When Good-bye Isn’t Good-bye 

A few tiny flakes of snow have just started to merge with heavy rain as he joins the crowd in the vestibule of St. Patrick Catholic Church in Malvern. They are a mostly gray and white haired; women in dresses or skirts, men in dark suits or blazers and gray pants. Sprinkled about are younger men in perfectly pressed Army and Marine uniforms, as well as a few teenagers, smaller kids and two babies. It is a family event.

They are there to celebrate a life filled with more public service than anyone he’s ever known. They greet one another with subdued voices and an occasional hug. As they walk into the nave, a large sculpture of Jesus hanging from the ceiling beckons them, arms outstretched. Wooden pews radiate out from the alter. A piano plays gently.

He finds a seat in the very last row, because this is one of very few times he has ever been to a Catholic church, because he knows very few people here, because there is no-one else in the pew, because this is a funeral for a longtime friend and he isn’t sure how he will react. 

Patrick Joseph  McGuigan, Jr died a couple of weeks short of reaching 91. “I’m ready,” he had said to his friend a few weeks earlier. His body was giving out and he was tired. 

The service is filled with liturgy somewhat mysterious to his friend, but familiar and comforting to Pat’s family and other friends. Pat’s oldest son, Frank, offers words about a father no words can describe. Pat’s grandchildren read passages from the Bible. His wife, Margaret, sits with their daughter and family members, wilted, but absorbing it all.

“I fought in two wars and a police action” was how Pat first described his 30 year Army career to his friend. 

It began as a 17 year old “Boot” in 1951 and included tours in Korea, Japan, Vietnam, Germany, Italy, as well as the United States. He told his friend about falling out of a helicopter in Viet Nam and breaking his back. He spoke with pride about the soldiers he had trained and led on the path to becoming a Command Sergeant Major, the highest non-commissioned rank in the Army. What he didn’t mention were the 28 medals he earned along the way. 

(Legion of Merit, Bronze Star, Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Palm, Meritorious Service Medal (four times), Army Commendation Medal (three times), Good Conduct Medal (eight times), National Defense Service Medal (twice), Vietnam Service Medal with two campaign stars, Vietnam Campaign Medal, Korean Service Medal, Meritorious Unit Citation, Army Service Medal, Overseas Service Ribbon with three service stars, and the Overseas Combat Bar, twice). 

In 1981, he retired from the Army and joined The Valley Forge Military Academy as Special Assistant to the Superintendent where he also taught military and leadership skills. (While they were still in Germany packing up, a family member found a house in the fraying Borough of Malvern, which he and Margaret bought sight unseen).

The next year he joined the Borough government, first serving on Committees, later working his way up President of the Council. 

He proudly described the town to newcomers as “4 churches and 1 bar”.  

In 1986, he initiated a multi-year rebuild of the bridge over train tracks that connected two the sides of town. In 1989 he persuaded the merchants to upgrade their storefronts, the National Bank of Malvern to loan them the money for the upgrades, and the Borough Council to pay the interest on the loans. 

He retired from the Council in 1989.

In 1991, two things happened. He retired again, this time from the Valley Forge Military Academy and Malvern’s manager resigned after placing the town on the edge of bankruptcy. 

The town elders came to him, hat in hand. He took the job of  Manager. His first move was to announce a hold on all spending while he studied the terrain. A few mornings after he started, the Police Chief dropped by with a bill for new tires he’d bought for the police car. Pat thanked him for his contribution. 

Two years later the Borough was in the black and debts were paid. Within five years he had sold Malvern’s aging water system to Aqua for five million dollars, several times its assessed value. He also added sidewalks to peripheral neighborhoods and new street lights through the center of town. 

“Malvern just needed to be brought into the 20th Century”, he said.

But he wasn’t done. 

In the late 1990’s, Malvern Preparatory School decided to sell the Paoli Battlefield, the 40 acre Revolutionary War site of the Paoli Massacre that bordered the south side of town. The price: $2.5 million. Knowing developers would bulldoze irreplaceable history as well as the graves of some of the country’s original soldiers, Pat set out to find the money. 

“There are American soldiers there”, he said to his friend. “I’ve looked out for American soldiers all my life. I’m not about to stop now.” 

Three years later the US Congress, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the County of Chester and Malvern’s 3000 citizens, paid Malvern Prep $2.6 million (including an extra $100,000 the school tacked on at the last minute). And, to make sure the site would never be threatened again, Pat persuaded the US Congress to attach it to Valley Forge National Historical Park.

In 1999 he retired for the fourth time, this one a keeper. 

They follow the coffin out of the sanctuary, through the nave and into the vestibule lined with photos of Pat, where soldiers drape it with an American flag.

