The real value of money...

I've never worked for money.

Good friend and my main mentor, Ed Johnson, editor of The Gainesville Sun at the time, would tell Joyce when I got a raise. He knew that I'd never looked at my paycheck, didn't care, because it went straight to her. Always has.

I also joke, but it's true, about the time I went to work for the Associated Press in Miami. As I was walking out the door for my first day on the new job, Joyce said: "Don't forget to ask 'em how much you make."

Never crossed my mind to ask. It's what I wanted to do, what I needed to do. And I was confident that we'd have enough to live on. Nothing lavish, of course. (But one great benefit was that our apartment was next to a restaurant -- a crab shack -- that was wonderfully "lavish," if "lavish" is eating off old newspapers, which we did often there, and where the garlicky fragrances of the "shack" always wafted throughout our apartment in south Miami.)

Four times in my career (including the AP job), I've taken significant pay cuts to do what I thought was best for my career and my family (including, the biggest cut of all, when I came to the University of Kansas to join the faculty at the journalism school).

Shoot, I've even taken nothing!

Each year, the Social Security Administration sends a reminder of my earnings throughout my career. For 1993, taxable income earned that year is zero. Yep, nothing. Nil. Nada.

What a great year that was!

I had left a great job that paid well -- my dream job really -- as executive editor of The Gainesville Sun. But I had decided that teaching was what I wanted to do. And, yes, as sappy as it may sound, the main motivation was that I wanted to try to give a younger generation of journalists the same passion for journalism that I have always had and was instilled in me by folks like Ed Johnson.

So, I gave notice and, a few months later, started graduate school at my alma mater, The University of Florida.

That year proved to be many things, but mostly about renewal (and the loss of retirement savings) with absolutely no regrets.

I encourage each of my students to find a passion and follow it. That's what I've done. And I've virtually loved every day of work. And, I am confident, my family was better for it, too.

Simply put, it ain't work if you love what you do.

It's why I haven't retired -- and am struggling with the thought of retirement -- because I still love going to work every day.

And that's the biggest paycheck you can receive.

Pleasures and passings...

Sunday was full of surprise.

Two came, as usual, in the Sunday New York Times, which is always full of surprises. The other a few minutes ago from the Associated Press.

All were about great pleasures and passings.

The first surprise, which I actually learned from a former student on Friday, was the end of a staple in the New York Times Sunday Magazine. The "On Language" column, written for decades by William Safire, whom I had the pleasure to meet several times during my tenure with the company, announced that today was the last entry for the column that began in 1979 with expectations of lasting "a year, maybe." The predictor, then-Executive Editor Abe Rosenthal, who was not often wrong, certainly missed it by a few years.

The column explored the vagaries of the English language. It was pithy, often humorous, always instructive.

I must admit I hadn't paid as close attention to it since Bill Safire gave it up on his death in September 2009.

In recent years, my attention, immediately upon hitting a temporary hurdle in the Sunday crossword, went to "The Ethicist"' by Randy Cohen, who'd been waxing on ethical issues for all of the column's 12 years.

I enjoyed the interesting spots that people found (or put) themselves in. Even more, I enjoyed Mr. Cohen's attempts to put all issues, big and small, in proper ethical perspectives. I, as many of his readers, did not always agree with his proclamations. But that's what made the column so enticing: It got you to think! About ethics. About the ethical paths we set for ourselves.

(And, by the way, that it's OK to sneak food and drink into a movie theater.)

Then, shortly before I sat down to write this, I checked the AP wire and discovered that one of my childhood heroes had passed: Duke Snider, who roamed center field for the Brooklyn Dodgers, my team during my formative years.

I had the pleasure of meeting my childhood hero once. As a young reporter for the Melbourne (Fla.) Times in 1966, I went to Dodgertown in Vero Beach to do a story. Directly behind me in the stands, which were mostly empty that day, sat the Duke chatting with Joe Garagiola, another former player who became far better at broadcasting than he ever was at baseball.

