​My two brothers and I have a phrase called “Winner of the El Klutzo Award,” which simply states you’re a clod and have done something amusingly clumsy. This happens often. For all three of us.
 
Our father passed the gene to us. In fact, he may have originated the phrase. If he didn’t, he should have, because it starts with him – bonking his head when he would try and step into the golf cart, reaching to get something at the dinner table and splattering spaghetti sauce all over his shirt. Things like that.
 
Those are clumsy things that probably everybody does at some time or another. But, as a family, we seem capable of raising that talent to a new level. If you’re a klutz, you belong in our family and we welcome you warmly.
 
It’s amusing to write up your El Klutzo episodes when they happen. This becomes particularly funny over email as you work to juice up your escapades.
 
For example, in my quest to be King of the El Klutzos, I strategically inserted my coffee traveling container in the proper receptacle in my car on the way to Walmart recently. Dum dee doo doo dum dee doo, I drove with complete authority and confidence to my destination.

There were no “sudden” stops or starts. No major mountains or hills to climb. No sudden turns to avoid potholes or deer.

But, of course, as I neared America’s shopping destination, I reached down for the container and it had tipped backwards into the other cup holder behind it, which held all my Covid face masks. I looked down at the brown marsh created, and went, “F…..ck!”
 
You feel like you do everything right. You slow down gently at lights. You don’t pump the pedal when accelerating. And, still, your coffee tips over. You rise to the top of the standings for the El Klutzo Award.
 
A favorite of mine, which I typically don’t relate to others, is my inherent ability to step on very small branches while walking our dogs in the woods, forcing one end into the air, which then contacts my other leg, suddenly twisting it in directions the knee doesn’t want to go. This hasn’t caused me to go into surgery yet, but it adds to my ability to stay on top of the El Klutzo standings.
 
My wife is astounded at my ability to do this. I have no idea how I do it, but she can’t. It NEVER happens to her, and I mean never. Yet, here I go, regularly stepping on some twig and it leverages out to push my other foot, wrenching the knee and leg and throwing me off balance. Maybe my feet are too big, or I weigh too much. Or, I’m clumsy.
 
Clumsiness is key to winning the El Klutzo Award. Bonk your head on a golf cart. Spill cigar ashes so they burn a hole in the sleeve of your new shirt. Knock a glass off the table as you reach for the grilled asparagus tips. Drop your glasses to the floor in just the right way so they hit on the lenses and crack.

There are so many ways to excel on the path to being King of the El Klutzos. I could write a book. Maybe I will.

​I love Swiffer Sweeper cleaning mops. Seriously.
 
There are some things around the house I enjoy cleaning. Mopping the floor is one of them. It’s like mowing the yard. A measure of the pleasure is looking at the results. In the case of mopping with Swiffer, you not only get the clean, but also a nice smell.
 
Mowing the yard is about the perfectly matched rows of clipped grass and the aroma of the shorn green stalks. Mmmmmmmm.
 
But, why Swiffer? Giving away my age, when I used to mop the floor during my single days (either living alone or sharing a place with roommates), there was the old mop, the bucket and Mr. Clean. You dumped the cleaner into a bucket of water, squeegeed  the mop and went about slopping the tiles.
 
Dip and do it again. Dip and do it again. Watch the water get gray in the bucket. Try to decide if you need to dump the water when it gets so dirty that you figure you’re not even cleaning the floor anyway.
 
It was a process. Not with Swiffer.
 
You slap the saturated cleaner sheet onto the rectangular cleaning end of the mop and you’re ready to go. The sheet plugs easily into four plastic receptacles the grabs the sheet, adhering it so it doesn’t dislodge as you work. Start swishing.
 
It cleans, it picks up particles, the room starts to smell sweet. Pick up the bottom and check out how you’ve done. “Hmmm, not quite brown yet. I can get a few more pushes out of this one.”
 
As the liquid used in the Swiffer sheet loses its moisture, you know it. Look at where you’ve been cleaning. If it’s not wet, you know you’re getting to the end of that one and need to pull another sheet from the container and latch it on.
 
It’s not complicated. There’s no dirty bucket of water. There’s no squeezing the mop.
 
One “could” argue that you’re being less environmentally sensitive by using a product that must be disposed of afterwards, and that the scented sheets come in a plastic container. I wouldn’t disagree. We recycle the plastic container. The used sheets go to a landfill. But what about all the dirty water you used to have that you dumped down the drain with Mr. Clean’s forehead in it? That went down into your water supply. No wonder so many men have shaved heads today. Mr. Clean came to get them.
 
