One of the best pieces of advice I ever received from my wife Carmela happened several years ago in Yellowstone National Park.

We like to visit the park late in the season right before it closes to traffic for the winter so we’re not stuck in long lines of tourists all patiently waiting in their cars to get in touch with nature. Later in the year, when most of the usual Yellowstone visitors have returned to their jobs or the comfort of their own homes, the park is almost empty, often quite cold and snowy, and sometimes magical.

On the particular day in question, we were driving through the park in the late evening when we came over a rise in the road and there, standing defiantly right in the middle of the highway, was a wolf.

I stopped the car and immediately started fumbling for my camera to capture the moment, but Carmela put her hand on my arm.

“Don’t take a picture,” she said. “Just look.”

So, I put the camera down, and I just looked at this wild beast, who seemed not at all intimidated by our sudden appearance. Nobody really knows what a wild animal may be feeling, but we figured he was thinking something like:  What the hell do you think you’re doing in my territory as winter approaches and the hunt for food to sustain the pack is underway?

After several silent moments of us staring at him and him staring at us, the wolf slowly turned and walked into the brush by the side of the road and disappeared.

Whatever it meant for the wolf, for us it was a magical moment that we still remember vividly years later. So, I didn’t get the picture, but what I got was way better than that. A picture of a wolf, through a dirty windshield would have been just that – a picture of a wolf through a dirty windshield.

Instead, I got an experience that I still remember fondly many years later.

The lesson I learned is that the camera – especially in this digital age – has become a device that separates us from the reality of what is going on around us.

Most of the time, this obsession to capture everything on camera is benign and harmless.

People go to an airshow and take a video of the Navy’s Blue Angels or the Air Force’s Thunderbirds’ jets flying past in formation – even though this picture has been taken from every angle imaginable and made available thousands of times already.

It seems the idea is to just offer proof to the world that they were actually there and saw what is in the picture they took. Except they really didn’t.

What they saw was a little movie on their screen of what they could have actually seen if they had just put their camera or their phone down.

But sometimes, the obsession to capture real life on camera is quite sinister.

We see videos on the internet and TV of mobs beating up people. Instead of putting the camera down and going to help rescue the victims, the camera separates the person from the horror of what is happening right in front of them. It makes them a dispassionate observer, a bystander that says: This has nothing to do with me, but I will take a video of it.

That’s not good enough. Don’t hide behind the camera, digitally separated from what is happening right in front of you.

Horror needs to be observed straight on and confronted straight on.

Cowardice should not be an option.

– George Lee Cunningham

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As I grow older, I find myself changing. I am currently 84 years, eyeing 85 in just a few months.

One of the strange habits I have developed in the past couple of years is reading the obituaries in the local newspaper. I want to see who has died, who was older than me when he died, and who was younger. At 84-and-2/3rds, I am much closer to the end than I was at any time before in my life. And that’s fine. I have done a lot of crazy and foolish stuff in my life that is convincing and clear evidence that I do not fear death.

My problem is this: Despite all the aches and pains of old age, the endless daily parade of pills, drops, blood thinners, and medical syrups that are part of my every-day life – I am really having a good time right now.

In fact, this is actually the very best time of my life.

I have a woman who loves me, cooks for me, and treats me with her special kit of blood stoppers, bandages, and coagulants when I spring a leak. Best of all, she shares my bed each and every night – and sometimes in the afternoon.

Carmela turns 70 this year. She walks 3-to-5 miles a day, exercises daily, and does yoga. My wife has declared that she expects me to live another 10 years. She has not changed that 10-year mantra in the last five years that she’s been saying it. And if you talk to her in another five or so years, she’ll insist, it’s “another 10 years.” She is very adamant about it. She does not look forward to being a widow.

But when we mention that to doctors – their response is more measured, although not necessarily encouraging. A cross between: “well, good for you,” and “let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

So, what’s my reaction? I read the obituaries in the local newspapers whenever I find one lying around at a coffee shop or restaurant. And I divide the obits into people who died younger than me and people who died older.