I eavesdropped on their chatter, then turned and said, "Hi." We had a pleasant exchange, for a few minutes, I recall. I recall nothing of what was said. No matter, it was the moment that counted.

Passings are always a bit sad, but they offer important lessons.

Whether columns in a newspaper magazine or, to a young lad, a pillar of sport, enjoy the moments.

"On Language" lasted 32 years, "The Ethicist" 12, and the Duke 84. Long or short, the moments I've spent with them throughout my life will be missed.

I enjoyed them all, though I appreciate them more now.

And I am thankful that those moments are now part of my memories.

* * *

Update: To my surprise, today's Sunday Magazine (March 6) included the Ethicist column, just not by Randy Cohen, who said farewell last Sunday to begin a similar "gig" with public radio and gave the impression that the column, not just him, had been discontinued. The new "Ethicist" is Ariel Kaminer, the "City Critic" for The New York Times. Her first column read well, though lacked the humorous touches (even on serious issues that often masked chagrin) displayed by Cohen. Happy that the column survived the magazine's retooling, and I wish her well.

The rich get richer...

We were burgled once. It was 1993 in Gainesville, Fla.

In mid-morning, the thief broke in through a bedroom window -- the bedroom of our son, Ian, who still has "issues" about first-floor windows to this day -- and roamed through the house, no doubt after being greeted warmly by our beloved Dalmation, Sparky, the nicest dog ever.

"Woof!" ("Glad you're here!," in dogspeak.)

I discovered the instrusion with good friend John Perry of King Features as we drove up to the house. We spotted an open-mouthed front door and, curiously, two socks in the walkway.

At first, I thought that I'd left the door open and that Sparky had grabbed a couple of Ian's socks to play with.

It wasn't Sparky.

Police told us the thief, once in the house, used the socks so that no fingerprints would be left as evidence. (Though the intruder had left them all over the window he had broken for entry. Hmmm, says something about the logic of petit thieves.)

The police came, expressed their regrets in monotones and assessed the loss (some jewelry, of which we didn't have much, though the thief was expert because only "meltable" metal objects of worth were taken).

We were happy in the thought that not that much was missing, except that bit of jewelry. (My antique Nikon and equipment, which was far more valuable than the thief's booty, sat highly visable, though undetected, on the living room floor.)

The police were candid, saying that, most likely, no one would ever be caught (and that, honestly, they wouldn't spend much, if any, time on the case. "The stuff will be melted down in an hour." "Happens all the time in a college town.")

Just after their departure, suddenly, a stark realization hit: The eff-ing thief had taken my bicycle, which had been, as is the case for most grad students, which I was at the time, parked at the ready in front of the fireplace in the living room.

"Holy crap," I yelled (literally). "He took my friggin' bike. Now, I'm pissed."

Well, for a relatively short time, which brings us to the purpose of this piece.

We value experiences. We value memories.

They can't be stolen except by, at times, the ravages of old age and, ultimately, death.

I had a friend, once, surprise me with tickets to Carnegie Hall. There's the 70-mile round trip to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro on foot. Those few beers with Nelson Mandela in a back yard in Johannesburg. A road trip to Montana with a good friend to see more good friends, and Bloody Marys most mornings. An angst-free childhood because of two nurturing parents. A beautiful wife and an ever-growing love more than 40 years after that first kiss on a New Year's Eve. Two kids who continue to inspire and amaze. A grandson who can bring a smile with a wink or a nod. A life overflowing with memories old, new and anticipated.

In our case, the rich get richer, and no one can make us poor.

Especially folks who break windows.

* * *

P.S.: Photo is one of our priceless memories -- Malcolm, Valerie Rollison, Joyce, Jerry Rollison, and dear friend Ann Brill at "breezy" Beartooth Pass in Montana this summer.

A different league...

What the Baylor game proved to those of us sitting in the stands (after braving a snowstorm and slippery roadways to and from Allen Fieldhouse) was simple and clear:

Baylor is in a different league, playing at a different level. The KU women, who have a long way to go to be "that good," were crushed, 76-37. (Quite frankly, it wasn't even that close because Baylor's "scrubs" played a good part of the second half. Once, when I glanced up at the scoreboard, the lineup on the floor for Baylor showed zeros after each name -- no fouls and no points scored, which meant they hadn't played any of the game up to that point.)

