The Point After!

While I was raised in New Orleans, my mother’s home city, my father was from a town called Appleton, which is located in Wisconsin in the Fox Valley region about thirty miles south of Green Bay in the northeast section of the state. The third oldest, he had eight brothers and sisters that reached adulthood and they in turn produced thirty-eight offspring. Many of my thirty-seven first cousins now have extended families which include their children and grand-children. And while some have migrated to other states,(New Jersey, Florida, Arizona, Michigan, Indiana, Maryland, Georgia, and California), quite a few have stayed in the motherland, which makes family gatherings large, raucous affairs.

My father died when I was eleven but I still managed to stay in touch with my dad’s side of the family. This was facilitated in part because my mother and I lived in New Orleans. Honeymoons, Mardi Gras, Super Bowls, and just vacations in general made us popular with the folks up north and my mother in particular enjoyed taking various family members around the city and showing them the sights. But as I got older I enjoyed going up there as well. Wisconsin, believe it or not, is a fun place. I was there last week to watch my beloved New Orleans Saints play the defending Super Bowl champion Green Bay Packers at historic Lambeau Field. While we lost, by failing to score from the one yard line with no time remaining, the visit was typical for me. A football game disguised as an excuse to hang out with some of my favorite people. And fun starts and ends most of the time in one place.

Bars abound in Wisconsin. Even the smallest towns have more than one bar. They are social gathering places in the same manner as English pubs. And these people can drink beer. I mean a lot of beer. When I was in my early twenties I went up for a visit. This was the mid 1980’s and beer cost a a quarter at bars in Appleton. You read it right, a draft beer was twenty-five cents! And customers didn’t tip. Of course I was not accustomed to this so I was always leaving money for my bartender. One night I left a dollar on the bar and we went down the street to frequent some other establishments. On the way back we stopped back in that bar and my dollar was on the counter. The barkeep grabbed my dollar, poured a beer, and gave me my change. I still insisted on tipping and according to my cousin Allan that changed everything. He says no bartender ever expected a tip before and now they all do, and my cousins universally blame that phenomenon on me.

I had numerous cousins with me on those excursions but my cousin Linda was very memorable. She was, and still is , a very attractive girl but good looks aside she could hold her own with any of us, a trait she acquired growing up with three brothers. When I visited my Uncle Denny and Aunt Sandy’s house, (her parents), the first thing she did was go downstairs to the basement and fill up a pitcher with beer. The night we were out she started buying shots. She also left me standing in a bar holding her purse while she went to the bathroom , which resulted in my receiving some less than flattering remarks. But her out drinking me was nothing compared to what her brothers did to me later that week.

Peter, Brian, and David took me to several bars and before long my brain and legs were in conflict. Now I was staying with My Uncle Karl and Aunt Bernie. My Uncle Karl, known locally as the Guv,  had already been chewed out for just taking me to see Elsa at the Badger Bar, (Elsa was the owner), and not bringing me around to see other family members. So my cousins had no intention of dropping me off in person. They leaned me up against the door, rang the bell, and left. Ding Dong and Ditch is what they called it. As Brian said later, no one wanted to face the wrath of Bernie. As an aside Brian is a very clever guy. One night after some extended libation he ordered a pizza for delivery while in proximity to the restaurant. As the delivery man came out with his pizza Brian approached him and said that if he let him ride with him to his house he would pay him for the pie when they got there. The pizza guy was impressed and Brian got his ride.

My cousin Dave, ( I have two cousins named David), and I visited with Aunt Bernie on this trip. Dave told her that one of his sons now lived around the corner from her. She began remarking about how nice her neighborhood was. She then told us about two vacant houses nearby and a child molester who lived next door. With a straight face I asked her if she could describe a bad neighborhood for me. Actually her neighborhood is very nice with tree shaded streets and manicured lawns but I couldn’t resist.

I have some interesting uncles. My Uncle Jerome is in his eighties and still outworks people half his age. In his own words, “I don’t take any pills”, and he mows the lawns of all the “old” ladies in the neighborhood. When my cousin Dave and I went by his house after visiting with Aunt Bernie we couldn’t find him. He was on a ladder reparing something on his garage while also watching his great-grandson.