There is rarely a perfect environmental clean solution anyway. We are faced with “on the one hand this” and “the other hand that” many times in little ways we live our lives, and if we are thoughtful, we weigh the options and make the best decision for the planet.
 
In this case, the Swiffer Sweeper cleaning mop gets the nod for its convenience, speed and residual odor. And, one last thing – the damn cleaning head that holds the sheet is FLEXIBLE. It turns sideways. It slides into nooks and crannies. It shifts in directions easily like a hot sports car. You can’t beat it. It’s also lightweight. Easy to push around.
 
Okay, Swiffer, now you can call me for me endorsement. You can show me wiping our house clean, whistling the Maxwell House song as I go about my cleaning chore to prepare our place for the next onslaught of guests.

​If I had a choice, I’m not sure whether I’d rather be a doctor or a dentist. Probably a doctor because I think digging around in people’s mouths for decades would start to give you a lot of shoulder, arm and neck pain. So the Dentist thing is out.
 
Be that as it may, I think about joining their ranks occasionally because of what I do and don’t see in their waiting rooms: magazines. Currently with Covid, we still have not seen a return in many waiting rooms of those discarded magazines that you used to peruse while waiting to get into see the specialist.
 
Reading new magazines is always an expanding process. You get to dig into issues and news you had not previously considered. That’s a good thing to grow your mind, even if it means injecting stupid celebrity gossip into your brain cells. Wait, maybe not. Strike that. “Most” magazines help you expand your brain matter into positive territory. There.
 
As a kid, I remember massively looking forward to reading Highlights magazine and finding all the hidden pictures. I doubt I thought much beyond that and the stitches I was about to receive or the shot that was going to jolt my shoulder. But, if I found that hidden flag wrapped inside a candy cane, my day was golden.
 
Moving into adulthood, hidden pictures still provide some challenge. People magazine, for example, picked up on the challenge and inserted a section in the back pages to challenge you. I’d skip all the entertainment sections and head for that to figure out how picture one differed from picture two, and in the process forgetting about how my cracked tooth was going to require two visits and multiple injections of Novocain while the dentist pounded in my jaw.
 
Having fun is a good thing about waiting room magazines. You also frequently are rewarded with new topics to delve into, ones that you had not previously considered, or would have chosen on your own free will to explore.
 
An example could be Atlantic magazine, which, in our short-term reading and memory society, still chooses to write in-depth articles on important issues facing our country and the world. While you wait for that annual physical, you might be able to get through one full article, and be more informed than 27 eight-second segments you watched on TV. You use your brain while reading, and must put together the pieces, rather than passively being told what happened by an announcer with perfect teeth.
 
It’s that ability to share good reading with your patients what would drive me to want to be a doctor or dentist, a physical therapist or owning a fitness facility – putting out magazines of my choice to help better inform the world. I’d include humor magazines (too bad Mad magazine has been discontinued). If I found a quality story while randomly reading, I’d bring it to the office for display so others could partake of the information inside.
 
Calvin and Hobbs and Far Side compilations would adorn the tables. Patients would have time to chuckle and relax before joining me for their visit. Sports Illustrated would be a must. Milwaukee magazine would be included. The local daily newspaper would open for inspection.
 
Maybe conversation would be sparked. Maybe patients would feel better after some belly laughs. Maybe someone would tear out a page on a new local restaurant so they could go visit it in the future with a loved one. Regardless of the benefit, I’d feel I’d done just a little bit to make the world a better place.

​Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a weirdo. My friends and family know this, and if you read this column with any degree of regularity, you recognize the ongoing weirdness factor.
 
That being said, I have New Year’s wish. It’s weird.
 
I want to see Dwayne “THE ROCK” Johnson up close. Why? Here comes the weird part: because I want see how big his neck really is.
 
If you don’t know The Rock or don’t follow him at all, his neck is about as big as a rhino’s. It’s preposterously thick, tight, gargantuan. I looks like he does bench presses with his neck, though I have no idea how he’d accomplish that.
 
Normal people have normal necks. The Rock is not normal. As a former pro wrestler, he probably did neck bridges when he jumped out of bed in the morning, where he’d lay on his back, bend his neck backwards and lift his torso to the gods so that all his weight positioned on neck to increase his bulging neck size and intimidate his opponent.

“My neck is so damn big, it will crush you,” I imagine him taunting his opponents. They would tremble when he spoke.
 