The sad fact is the listing of people who died older than me keeps getting shorter, and the listing of obituaries for people who died younger keeps growing. I also notice that most of the people who died older than me were women. Not fair, but women for the most part, live longer than men so a woman dying at an age older than me is less impressive than a man dying older than me.

Why do I care?

I’m not sure. Partially morbid curiosity, partially a life-long quirk of trying to fit reality into some kind of pattern, but mostly because I love my wife.

Dying is the easy part. Being left behind is where the pain resides.

So, I will continue to read the obits – partially for entertainment, but mostly to remind myself that all good things come to an end, no matter how much we may enjoy them.

– George Lee Cunningham

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Back in January an effusive Elon Musk, not the most disciplined or eloquent speaker, gave an exuberant gesture in which he threw his right arm above his head – as many others have done before him. But when Musk did it, people who had a political axe to grind decided they could read his mind and figure out that he was a Nazi, antisemitic, and loved Hitler.

Then a few weeks ago when Cory Booker made a similar gesture, conservative people accused this liberal politician of maybe being a Nazi, antisemitic, and of loving Hitler. Most of the commentary was a joke. Nobody really thought this black left-wing politician from New Jersey was a secret Nazi. They were just pointing out how silly it is to read somebody’s mind and secret political leanings from a common gesture.

Booker’s folks, however, took it very seriously, claiming that their man was not a Nazi and that unlike Elon, the salute was not at all Nazi-like.

And so, the party is on. Claims and counter-claims from both sides of the media take up more “news” time than the economy, infrastructure or world peace.

Personally, I wish they’d all just – in the words of my plain-spoken brother-in-law Charlie Roth – “knock that shit off!”

It is all too silly. Corey Booker is not a Nazi, and neither is Elon Musk or any of the other politicians who have waved their arms around while giving impassioned speeches. And claiming they are is merely evidence of how silly the debate between the politically inclined and vocal segments of the population has become.

These are the folks who wake up in the morning and check their feed to decide what they are supposed to believe on any certain day. They are the left-wing folks who get their news and views from MSNBC or CNN or other media outlets, and they are the right-wing folks who tune into Fox News and Newsmax networks and other conservative media sites to determine their own opinions.

The truth is that most Americans are not consumed by the views of the political crusaders, nor should they be. Most of us are merely attempting to live our lives, make our own lots a little better, and enjoy our families.

And we are offended by politicians and bureaucrats from both parties who use their positions to enrich themselves and their families.

In plain language, we would really like everybody to just “knock that shit off.”

– George Lee Cunningham 

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I sometimes think that I am getting soft and overly sentimental in my old age.

I – like most of my fellow humans – am an omnivore, meaning I like to eat both plants and animals. I understand there are many vegetarians out there who have boycotted meat, but I think they are denying their basic instincts.

Like all omnivores – such as the bears, pigs, racoons, rats, skunks, gorillas, and most birds – we may enjoy veggies, fruits and berries, but we also need some meat to round out our diet. We are what we eat, and meat gives us the edge to deal with the world as it is.

But, as I get older, I have a different attitude toward the food that I eat. As corny as it may sound, I want to respect the animal who has provided me his flesh. So, I buy free-range chickens and free-range chicken eggs when I go to the grocery store, and I attempt to buy grass-fed beef. I am not that naïve. I know that labels can be misleading and what is advertised isn’t always the complete truth.

But when somebody kills an animal, I would like to think they do it with respect and put every bit of that animal’s body toward a purpose. And since I do not kill the animal myself, and I would not have the means to process that animal’s body if I did, I have to trust the label.

I am also aware that my preferences along that line can be expensive. Not everybody can afford the luxury of such do-gooder indulgences. When there are many mouths to feed and only so much cash to spend, one has to be ready to compromise.

But here is my moral dilemma.