My Uncle Mike worked in the paper mills and is also an entrepreneur. He sells gourmet popcorn locally and over the internet. He recently bought $1,000,000 Iraqi dinars for about $1,300.00. What possessed him to do that is beyond me but knowing him he will make a profit. His grown daughters still take turns working in their popcorn stand.

My Uncle Denny is retired and cuts grass at the local golf club near his house. We played golf last week and he basically ground me like meat while wearing a long sleeved flannel shirt and blue jeans. He only used his woods, even for chips and shots normally reserved for irons, and before he swung he would say ” a thousand one”. He made one twenty foot putt and two other long putts he put on the lip of the cup. All his drives were in the fairway and all his approaches avoided hazards. After I hit the maintenance shed and a Pepsi machine with a drive I became frustrated. Crouched over the ball I swung and missed three times. On the fourth one I tipped the ball but it didn’t move. He chuckled at me and said “You are getting closer.” Finally after nine holes he looked at me and said “Merrill maybe we ought to go into the club house and get a beer?” Later that evening while sitting on his back deck he asked if we wanted to throw the football around.It should be noted that he is almost seventy years old. Ten years ago at a family reunion we had a touch football game. At age sixty he was running deep pass patterns and was leaving all of us in the dust. He doesn’t brag but he was offered a tryout with the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team when he was a teenager.

My Uncle Karl passed away six years ago. He had his basement set up like a bar and called it Karl’s Red Room. My Uncle Denny did the same thing except his was the Wagon Wheel Lounge. They even had business cards made. Uncle Karl was always telling really bad jokes but he was good about checking on me. He would call and say “Merrill this is your Uncle Karl from Wisconsin.” I would always respond by saying ” Thanks for clearing that up. I never know which Uncle Karl is calling unless you say that.” Of course I only had one Uncle Karl. I won’t tell you how he responded to that except to say it was colorful.

After my Uncle Denny humbled me at golf I went to his house for a fish fry. Later in the evening I was trying to leave and was told by my cousin Brian “One for the ditch.” Apparently that is the same as one for the road and you can’t refuse. I had at least six for the ditch before I was allowed to leave. Two days later my cousin Allan was trying to leave another party his parents , My Uncle Jerome and Aunt Carol, had thrown in my honor. As his wife was waiting impatiently in their truck. I said “One for the ditch.” Allan stopped, grabbed a beer, and his wife Ginger texted him “Good bye”. I felt bad about that. Sort of. Maybe if I hadn’t walked down the drive way and waved to her after she texted Allan the first time???

My cousin Dave was a world class fast pitch softball player, my cousin Pat is an outdoorsman so skilled that he could survive in the woods with a pocket knife and a pack of matches, my cousin Larry was a college basketball player, and well you get the picture. This is a hard family to hang with if you are not physically fit…like me. My cousin Allan is in his mid-fifties, a steamfitter, and he can still weld outside in below zero tempertures.

I don’t see my Wautlet kin as much as I would like. I tease them that since I moved to Shreveport, which is in Northwest Louisiana, that I am not nearly as popular as I was when I lived in New Orleans but I know that is not true. Every time I visit up there they all make me feel a part of something special. They love the Packers ( my cousin Allan has a Green Bay helmet tattoo on his arm and my cousin David named his son Brett after Brett Favre,) and I love the Saints but at the end of the day we are still family. However I refuse to buy or wear a Cheesehead. On that note I think I will have one for the ditch!

Recently the east coast of the United States was hit with a hurricane and an earthquake. The midwest was hit with killer tornadoes, one that completely destroyed a town. The south has been in the midst of a record breaking drought. And through it all one consistent theme has been present. The parts of our country that were not affected have often reacted with ambivalence, and worse disdain, over the plights of their fellow citizens.