The neck’s an interesting thing. We typically don’t look or think about it at all. When, for example, is the last time you looked at your neck or someone else’s, and then remarked about it. “Hmmmm, Justine’s neck sure is smooth and unmarked by moles or skin tags, isn’t it?”
 
No, we don’t do that. We look at eyes, hair, other physical body parts. The neck escapes our attention.
 
The Rock brings it back to the forefront of our imagination. The neck shapes our impression of The Rock.
 
He’s got those titanic biceps, absolutely. Can’t ignore them. They split his shirts. He wears those shirts for effect, or maybe there are absolutely no shirts his size made anywhere in the world. That’s entirely possible.
 
The intensity of his neck is his centerpiece. He speaks. I see his neck. He dispatches a bad guy. His neck stands out to me.
 
Think if you stood next to him. First, he would dwarf 99 percent of humans. You’d probably drop a puddle in your undies from his sheer presence.
 
Second, you have to believe that his physicality would beam off him like Star Trek technology. His shimmering muscles would make you want to jump away for fear of him flexing and bonking you in the side of the head with the expanding mass.

Third, we get back to that neck. Maybe he would let you touch it. See if you can dent it with your index finger. Perhaps it is soft? Who knows?
 
Most likely, if you requested to touch his neck, he’d think you’re weird. He’d be right about that.
 
He seems like a reasonable guy with a refined sense of humor. Maybe if you explained yourself thoroughly, he’d get it. “Hey man, no problem, people ask to touch my neck all the time. Go for it.”
 
Make it quick. Don’t overdo it.  Thank him profusely for the opportunity. Then you can say to all your friends, “I touched The Rock’s neck.” They’ll know you’re weird. That’s okay.

​The Christmas card parade continues shrinking. It’s been on a downward trend for years. This year, for whatever reason, the decrease in cards from friends and relatives seems accelerating.
 
It made sense last year (or maybe not). With Covid raging, people might not have been in the frame of mind to extend Christmas cheer. Our input in the mailbox was down to about 12, if I remember the count from 2020 correctly. Compared to the previous year, that was about a 50 percent reduction.  Compared to 20 years ago, who the heck knows?
 
What I do know is that at our peak, we received 88 Christmas cards. Why do I remember that number? I have no idea. For some reason I parked it in the back of my brain and it stayed there until retrieval. Now it’s being retrieved.
 
Eighty-eight was a lot of cards. That’s probably why the number adhered to my brain molecules. There was a certain pride in that. People cared to stay in touch. They made the effort. It meant something.
 
As electronic communications intervened, we’ve lost that. The long, slow decline of letters and things like Christmas cards has bled our connections to others. Rather than taking the time and writing a longer note with some intent and purpose, we shoot short bursts to each other.

Instagram; texting; email; Facebook; Twitter; Tik Tok. You could create your own list of instantaneous and disposable communications. They evaporate into the air after using.

The paper note, on the other hand, is designed for permanency. You keep it. Pull it out and go over it again. Sure, today you probably still get rid of it, tossing it in the recycling bin after a point. But, the joy of the card with a message intact is that it sits out for a while to re-examine over the Christmas holiday season.
 
One of my joys in early adulthood was returning to our parents’ house in Topeka, Kansas, and pulling out all the cards from families that our mom and dad stayed in touch with, and reading up on what they were doing. Sure, many were boring, and there were couples who I didn’t know at all.
 
Many of the cards though caught me up on the lives of people I hadn’t heard from in awhile (at least for the past year anyway). We grew up with the kids of friends of my parents. It was nice to know what they were doing, where they lived, if they’d gotten married. Not a lot of information was necessary, but the card and note maintained a solid connection.
 
That’s what we miss these days as the decline of mailed cards grows. Less and less do we think through our lives and deliver a thought-out piece of writing for someone else to digest, savor and save. Instead, most people have either given that up completely, or our electronic devices suffice instead. Per se, that doesn’t mean those other choices are bad. My point is only that we lose something but not taking extra time to say hi and share some life events with our close friends.
 
I love letters. Always have. A few friends still send longer, often humorous notes to us this time of year. I smile and nod my head, remembering remarkable times I’ve shared with that individual. If for not other reason, that makes the card worthy of our effort.

​This column could have been written just about any time in the history of the United States when you consider violent events. We’re a messy, violent country. We started out that way. And, we continue to be that way today.
 
