDGE WANT TO DESTROY MY LIFETIME’S WORK. WANT TO RIP ALL MY HOLDINGS FROM MY LOVING EMBRACE AND LEAVE ME DESTITUTE.  

“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS! BOTH THEIR HEADS! 

“JUST WAIT TILL I WIN REELECTION. I’LL SHOW THEM ALL. I’LL SHOW EVERYONE. 

“THERE WILL BE BLOOD.

“TRUMP NEVER FORGETS.  

“NEVER!!” 

Donald Trump, his bathroom activities finally concluded, begins tearing the 35 pages of court judgment into half-page strips, declaring “I’LL SHOW THOSE BASTARDS WHAT THEY CAN DO WITH THEIR F**KING JUDGMENT!”  

At which delicate moment, the shower curtain is drawn to modestly block our view.

My eyes chanced to fall upon this photo in my home office yesterday. What’s the big deal, you might ask, since the photo is there everyday for my eyes to see? Yes, it’s there, but rarely do my eyes see it. Even more rarely does seeing it cause me to think about the photo’s meaning in my life, or the cry of pain and defiance it signifies. 

The photo, appropriately drained of its original color and punch, captures the four of us a mere two or three weeks after I separated from the mother of my children and moved out of our home. 

Yes, there we are, Dad and his three children. All of us, like a party of lost explorers, searching for a safe path through the thickly overgrown jungle of challenges and emotional hardships that come when a family breaks up; when divorce irrevocably pulls it apart. A time also when a father and mother no longer choose to live together or jointly supervise the unspooling of their young children’s lives. Me, center right, proud and lovingly their father. A man without the security of a wife or the family foundation that once held his life together and unshakeable. A man alone and bereft of the persona of both husband and full time father. And, though you can’t readily see it in the photo, a man trapped and surrounded by the considerable debris of a broken heart.

In short, a man deeply hurt and depressed. 

And there, too, my three children, Jesse, Kristin and Katie, ages 5 to 10, living in a strange new world without the dependable and comforting presence of both their parents in their daily lives. All of us bound to an every-other-weekend routine that flimsily holds together our ideas of the healthy, loving connection that should exist between a father and his children.

I had this photo taken back then, over 35 years ago, to make our connection seem more real and palpable on the physical plane. To prove something to either them or myself, I guess, or perhaps to both. After all, with this photo I could now see, or display, proof of my success in holding onto my children, even if I didn’t see them every day. Or every week. The fact that the photographer was an attractive—and available—single mother herself had little to do with my motivation.

You can’t tell from the photo, but I can see the pain hidden in each of my children’s frozen stares. All of us, perhaps with the exception of daughter Katie on the right, who did little to conceal her jealous antagonism towards the attractive photographer, clearly signal through our eyes and facial expressions the uncertainty of the moment, and the confusion that hangs over all aspects of our newly forming family life. We were Orphans of the Storm frozen in time and captured on photographic paper; cast offs from a way of life that would never return, or ever be successfully remastered.

Funny, how much you can see in a faded photograph!