I love rack of lamb. These are the ribs of a cute, little 6-month-old offspring of sheep. Their meat is tender and sweet, and I truly crave and enjoy it. So, I bought a rack of lamb at the market several weeks ago and told myself that just this one time, I was going to eat it and remember how good it tastes. As my wife Carmela unwrapped, prepared and cooked the lamb up for me, I sat watching and promised us both “OK, I’m eating this because we bought it, but after this, no more lamb for me ever.” And so, I ate it, and my goodness, it was delicious. Since then, I get rack of lamb about twice a month. So much for wild promises.

Carmela won’t eat it. She eats meat, but women are not as much meat-lovers as are men. And she says she doesn’t like lamb, so when I have lamb, she eats lentils or a black-bean veggie-burger that has corn and other little vegies in it, for heaven’s sake. Last time, she insisted I have a bite, and it was OK, but come on, it was hardly meat.

I would truly hate it if Carmela gave up meat altogether, and I’m left eating steaks and chops all by myself. Dinner would not be the same. Now I get the benefit of eating part of her meat most nights.

The problem is that I like lamb. Lions, tigers, wolves and other predators stalk the young offspring of the animals they prey upon. In the animal kingdom, there are those who eat and those who are eaten, and the line between the two is often very fuzzy and imprecise. Humans are usually – but not always – at the top of the food chain, and then only because we have technology on our side.

The truth is, I like being on the top of the food chain. It’s one of the many perks to being a human.

And I intend to enjoy it, no matter how guilty it sometimes makes me feel.

NOTE: Carmela edited this essay the same way she cooks rack of lamb. Under duress.

– George Lee Cunningham

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My beautiful wife Carmela likes to go walking in the early morning, and along the way she pets all the dogs she sees and gives them doggie treats from her bag. She says hello to all the early morning folks out walking like herself, and gets a lot of exercise. One recent morning, as she went traipsing down the street, in the grass by the sidewalk she spots a $100 bill.

WOAH! A brand, spanking new $100-door bill with Benjamin Franklin’s face looking back at her. Carmela folded it up and brought it home from her walk and showed it to me. What should we do? Should we post on the internet that we found a $100 bill, and ask did anybody lose it? The problem being, of course, that more-than-one anybody could say they lost it, but nobody would be able to verify it.

Carmela is very honest. She doesn’t want to profit from somebody else’s misfortune, so she decides – and I agree – to donate the $100 to Robyne’s Nest, a local Orange County charity that provides housing and other amenities for at-risk and homeless high school students who have little or no parental support.

It’s a good organization and if you’re interested you can find out more about it at:

https://www.robynesnest.org/

We both agree that it would be a good thing to donate the money to Robyne’s Nest, so we could at least turn somebody’s misfortune into something good for the community. So, Carmela celebrated her discovery by donating $100 to Robne’s Nest, and since she was in such a good mood, she matched it with another $100 of our money, plus she paid the $7.75 fee for using Pay Pal to make the transaction.

So far, so good. But we still had the original $100 bill that needed to be spent.

No problem. We had planned to go shopping at the huge Mercardo Gongalez, Mexican market in Costa Mesa. I tucked the bill in my wallet to pay for our purchases. When the cashier tallied up our purchases and I gave her Carmela’s found $100 bill to pay for it, she politely declined.

I was shocked. What’s wrong with the bill, I asked. She flipped it over to the back side – the one without Benjamin Franklin’s Face on it, where it said in clear and unmistakable print: “Movie Money, not real.”

To her credit, the cashier just laughed and handed the bill back and we paid in regular old $20s and $1s. I’m not sure whether she was laughing at how shocked we obviously were or how stupid we were, but I suspect it was a bit of both.

Carmela and I laughed about it for the same reason.

How could we have been so dumb?

I think Carmela was caught up in the spirit of doing the right thing, because that’s who she is.

And me? I have no real excuse. I love my wife, and I’m not too smart.

Let that be a lesson to us both.

– George Lee Cunningham

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