I ponder why this is the case. Going back to the 1700s, why did some other new world countries settle without as much killing, like Canada, Uruguay or Ecuador (not that those or other countries didn’t have violence, death and mayhem, just that it was to a lesser extent than the U.S.)?
 
We lived and died by the gun settling the frontier, expanding westward. That still plays out today.
 
Whether it’s gang shootings in Chicago or school shootings in Michigan, far too often someone chooses a violent means to an end (whatever that end may be, but usually it means the “end” of someone). You don’t hear this, “Hey, let’s talk this out. It’s okay to argue. We can disagree. Let me hear what you have to say.”
 
It is probably too much to ask to solve certain problems in that way, when temperatures have already risen catastrophically. But, in many circumstances, creating a dialogue, negotiating, developing a give and take brings solutions benefitting both parties.

We seem too impatient for that in the 21st century. Maybe this is a crotchety old man talking, “Back in my day.” But, back in my day, differences didn’t seem quite as anger- and violence-inducing as they are today. We may have more people walking the streets who have severe emotional and mental instability. In sheer numbers, that’s probably the case because our population is now 333 million. We’re more crowded. As my older brother is fond of saying, “Too many rats in the maze.”

He’s correct about that. Over-crowding causes stress and tension; we’re packed tighter in many urban areas across the country. Our acts of violence go deeper, and I hark to a close friend for an explanation that makes sense and could serve as a model for healing moving forward.
 
He travels extensively to South Korea. They have an extremely low incidence of violence. Why? According to him, it is a small, homogenous country. They share many values. They see things the same way.

The U.S.? We’re the exact opposite. We have probably hundreds of other country’s cultures mixed in our bloodstream. We have people living here who are raised with different faiths (how many branches of Christianity, for example, exist in the U.S.?). People come to our borders seeking asylum from environmental and natural disasters, despots running their country, empty food shelves and drug gangs that kill indiscriminately. They WANT to be in the U.S. for safety and to make something of themselves, but they also come from a background that’s not always shared by those who have lived in the U.S. for generations.
 
We live scattered across a huge land mass -- enclaves where diverse and conflicting perspectives can flourish. Is it any wonder we butt heads? No, it’s not surprising.

It is surprising that in this messy, violent country, we are UNITED in many ways in our pursuit of an opportunity to raise families to live, work and play in a safe and open community. We share that.
 
When we focus on our differences, we lose. When we point fingers, we lose. As my friend noted, given how many different cultures are at work in the U.S., it’s surprising there isn’t more violence. That certainly doesn’t make it acceptable. It puts things in perspective though.
 
I hurt emotionally when I see random unnecessary violence. I would love to see it permanently stop. Knowing that unlikelihood, my hope is we continue to dial violent actions back and learn greater tolerance, patience and respect for others and how another individual may come at an issue or incident differently.
 
The U.S. is messy and violent. We can make it less so. Everyone has to take a step towards conciliation and understanding of others.

​Last week in this column we discussed our over-reliance on technology. Later in the week, I played golf about a 25-minute drive from our house. I love the course, very scenic, quiet, surrounded by various types of pine trees.
 
Twenty-five minutes is not long. I don’t use technology like GPS or Waze to get there because I’ve been driving to the course for so long. I find it in my sleep. I find it through muscle memory -- the old fashioned way.

Despite this, I found myself last week wanting to explore a new path. I use the word “explore” purposefully. Words matter.
 
I’d finished playing early, walking by myself. The rest of the day beckoned with nothing on the calendar. I’d said to myself (and my wife) several times that I was going to launch down a country road returning from the course one day. That day came.
 
Why do this? Why meander and see where you end up? Because you can. It’s an explorative journey.
 
Once you leave the course, the main road curves north and east. The side road, unlined, farms on both sides, looked like it headed due east. Apparently a more direct route to our home, but who knew? It was an untested road.
 
I’d played a solid round and felt good. If I got lost, I had to keep trying new roads heading east, then south, and sooner or later I’d come into recognizable terrain and recalibrate to return (“recalculating” as the directions app would state to you).
 
The speed limit slowed. I hit a stop sign. Then another. The road began to curve into some woods. Then it slowed further, to 25 mph for a sharp turn. The car headed up a hill. A neighborhood appeared on the right in the middle of nowhere.
 
Everything was okay. Generally speaking, the car continued in the right direction.
 
An elderly couple was out walking, and I gave them a wide berth and waved. They waved back. I smiled. The car was warm, and the outside air cold. I started getting drowsy, ready for the spectacular afternoon nap. First, I had to navigate back.
 