“A smart, giving, courageous guy, with more integrity than most people today”, his friend muses. Similar thoughts are refected on the faces around him.

Two Army sergeants silently fold the flag in crisp, measured movements. One officially presents it to Margaret with a few words only for her. An Army bugler plays the sweetest version of taps the friend has ever heard. Pall bearers cary the coffin  to a hearse bound for Arlington, his final resting place.

“And I – no-one – will ever see him again”, his friend thinks as he leaves the Church and heads home, melancholy slowing his walk. , “ever…”.  He remembers the loss of other friends. They had all just…left.

Then suddenly, “Get over it!” he says harshly to himself. “He’s gone, just like all dead people. That’s life!” 

The snow has replaced the rain, turning the town black and white like an old movie set. He ambles slowly past the bridge, a few storefronts… He stops by a streetlight and looks around. 

“Wait a minute”, he thinks. “He’s not gone. He’s right here. The streetlights, the bridge, the storefronts, the sidewalks, the Battlefield…” 

He starts walking again, briskly.  

“This snow is so beautiful!” he thinks.  “That was a really impressive service. What a great town! I am one lucky guy…”

(If you like this, pass it on. If you don't, pass it on anyway. Why should you suffer alone?)

To All You Do Nothing Democrats

I’m almost done – with you. You’re like a herd of cats without a leader, rushing around here and there, getting into little spats with each other, whining and complaining and getting…NOWHERE!

Like the rest of us, you’re scared of Trump and his fascist followers. You’re angry at Congressional Republicans who don’t have the balls to say no to a wannabe dictator and his enforcer.  You’re looking at the potential end of the greatest democracy in history.

And instead of making an effort to stop him, you’re doing…NOTHING!

And you know what? You’re the only group who can, actually, stop him by doing…SOMETHING!

Because you’re all too wrapped up in your own egos and insecurities to think clearly, I’m going to give you ten things to do.

So, pay attention, take notes.

1) Speak out and speak up. All of you. Everywhere. All the time.

2) For every press conference, rally, or announcement that Trump, Musk, his Cabinet, or Blond Bullshitter Leavitt has, you have a press conference, rally, or announcement.

3) Don’t wait for a presidential candidate to appear from the cackling gaggle of Democratic leaders, just use them all. God knows there’ll be enough rallies, press conferences, announcements to occupy different leaders each time. 

4) Do you think people don’t know a lie when they see it? Do you think we’re all that stupid! Stop using words like “untruth”, “falsehood,” “misdirection,” “misrepresent,” or dozens of other ways of not calling a lie a lie. Call them what they are…LIES!

5) Every time Trump, Musk, or others lie to the American public (about Ukraine, Russia, any Gulf, or whatever), counter with… THE TRUTH!

6) For every wall of lies put up by the Republicans, blow it up, pound it to smithereens, explode it with…THE TRUTH!

7) It’s not that complicated. You don’t have to spend six months arguing and fighting to elect a spokesperson. You have dozens of great ones now:  Buttigieg, Newsom, Warren, Sanders, Murphy, Whitman, Jeffries, Waltz, to name just a few. There are many; use them all to tell… THE TRUTH!

8) Don’t wait to chose a single message all of you can coalesce around. That’s not the message that matters right now. The message that matters now is Trump’s lies. You already have a single message…THE TRUTH!

9) Support the Media, because without them there is only Trump’s Lies. Write to The New York Time and other Mainstream Media. Post on social media. Use lawn signs. Speak up at cocktail parties. Find an opportunity to counter every lie with…THE TRUTH.

10) And then, when you’ve tamped down all their lies, when the playing field has been made fair again, when you’ve thwarted PLAN 2025, when democracy has returned, get together and pick a leader from your long list of capable leaders, someone who cherishes our democracy, who isn’t a narcissist, who values integrity, and tells…THE TRUTH!

And do it all now, because we don’t have time for a second chance.

(If you like this, pass it on. If you don't, pass it on anyway. Why should you suffer alone?)

How Trump Pulled Off The Impossible

It wasn’t talking about emptying Gaza of Palestinians and turning it into another Trump resort.

It wasn’t threatening tiny Panama with the Putinesque move of restoring American sovereignty over a canal it built and gave to Panama in the last century.  

Nor was it freezing, without warning, trillions of dollars in federal grants and loans, and shuttering USAID, causing havoc, pain, and death, to helpless people across the world. 

It wasn’t shutting entire sections of the US government without notice, causing chaos and confusion.

It wasn’t wreaking retribution on the FBI by firing FBI leaders and investigators who worked the January 6th Insurrection.

It wasn’t his firing of Inspectors General across the Federal Government for no reason, undercutting trust in the entire government.