Baylor's success (and KU's lack of it) can be attributed to many things...though, it helps when you have a 6'8" center who can play, and play well.

OK, already, here it is...

OK, I’ve already broken my New Year’s resolution. Call me human.

And I’ve been chided by one of this blog’s loyal readers, who shall remain nameless (but whose initials are Ian Gibson. Oops!).

So, I will renew the promise: if no tome, then a feeble sentence or two, such as these I've posted today, to this blog once each week (usually on a Saturday, though this is Wednesday).

However, as I write this, exists a world that is most distracting, a post card of sorts: a true winter wonderland, with snow falling briskly – at about one inch per hour. Magical and magnificent.

Until the drive home that is.

Ah, but then, a warm fire and a cold beer.

Who could ask for anything more…

…except a bit of luck at tonight’s women’s basketball game at Allen Fieldhouse against the Baylor Bears, the #1 women’s team in the nation right now.

Wish us luck. We'll be there.

The KU women have the talent, I am convinced, but apparently not the confidence. The women’s team, unlike the men’s, which seems to always find a way to win, seems to find a way to not.

Joyce and I made the road trip (by booster buses) to Lincoln, Neb., on Sunday. It was exciting contest, enjoyed by a 100 or so KU fans who made the trip, including my 95-year-old mother and 88-year-old dad. KU tied the game at the end of regulation with an aerobatic, almost impossible three-point effort from Monica Engelman. But, alas, in overtime, it was all Cornhuskers. KU could score but a measly two points, while Nebraska tallied double digits.

Tonight’s test will require a consistent effort throughout from a team that seems to have embraced the concept of inconsistency instead.

Let's hope I eat my words.

The Gazette and a promise....

For those with an interest, the latest edition of The Gibson Gazette, our annual update that we send to some family and friends, is available. (I tried to provide a PDF version with this posting, but it wouldn't load. This was my first try at this, so there might be a way to do it, but I couldn't figure it out, and the "how to" and FAQ links on the blogspot "help" site is anything but very helpful. A JPG version of Page One is provided. To make it bigger, just hold down the Ctl button and hit the + button four or five times. If you want Page Two, please send me an email -- jayhawkprof@yahoo.com is preferred because I check it more often while home -- and I'll send you the PDF version of this latest edition and/or, on request, previous editions.)

As many of you might know, The Gibson Gazette gives updates on family and friends, hitting some (not all) of the highlights during a year.

And, yes, it is in traditional newspaper format. While I embrace the present, it is the past that provided most of my rewards in life. So the Gazette is both a recognition and a tribute to those treasured times. That said, as many of you know, I am most envious of the current crop of budding journalists, and not because they're decades younger than I. It's because they are entering the most exciting age journalism has offered, allowing them to speak to the world, as well as being part of a generation that will redefine -- reinvent -- what good journalism is and should be.

While the Gazette is an annual event, this blog is not -- though it might seem that way because I've failed to post anything in a few months. The reasons are many, yet all are feeble when analyzed. So, a promise: Every Saturday morning, I've promised myself to post "something" -- if not a carefully crafted tome, then a least a few scratchy sentences.

I started the blog to get back to honing what little writing talents and skills I might possess because I have several (many, really) writing projects I'd like to pursue, especially after retirement. Writing well, I fear, is much like my chess game, which once was quite good but now suffers greatly from inactivity.

So I ask your patience and indulgence (as well as any constructive criticism).

For now, I wish you all a holiday season and a new year filled with good health and happiness.

Auto math: MG - MG = MX5 GT

I'm not tied to "things." "Things" and "stuff" don't own me.

OK, there are two "things."