Very quickly, the shortcut came to an end. WTH? On the left was a tiny motel you see on the main road to the course. There’s no way I could come out here! Yes, there was.
 
Somehow, my exploratory meandering afternoon turned into a radical shortcut that saved seven minutes on the 25-minute drive. Astounding!
 
The shortcut had been found because I’d wanted to do the opposite and get lost and just drive around and figure out some way to get home over the back roads. So weird, so strange.
 
The experience was relaxing. It was enjoyable. It was just shorter than expected.
 
Leaving technology behind is a good thing for many reasons, particularly to get you back in touch with your sense of direction. You’re tested. You must navigate, not the app or software program.
 
I got home way sooner than expected, but that was good, too. My nap beckoned. I slept well.

​A little less than two months ago my golf watch quit on me. I should have seen it coming.
 
The previous three times I’d played with it, the battery died during the round. I kept thinking I hadn’t charged the battery enough to last 18 holes, but finally figured out it was on its last legs and it was time to get a new one.
 
Losing the golf watch advantages taught me a few things about our reliance on technology. Most of you who read my stuff regularly recognize that for the most part I’m a “late adaptor” of tech, not an “early adopter.” I use those two words on purpose. Slowly, I adapt. Those who are into technology adopt it quickly. There’s a difference.

Being old school, it was important for me to judge my yardage on my own when playing golf. You learn a lot by doing this – figuring out distances, needing to understand an elevation rise or drop, adding the wind into the mix to predict what the yardage to the pin “really” is, rather than just what the number says.
 
When the watch showed up (with an invite from me) to Christmas 6-7 years ago, it was welcome. I wanted it. I’d seen someone else using the watch and wanted one, knowing it would improve my game and that I could easily figure out all the buttons. It gives yardage to the pin, to the front of the green and the back of the green. It identifies the distance to hazards and what it takes to hit your ball over the hazards. That was pretty much all I needed.
 
Once past the first round or two with the golf watch, it embedded itself in my mindset. I looked at it before every shot. When playing with a friend, they would ask me for the distance, and I would proudly give them the EXACT distance to the pin. It was f….cking AWESOME!
 
I stopped judging distances. I didn’t have to. I was “told” with technology that was next to perfect.
 
As the watch wore out and I had to play several half-rounds without it, then finally when it dropped dead on the first hole, and I had to play an entire round without it, I realized how technology dependent I’d become. I had to judge distance again, find markers in the fairway that gave me rough estimates and then walk it off to my ball and figure out any yardage differences to reach a reasonable judgment on what club to select, how hard and far to hit the ball to reach the intended destination.

I was often slightly off by 10-20 yards. That speaks to a skill set I lost while wearing the watch, but also speaks to our judgments in anything we try to estimate, even if we have a lot of skill and experience in the activity. We can make our best decision, but it’s not always a reasonably informed one.
 
The watch dying made me think of a coworker who was addicted to the Waze app, which locks you into your intended destination while driving, identifying time, best routes, where police are watching, traffic slowdowns, accidents. He’s a much younger guy than me, and never tries to figure out where he’s going on his own. He left the parking lot one morning to go to a site we’d been to the previous day, and asked me as we exited, “Which way do I turn?” I couldn’t stop laughing.

Then the golf watch dies, and I fall into that technology-dependent category. My golf game suffers. I wholeheartedly believe the watch saves me 3-4 strokes for a round, which is darn helpful for those of you who are un-golf-initiated. I need a new one, but embrace my current suffering and weakened level of play. I’m sharper on the yardages, slowly redeveloping my skills. But, I’ve put it on Santa’s list for a replacement.
 
Hurry up, Christmas.

​Over the past 18 months or so, I’ve rediscovered the joys of our local library. It didn’t come and find me, but I went and reacquainted myself.

It’s odd how a relationship with the library can go south. You just forget it’s there. Your work gets busy. You do other things with your spare time rather than read. You focus on buying books rather than taking some out and returning them so others can enjoy.
 
All of those  apply to me. Foremost though was just plain forgetting the library was there as a resource.  And, I’m not really sure what drove me to reenter its doors with regularity.
 
A number of years back, my younger brother extolled the virtues of getting movies and audio books from the library. At the time, I picked up on his energy and took out several audio books to keep me occupied while driving long distances in my job. But, there wasn’t much that kept my interest in terms of plots in novels or subject matter for non-fiction books.
 
