"We fall down, but we get up..."

A little more than a year ago, my life was a mess.

I believe that all good writing is personal, but I can't talk about all of the things that brought me to that state; someday perhaps. It was a combination of bad choices and bad luck and, if I were to be honest, more of the former than the latter.

Suffice it to say that there wasn't much going on that I was happy about. My personal and professional life was essentially a mess--finances, too--and in order to make everything right, I needed to get a new job at a time when my industry was shedding workers the way a Siberian husky sheds fur in July, buy a new house at a time when banks wouldn't finance a dime if you showed them a nickel, and sell my house amidst one of the worst real estate markets in history.

I needed more than a do-over--more, even, than a single miracle. I needed three.

I am writing tonight from the second miracle, confident that the third will happen. I say that not to brag or in any way to degrade all that has happened in the past year--the new job, the new house, reconciling my family--but to remind everyone that even amidst the worst times in life, the impossible can happen.

I am not sure what the ultimate goal is with these blog entries, which will come under the heading of 'The Third Miracle,' or even how good I'll be at it. Maybe, if the words cooperate and if I can remember how to string a few sentences together coherently, I'll be able to offer some hope and encouragement to anyone who needs it or lift the spirits of anyone who needs to smile.

Because I'm nothing special. I don't deserve good fortune any more than anyone else. Yet I've been blessed and I know it. And if it can happen to someone as broke down, hurt and dispirited as I was, it can happen to anyone.

'How'd the simple life get so complicated...?"

I was still in my shirt and tie when Henry belted out the panicked words no one wants to hear.

"Dad! Dad! There's something wrong with the toilet!"

Normally, that's enough to get someone moving pretty quick, but for some reason I could only push myself off the couch and amble down the hallway. Maybe I was afraid of what I would find there. Normally putting the words 'Henry' and 'bathroom' in the same sentence was enough to induce...well, certainly caution, if not fear.

He stood by the side of the bowl, pointing down, his eyes wide open. The water was rising slowly past the point of no return--heading for the top of the bowl and the tile below.

"Do we have a plunger?"

"What'd you do to that thing?" I asked, then shook my head. "Never mind." I looked under the sink, then remembered.

We are in a new house now, gradually moving things from our last place. I didn't need to look anywhere else, either, to answer Henry's question. Most likely, the plunger hadn't yet made the trip.

Well, that's a helpless feeling: watching the toilet water rise over the high-water mark, knowing your plunger is probably in a different zip code. All we could do was watch as the water slowed, then crested--just below the rim. We exhaled as one.

The relief was short lived, because that meant a trip to Target was in order. It wasn't quite what I had planned for the night, but a backed up toilet would trump even the best-laid plans. I changed my clothes and headed out into the damp night.

I realize that everyone has a plunger and there's nothing embarrassing about going out and buying one, but I would prefer to camouflage a purchase like that in a larger pile of groceries, the way you would try to hide a tube of ointment or a super-sized box of odor-eaters. I visualized myself whistling as I walked from the store, plunger perched over my shoulder like a rifle. That'd be awkward.

But if it was going to be awkward, why not go all the way? Anyone could go to the store, pick up a plunger and stroll out. Why not do it in style? Why not be memorable? Why not sprint into the store, shouting:
"Oh my God, oh my God, OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod where are the plungers? WHERE ARE THE PLUNGERS? Oh, where ARE they?"

Well, I didn't do that, but the thought put a bit of a smile on my face. Here is where the genius of true marketing stands out.

The plungers were by the cleaning supplies, close to the check out lanes. But you can't just buy a plunger anymore. Well, perhaps someone can, but I can't. As silly as I'd feel walking into Target just to buy a plunger, I'd feel even sillier buying a $2 plunger that looked like someone made it in shop class--and then paying for it with a debit card. If I was going to break out the card, I needed to break double digits. That meant picking up the Michael Graves Design plunger, complete with an "easy carry bottom."

Why a plunger needed an easy carry bottom, I can't even guess. Wasn't that what the handle was for? And weren't handles, by definition, easy carry? Suffice it to say this plunger was far too graceful a tool for the sloppy job ahead of it. But it satisfied the price requirement, so I picked it up--by the handle--and turned to leave.

Then I noticed the pet supplies were in the next aisle.

That's how they get you. This pairing might seem innocent enough, but it was actually a devious plan hatched in a corporate board room somewhere. Anyone self conscious enough to buy the premier plunger instead of the $2 special would probably want to, as I mentioned before, camouflage his purchase and such a person--a man, most likely--would probably have a dog. And since he owned a dog, he probably spoiled the dog and therefore was out of dog treats.