In 2005 I was chairman of a metro New Orleans area Chamber of Commerce. After Katrina destroyed the region we were still operable in part due to the fact that we were located 40 miles north of the city across Lake Pontchartrain. One of the first orders of business was to convene all the representatives of the other New Orleans area chambers and come up with a plan to get our member businesses up and running. My first recommendation was that we go as a group to Washington D.C.

A group called Greater New Orleans Inc. was the trip organizer. Before we left I made it clear that meeting with our state delegation should not be a priority. I felt we had to meet with congressmen and senators who were not from our area who served on committees that could assist us. GNO Inc was not successful in this endeavor. We did meet with a Mississippi staffer but they were hard hit too and were seeking their own monies and we met with the junior senator from Delaware’s staffer and that was uneventful as well.

The reason I was adamant about meeting legislators other than our own was that the national response to our tragedy was shocking. There were comments about how the city was being punished by God for its sins and that we didn’t do enough to plan for the storm, and that posssibly the city should not even be rebuilt because of it being below sea level and situated so close to the Gulf of Mexico.

The fact is no city or community is out of harms way. Many large California cities reside on fault lines. Southwestern communities can be ravaged by wildfires or drought. Metro areas near rivers can be flooded. People up north can be paralyzed by blizzards or ice storms. And tornadoes are a reality for anyone anywhere. Natural disasters such as these will exist as long as the earth revolves around the sun. What is startling to me is that, based on what is being written and said in the media , we are in so many ways no longer a “United” States of America.

Don’t get me wrong there was a lot of national response from outstanding and compassionate people from around the country after Hurricane Katrina, and their assistance with the rebuilding process was incalculable. But there were also strong factions that said that New Orleans should not be rebuilt. or worse, got what they deserved.

A month ago we watched a contentious congress spar along party lines to balance the federal budget. It made me reflect on the fact that our financial markets have still not fully recovered from the shock of our largest and most trusted financial service providers being consumed internally by greed. Greed is selfishness in it’s purest form. That greed has permeated our government and that has made the citizenry jaded.

I got a sense that those who had experienced the wrath of Hurricane Katrina were now feeling the effects of schadenfreude. The feeling that those on the east coast and midwest were getting what they deserved after having been insensitive six years earlier. That people scrambling from a Category 1 Hurricane Irene were in fact comical in their distress. This type of thinking is a result of dysfunction born of frustration. Frustration that becomes anger and when anger takes hold rationale thinking and sensitivity to others becomes jeopardized. Government failed during Katrina, it failed during the financial crisis, and now it is failing in the budget crisis. And when things fail people point fingers. And they become polarized. So polarized that when an Act of God occurs they use it as way to vent instead of being urged to show compassion and take action.

All of this has led me to fear that we are separating along party lines, ethnic lines, and geographical lines. One of my mentors, a lawyer and banker named Dick Knight, told me it was OK to disagree as long as you were not diasagreeable. But that doesn’t make for good television or good internet content.

Now I am not naive. I know that we have always had rivalries within our borders but there was still a sense of us.  Perhaps instead of memorizing the Pledge of Allegiance we should start listening to the words more carefully. If we as citizens break that pledge that will be the worst natural disaster ever to hit this country.

When you think of elite college basketball programs the list is well known. For the men names like UCLA, Duke, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Indiana come to mind. For the women you have Connecticut, Tennessee, and Stanford.  But if I told you that the University of Texas-Arlington has won seven national basketball championships you might challenge my data. But it is indisputable. The Movin Mavs have won the big prize seven times since 1991.

The Movin Mav’s are one of the premier basketball teams year in and year out in the National Intercollegiate Wheelchair Basketball Association.  Outstanding players are produced regularly from this program but most importantly their kids do something else. They graduate.

The team is now under the watchful eye of head coach Doug Garner but it was the vision of the late Jim Hayes, himself confined to a wheelchair, that was the genesis for this remarkable program. Over thirty years ago Hayes began championing that sports for the disabled be included on campuses, and UTA has become a leader in this effort.