It wasn’t his placing an ex-Fox “News” bullshitter, retired mid-level Army officer, sexual bully, and alcohol abuser, in charge of the biggest military of the world. 

It wasn’t placing a fellow narcissist, a tech oligarch without even bottom rung security clearance or any government experience because he’s never been elected to anything, in charge of destroying parts of government, the latest of which is the Education Department which oversees 49.6 million students.

And it wasn’t for using parts of the Constitution to take down other parts of the Constitution, which is clever and unexpected. But that’s not new. Hitler used a similar approach in 1933 when he took down the German democracy in less than 2 months.

The impossible? He pissed off the Canadians! 

Not possible! You say. 

Our kind, polite, even-tempered neighbors to the North…pissed?! They haven’t been pissed since we invaded Sandwich, Ontario during the War of 1812. These are people who open the door for each other and help change flat tires. They invade our border by the thousands in the winter and flood Florida and other points South, and are so pleasant, even DeSantis doesn’t complain.  

But Trump finally pissed them off.

How? For months, Trump had been musing about Canada becoming the 51st state, which wasn’t polite or kind. Then, on Saturday, Feb. 1, he announced 25% tariffs on Mexico and Canada.

That tore it. On Monday, Feb 3, Ontario Premier Doug Ford announced, “We’ll be ripping up the province’s contract with Starlink,” a contract worth $68 million dollars to Co-American Dictator Elon Musk.

”Ontario won’t do business with people hell bent on destroying our economy,” said Ford. ” Trump’s team “wants to destroy families’ incomes, destroy businesses. He wants to take food off the table of hardworking people, and I’m not going to tolerate it.”

And now angry Canadians are booing the US National Anthem at games and emptying store shelves of American products from Vancouver to Toronto, leaving signs that say “Buy Canadian Instead.” (See what I mean about polite?)

Therein lies some much needed advice from our civilized grownups to the North. 

No-one has to accept Rubio’s, Hegseth’s, and Miller’s orders or those of any other subalterns of the American Dictator. Instead we can ignore, refuse, or even ridicule them. As citizens we can demonstrate in the streets.  We can contact our Representatives and Senators over and over again and tell them to get some real cojones and stop this destruction of American democracy.  We can join the political system and encourage neighbors and friends to make themselves heard and seen.

We can explain to those who somehow missed Civics 101, that Fascism didn’t die with Hitler – it just went underground for awhile – and remind them that Democracy dies in silence as much as in darkness.

(If you like this, pass it on. If you don't, pass it on anyway. Why should you suffer alone?)

I’m Considering Getting Old 

There are pluses to getting old.  I get social security money every month and I don’t have to do a thing to earn it.  Plus I have savings which I did earn, but that was years ago. So now, I just “Spend baby, spend!” OK. Not really. I’m actually very frugal. (should any of my kids be reading this). I live in a house I bought from the mortgage company after I bought it from the owner. So when I need to bail to some kind of old people’s place, I can sell the house and say “Bye! Bye!” to snow-shoveling, grass-cutting, and greedy Trick-or-Treaters. 

Against the wishes of my kids, I can spoil the grandkids, endlessly.

I can have the irresponsibilities of a teenager without the grades. As an old person I can drink when I want, ogle my girlfriend, and tell the same stories over and over and over and…  

I don’t have to be good at…anything: golf, house cleaning, cooking, buying Christmas and birthday presents, remembering names,… answering the door… 

Well, I do have to pay my bills and be nice to my neighbors (hey guys, if you’re reading this, don’t read this).

Old is fun, for sure. 

But so is young, because young includes so many choices.

It means I can drive too fast. I can hang out at the local tavern and yell at Eagles and Phillies games. I can teach my kids discipline, integrity, hard work, fortitude, intelligence, etc… or just: “Do as I say and not as I do”.

I can try new things, like writing a local column or serving on my town council and, as long as I have a highly skilled editor and a brilliant town manager, avoid major stumbles.

I can go to every one of my kids games and performances and applaud until my hands hurt. I can, without admitting to a scintilla of bias, defend my kids against every stupid, arrogant teacher who wields grades like a hockey stick, and never, ever admit to  liking helicopters.

I can have a career as a producer-director of Live television and not utter a single “Fuck! Wrong camera!”, especially multiple times a show. As a young producer, I can develop an award winning TV show aimed at old people – and not have viewers, including the crew, shake their heads in disbelief.

That’s the dilemma: old is fun, but young is fun, too. 

Hmmm…

I think I’ll go with young. Because if something becomes old or boring, the young can always try something new…

…like… Hey! Getting old!

See, if getting old becomes boring or frustrating, I can always go back to being young! 

Right?  

(If you like this, pass it on. If you don't, pass it on anyway. Why should you suffer alone?)