Sure enough, back at the house, Jack was as short on treats as I had been on plungers. They even had one of his favorite kinds, which looked like and, I assume, tasted like bacon.

The evidence that this product placement was completely planned came at the checkout lane. Had I been a cashier, the sight of someone plopping down a $15 plunger and a bag of dog treats might strike me as odd. Not Dave, who manned the register that night. He just gave me a knowing smile as he rang up the purchase, as if the odd combination of products proved that all was right in the world; that everything was going according to plan.

"Have a nice night," he told me, pointing to the plunger in the bag.

I nodded and headed home.

In a New York state of mind

It's been a week since the Tigers have been bounced from the playoffs, and I'm finally ready to talk about it.

I know, I know. Everybody has already had their say and most of them...okay, all of them...are more informed about the subject than I am, so what makes me think I have something to contribute to this great sing-along?

Well, nothing really. But sports is like love and middle fingers, it's a universal language that we can all converse about in some way. Even now, near a hospital bed, in a dimly-lit room or an otherwise uncomfortably silent car ride, my dad and I can talk about sports. Or I can talk and he can listen.

Anyway, I'm still not sure how to classify the Tigers' season. Magical doesn't quite fit, since I and perhaps most of the fan base spent two-thirds of the season in a state of anxious frustration, second-guessing any one of Manager Jim Leyland's 99 different line-ups or any number of his odd bullpen decisions.

Successful? Could be. If it were truly successful, they'd still be playing, but in the end they did a lot better than I thought they would. I had them picked to finish third, near the .500 mark, but slightly above it. Who would've thought that they'd go on a late-season tear and that, for once, their trade acquisitions would work out?

Solid falls short, as does good, but I think I'll leave it at good because I"m not all that fond of the word 'great' and I don't feel like cracking open my thesaurus. Any season when the Tigers not only make the playoffs, but eliminate the Yankees deserves a stronger word and if you can think of one, go ahead and leave it in the comments section. One of these days, I'll figure out how to comment on the comments below the blogs and I'll be able to respond there, too.

Actually, the Tigers/Yankees are responsible for two of my favorite baseball memories. The first came in 2006, when I was driving up north in a car that had no radio antenna. Not more than a minute out of the metro area, and the game faded out and no amount of tweaking could bring it back in. I drove into a static-filled night, watching the numbers scroll by on the stereo display until, improbably, they stopped on the game--broadcast from the Yankees radio network. Yankee fans calling the Tigers/Yankees game. If you want to hurt someone, Stephen Donaldson once wrote, take something he loves away from him and give him back something broken.

Ah well. What else could I do? I turned it up, thanking God for small favors.

It wasn't exactly a marquee match-up, but perhaps it would have been in 1996. Kenny Rogers was taking on Randy Jackson--the oldest starting pitching combination in post season history. I didn't like our chances, but somehow The Gambler had silenced the Yanks--part of his own post-season dominance that season--and the announcers were not only pissed off about it, they were absolutely flummoxed.

"Well, they have to get SOMETHING going," one of them, a woman, said. "I mean, this is Kenny Rogers out there!"

I stopped in a bar near Houghton Lake as Rogers neared the end of his night. It was called Bumppers; it's not there anymore, having since been demolished and replaced by a Walgreen's. I walked in, completely out of place in my shorts and Hawaiian shirt. But Rogers, with a fist pump, left the game with his shutout intact and I shouted: "Kenny (bleeping) Rogers!" and was answered by a chorus of cheers. We were all brothers that night, the flannel-clad regulars at the bar and I.

The second memory, of course, is watching Justin Verlander blow Alex Rodriguez away with a 100-mph fast ball. My eyes runneth over even now, thinking of it.

Bless you boys.

Next year promises to be much the same: frustrating and anxious because, while the Tigers have a good core to build from with Verlander, Doug Fister, Miguel Cabrera and the rest, the remainder of the division will be improved, too. The Twins won't be hurt. The Indians will have another year under their belts. The Royals, with the young hitters and pitchers that caused many other teams fits in the later portion of the season, will have more seasoning, too. And Adam Dunn has to remember how to hit sooner or later.

Those are concerns for another day. Right now I'm happy the Tigers played longer than the Yankees. Watching the dejected faces of A-Rod, Derek Jeter and the rest of the Bombers in the dugout while all of Motown celebrated always puts me in a New York state of mind.