I waned in terms of visiting the library. I read a reasonable amount, but would buy those books, as I’ve long been a proponent in financially supporting the work of authors. If we don’t buy books by writers, it is harder for writers to support themselves. It’s that simple. I believe it is tremendously important to support writers, so I purchased them.
 
The changing point, as best I can put my finger on it, has been having more free time as my work world shrank the past 18 months or so. My career moved away from a path from full-time employment. That freed up more time to read. I’ve taken that opportunity to dig deeper into new genres and read more intently when I sit down and with greater frequency.
 
That could add up dollar-wise, if I continued to buy books. That led to great library usage, and slowly the vibe insinuated itself into my routine.
 
There’s something unique, quieting and contemplative entering the doors of the library. It’s always been a “thinking” place for me, whether that was in grade school or college. You are “supposed” to do work there – research, write, take notes, etc. – so you silently go about your business. Of course, someone could easily make you start giggling with fourth grade inanities, but you knew you were supposed to be doing schoolwork, so mostly that’s what you did.
 
Rediscovering the library visit this past year has reignited some of those long-ago memories and invigorated my reading list. Talking with the librarians, perusing the aisles, spending time at their special book displays all led me down new paths regarding the types of literature or non-fiction to check into next.
 
You find an author and may read three of her books in a row. You discover the mystery genre and it sticks with you as you shift from one recommended writer to another. You talk to someone who has a recommendation and follow that up to find a new world of interest.
 
Library nostalgia ignites library passion. You think back, remember, and start regularly visiting again. Your mind expands, you think new things, you find yourself contemplating subjects, ideas, thoughts, concepts, plots and characters you hadn’t considered. You feel good entering the door and know you’ve returned home.

​Colin Powell’s passing last week triggered something in me. It went beyond that a great man passed.
 
I looked up to Colin Powell, respected him and his judgment. I trusted what he did for us as U.S. citizens.
 
That fact that he died wasn’t what hit me so hard. What bothered me deeply was reading various accounts of what others thought of him. You may find this trivial, but I believe it speaks more deeply to all U.S. citizens at this stage in our history.
 
As I filtered through what others wrote about Powell, a statesman, diplomat and four-star general, struck me over and over. People wrote in support of him, yes. There were accolades upon accolades cited. Yet, and yet…..
 
Far too many of these “positive” messages started with the phrase, “Though I disagreed with General Powell on a number of things, I …..” Or, “General Powell made his share of mistakes, but I still…..”
 
The point of these posts diminished the man and his accomplishments. Who are all these Average American Joe’s and Mary’s to judge the actions of a man who worked his way diligently up through the ranks of the military, developing a world view that was compassionate and advanced our interests around the world?
 
The posts upset me. The posts illuminate how people who do not have the knowledge or experience to make monumental international decisions for the United States think that they do. Someone watches news on TV and presumes he has information and background to criticize a four-star general.

This is not new in our country, nor is this type of judgmental thinking about to end any time soon. This “I know best” perspective has been around for a long time, and accelerated with the advent of social media and the fracturing of news media into camps projecting a perspective rather than doing their best to “report” thoroughly from all sides on an issue. We are diminished as a country because of this.

The advent of citizen “experts” is but one sign of this. People rush to tell others what they think, without the credentials to back their “opinion” up. They know because they know. Okay, sure thing, buddy.
 
We also lose the true value of what an expert brings to the table. That individual who has served in the trenches year after year, learning the intricacies of the issues, is devalued. The know-it-all citizen disrespects someone who has earned a position of power and authority.
 
This type of “so and so was great, even though I disagreed with him on many things” attitude infects us on many levels. We all disagree with others, let’s not kid ourselves. Over the year, I’ve done a number of presentations on conflict resolution. I use marriage as an example.
 
I have pointedly asked the audience, “Do you agree with your spouse on everything?” Of course not (though I have met people who fervently state they’ve never had a disagreement with their spouse in their 40 years of marriage; I’d like to be a fly on their walls).
 
The marriage metaphor works on multiple levels. Any honest person has disagreed with their spouse way more than once if the marriage has lasted for any number of years. But that never diminishes the other person. Nor would we say upon a spouse passing, “Though I disagreed with my wife/husband a lot, s/he was still a great person.” Nope, we wouldn’t do that.

We would support our spouse, talk about the good times, relate stories on what they did to make the world better, funnier, smarter, more connected. Our support for General Colin Powell should go way beyond that.