Joyce often kids that, if the house were to catch fire, I'd first grab the signed and numbered Picasso serigraph (signed, unfortunately, not by Pablo but by Picasso's daughter with the inscription "from the collection of Marina Picasso"). I'd then grab my 1889 edition of "Stanley in Africa," Henry Stanley's account of finding Dr. Livingstone, who had been "lost" in remote Africa in his quest to find the source of the Nile.

My Stanley book story lends value to the value of the book. If you're not interested, skip to the next graf. If curiosity prevails, here goes: As a student at the University of Florida in African Studies, I was in the attic of the library doing research when, rummaging through the shelves, I stumbled upon the Stanley book. Opening the back cover, I saw that it had last been checked out shortly before I was born in 1943. This was 1977. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I do NOT have a larcenous bone in my body. If a clerk were to give me a nickel more in change than deserved, and if I failed to discover the additional bounty until after reaching home, I'd get back in the car and drive whatever miles necessary to return the unearned five cents. But, on that day in the musty attic on the UF campus, larceny did, indeed, raise its ugly head. I thought about taking the book. My rationale was simple: I'd give it a good home after being ignored for 34 years. After reflection, I ultimately put it back. Jump five years to the future, shortly after I had been named editor at the newspaper in Hendersonville, N.C. Joyce and I went to one of our favorite events - a used book sale, this one by the Hendersonville Public Library. Entering the hall where the sale was held, I glanced over at the rare book table and, lo and behold, there was my Stanley book. A woman, much older than I, was getting ready to pick it up. "Excuse me," I said as I reached past her grasp to put the treasure into my own. ("Dr. Livingstone, I presume!") Inside, in pencil, was the price: $1. Ahhh, no doubt the book gods were repaying me for my successful resistance to theft years earlier in that attic.

So Picasso and Stanley, then back into the flames for Joyce.

Back to the "stuff," some folks think there's a third "thing" -- my 1979 orange (officially, blaze red) MGB roadster. No so, but...

...Wednesday will be filled with a bit of emotion because I'm letting go of a "thing" that has consumed a good many hours of my life, most pleasantly.

Today, I announced that "I'm selling the MG" in the newsroom to an audible groan (and not from me, but from the Kansan staffers there that morning). In fact, that's been the response of everyone I've told. I truly didn't think people cared that much.

Take heart. I may be selling the old lady (the MG, folks, not Joyce), but I'm staying the same. The MGB, my "every day" car that has been a part of our lives for seven years, many thousands of miles, and a number of tows by triple-A, is being swapped for a 2007 dark green Mazda Miata MX5 Grand Touring model. Both are two-seated roadsters (though the Miata comes with heated seats).

Why? Age is the biggest issue. Not the MG's, but mine.

Moreover, to own an MG, ultimately you have to become a pretty good mechanic. (One club member fashioned a head gasket from an old cereal box found along the side of the road when his failed.) I simply won't ever be that accomplished a mechanic because of the lack of both aptitude and desire. I've loved the MG, just not enough to do the oft-required surgery required of old British cars, often on the side of the road. I simply want to spend my time on other pursuits, most especially reading and writing, as well as the drinking of fine ales (and sometimes at the same time).

Joyce and I decided we wanted a roadster to travel the country to see our children (one on one coast, one on the other) and some kin and good friends. After much angst, we decided that the MG simply was not reliable (or safe) enough.

So, we began exploring. First on the list was a Honda S2000. We found one in Kansas City, and the color was just right (yellow), but it was a bit pricey and almost too comfortable. Moreover, Honda decided last year to discontinue the model. We plan to keep the "new" old car for a lot of years, so we were a bit concerned about getting parts for the S2000 if none were being made.

Miatas, which, like the Honda, get high marks from Consumer Reports and folks we know who've owned 'em, have been made for a long time now. The expectation is that they'll be made for a lot longer, too, so parts (and advice) should be plentiful. And there's an active Miata club in the area.

As you know, we value the "travel" of travel. So, we'll still be cruising the highways with the top down. We just expect (and are hopeful) that we won't be meeting any triple-A tow truck drivers (one of whom once said of the MG: "I've towed this one before.")