I was at UT-Arlington recently to help coach in the annual Movin Mav’s Wheelchair Basketball Camp. Participants were athletes who had cerebral palsy, spina bifida, birth defects, or had suffered spinal cord trauma from accidents. But after meeting the campers and staff I learned they were far from disabled.

Their faces were covered with a black smear, a product of their hands getting dirty from maneuvering their chairs. It took on the look of war paint as they competed on the floor. Wheelchair basketball requires getting your chair to high speeds and then having the skill to stop, start, and change directions abruptly. There are also collisions as defenders block offensive moves, and offenses use pick and roll strategies to create scoring opportunities. Shooting requires a deft touch and because you lack the ability to use your legs you need a strong and fit upper body.

Girls and boys compete together effectively and the chatter is non-stop as defenders work together to stymie offensive sets. There are fast breaks, great ball movement, long three point shots, and even remarkable physical feats. Players doing 360 chair spins to get free of a defender or a scorer penetrating the defense and then getting his chair up on one wheel to get a better angle for his shot. You are allowed two wheel spins before having to dribble, and in the open floor a skilled player can maneuver his or her chair at high speed with only their hips doing the work.

But it wasn’t the play that distinguished this camp. It was the core messages that were being given to the participants by the camp staff,  a staff that consisted mainly of Movin Mav’s players. After each morning and afternoon session Coach Garner would request that his players share their experiences with these campers. They talked about studying hard, eating right, how to manage your time, and train more effectively. But on my last day there they spoke about obligation. In short the Movin Mav’s made it clear that everyone in the room was a role model.

One staffer remarked  that the entire campus knew who the Movin Mav’s were. Coach Garner backed that up with a campus survey that said that 87% of UTA students knew about the Movin Mav’s. The players talked about how everyone knows when the kid in the wheelchair is in class, but more importantly they knew when he was not in class. They talked about being active and involved on campus and in the community. In short being a Movin Mav required extraordinary commitment. It was a special group.

It became apparent to me that this camp was more than just teaching the participants how to be better basketball players. It was also more than a venue to recruit more athletes to UTA. It was about sharing life lessons, building confidence, and nurturing leadership. These campers were being given expectations on how they should live their lives, and that their goals and dreams were no less attainable than those of an able bodied person.

Because these young people had already faced adversity it seemed completely logical that they would be not just good role models, but great ones. As I watched them play basketball the strong drive they all had was never more apparent than when they would get toppled over in their chair. They would feverishly contort themselves onto their stomachs so they could push themselves upward and get back into the action. Equally impressive was how quickly teammates and opponents rushed to assist.  This was sports at its essence. Strong competition with good sportsmanship as a major component.

As I had a chance to visit with these remarkable athletes I would learn about their ambitions. For many a Movin Mav scholarship was their only hope for a college education. Some of the players were injured in service to our nation. With all the money that impacts college athletics it was inspirational to see these young men competing in their sport for the joy it brings, for the chance to earn a diploma, represent their school, and perhaps even their country.

You won’t find the Movin Mav’s on ESPN. In fact many states don’t even offer youth programs for wheelchair basketball or any other sports for the disabled. All I can say is that is a tragedy not confined to the physically challenged.

If you want to see high level college sports in its purest form check out www.utamovinmavs.com. Seven national championships should be proof enough.

I think part of being an American is having the experience of going on a few road trips. I am about to leave on one tomorrow and it is stirring old feelings. Road trips can be quests for fun, ( with apologies to Clark Griswold), therapeutic, or by necessity. They can be long or short, planned or spontaneous. But inevitably what makes a road trip special is how memorable it is.

As a young child my earliest road trips were our annual treks from our home in New Orleans to my dad’s home state of Wisconsin. It was over 1,100 miles from our house to my grandma’s and it took close to twenty hours to drive that trip if you stopped a reasonable amount of times. When we were home my dad typically let my mother do all the driving, ( surprising considering how she drove, but that is another story), but when we hit the road for the Motherland he took the wheel, and stopping was not on the agenda. Everything was done on the go. We packed all our food and only stopped for gas. The idea was to leave while it was dark and drive as far as we could the first day.  There was one problem. Me.