"For you, the blind who once could see, the bell tolls for thee..."

“So, what do you want to write today?”

There was no answer, but I knew he was awake. He had been a few minutes ago and nobody fell asleep that fast—not when they were sitting up on a vinyl-covered chair in an open-backed hospital gown, that is. It takes a long time to overcome that kind of discomfort, to relax enough amidst the drafts and mild indignities to drift off to sleep.

But my dad just sat there, head turned slightly away from me, with his closed eyelids fluttering and his mouth set in a determined line.

“No ideas, either, huh?” I said. I looked back at the word document, blank except for the date at the top of the page. “I know what you mean. You know, I used to be good at this. I used to write for a living. Remember that?”

He probably did not. Or if he did, he probably could not tell me so. Or if he did try to tell me, I probably wouldn’t be able to understand him. Alzheimer’s affects everyone—victims and family members—differently. It robbed my dad of the ability to communicate the way he used to, which means we don’t know exactly what he’s going through; what, if anything he’s thinking and, worst of all, how to help.

“Are you thirsty?” I rattled a Styrofoam cup filled with water and ice. No response.

Hmm.

Well, it was his second visit to a hospital in the past month and he was actually doing better this time around. I’ll never forget that first trip; it will forever be ingrained in my nightmares, from the day I had to help pry him out of the car to the 15 (15!!!!) hours spent in a emergency room to the weeks afterward. He was once the strongest man I knew and here he was reduced to a state of utter dependency that even he didn’t understand. That kind of thing doesn’t fade easily.

He was much better this time. In fact the only thing keeping him there was his own stubbornness. All his vitals were as normal: fever gone, infection apparently chased away by the latest IV drip. All he had to do was open his eyes, eat on his own, respond to us.

But it would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him that he didn’t care for the hospital stay and he didn’t like being poked and prodded at regular intervals—and it pissed him off.

“We can probably get you out of here tomorrow,” I told him, “but you’ve got to listen. You’ve got to open your eyes. You’ve got to drink and eat. That’s one of the reasons you’re here…because you got dehydrated.”

He mumbled something; it might have been a word or two but it was so soft I couldn’t tell, so jumbled I couldn’t understand it.

“You want to watch some football? The game’s almost on.”

Nothing. He was still sitting, his turned away from me. Not for the first time, I wondered if this was it. Would we ever be able to get him to understand? Was this the beginning of the end? He was only 66; way too young to check out like this.

Then I closed my eyes—squeezed them shut, actually—and pressed my fingers against my temples until those thoughts passed.

“So. You’ve forgotten everything except how to be stubborn, huh? Well, I learned that lesson, too. I learned it from the best.” I sat down in the chair beside him and flipped open the laptop.

“So what do you want to write tonight?”

"Allow myself to introduce myself..."

My name is Scott Spielman. Welcome and thanks for reading.

I am going to keep this introductory entry a little short, mostly because it is Sunday afternoon and my 'to do' list from yesterday is still only half done. I will keep it simple and mention a few things to keep in mind if you feel like keeping up, sharing, or following this blog.

First of all, even though I was a newspaper editor for more than a dozen years, I was never too keen on editing my own stuff. Most of what you will read will fall under the category of the title of my very first newspaper column: "Off the Cuff." So most of what you will read is a first draft, without too much thought put into it (as many of you who knew me from those days were often kind enough to point out.)

Second, the topics I will cover will vary--anything from local and national politics, to the comic book industry, 'life as I know it,' faith, writing, or whatever else comes to mind. Eventually I will link up the fiction stories that have been gathering an impressive number of rejection slips, too. Many of the titles will be inspired by--if not outright stolen--from song titles, lyrics or movie quotes.

Third, feel free to post any comments you have--as long as they're civil. As I always pointed out to my newspaper readers, it's fine to disagree as long as you avoid name calling and profanity and all that.

Fourth...fourthly? Hmm. I'll have to break out my old style books on that one. Anyway, why write a blog, and why now? Well, although a few of you have mentioned that you miss my old one (and by that, I mean two people have), the real answer to that is: why not? That, and, well, perhaps you can answer that by applying something I've noticed at karaoke events, in general. Once some people have a microphone, they're not always eager to give it up--no matter how well suited they are to using it in the first place.

Okay, that's all for now. It's getting late and this house isn't going to clean itself. Thanks for checking in and I hope to hear from you.

--Scott