For some reason at my young age the motion of the car had a profound effect on me and I required quite a few bathroom breaks.  After awhile my dad had enough. I was now charged to do my business from the back seat out of the open car door on the side of the road. Normally my mom could impose her will on dad but when the pilgrimage to the north had commenced he became the Most Grand Exalted Leader of the Household and was a force to be reckoned with. He did stop the car when we pulled over but he kept the  engine running.

Once we got to Wisconsin he became a normal guy again but that didn’t mean the memorable moments were over. At age four one of my older cousins wanted me to move from in front of the television set. I refused and in trying to make me move he twisted my arm around my back and broke it. As a back story my dad was one of nine and all of his siblings had big families. I have over forty first cousins from that side of the family. Anyway I didn’t tell anybody about my arm. It wasn’t out of stubborness, it was out of fear for my cousin’s life. If my mother had found out she would have killed him on the spot and probably a few others if they were in the vicinity.

Every time we went to Wisconsin the whole family convened at my grandma’s and we played an in-laws against the Wautlet’s softball game, as she lived next door to a baseball field.This was novel to me. My mom was Italian so at her family get togethers people just drank, ate, played cards, and eventually started cursing and screaming at each other. In Wisconsin everyone drank too, but it was only beer, and instead of screaming and swearing it was joking and laughing. Instead of cards we played sports, and everybody had to play.

Well I’m four years old with a broken arm nobody knew about except me. My dad calls me to the plate. I soldier up, grab the bat, and immediately drop it. At that point my dad is embarrassed and starts telling me to man up but I couldn’t lift the bat and finally I slumped off the field. I was in pain and had let my dad down. But the worst was yet to come. When we got home the doctor informed my parents of the fact that I had a broken arm. Let’s just say my father was was hard to find around the house for the next couple of weeks and my mother ran up a significant long distance phone bill calling every relative in Wisconsin trying to find out who broke my arm.

At age eleven we were back in Wisconsin and dad took me to an Appleton Foxes baseball game. The Foxes were the Class A affiliate for the Chicago White Sox and playing 3rd base for them was Wayne Francingues.

Wayne Francingues, ( pronounced Frasang), was a God of a man to me. He was from New Orleans and had been the starting quarterback for my beloved Tulane Green Wave. I listened to his exploits on the radio on Saturday nights, read about him in the newspaper on Sunday morning, and later on Sunday watched him on TV on the Tulane highlight show. Tulane would come on first then a replay of the Notre Dame game. Tulane was awful but Wayne could do no wrong.

Dad sent me out to wait for the players and get autographs. I was nervous but he assured me they would be nice, and they were. But when Wayne Francingues appeared my knees were knocking. Dad had told me earlier he would probably give me a ball but I thought he was crazy. I approached my hero and said in my most polite voice, ” Mr. Francingues my name is Merrill Wautlet and I am from New Orleans. May I please have your autograph?”

To my astonishment he was great. He asked me where in New Orleans I was from, why I was in Wisconsin, how old I was, and if I played sports. I don’t even remember answering the questions. He signed my program and walked off and I levitated back to my dad. But then he reappeared out of the dugout. “Hey Sandy come here I’ll give you a ball.” I ran to the fence and as he headed out to third base he came over and tossed it over and into my hands. Hands that would never let go of that ball. Ever. Or so I thought. As dad had predicted Wayne Francingues had been nice and had given me a ball. I always worshipped my dad but he definitely seemed a lot wiser and smarter now than he had ever been. But a black cloud was coming.

I held onto that ball everywhere I went, along with my program full of autographs of future major league stars. On our way home I kept it with me but I made a fatal error. I went to sleep. My mom had been collecting goldware, ( place settings that were goldplated), that you got everytime you filled up with gas. I don’t want to digress on how tacky that crap was. Let’s just to say that my mom really liked it and leave it at that. Early the next morning while I was still asleep she took my ball, my program, and her precious goldware and put it in a brown paper bag in the car. My dad then went behind her and thinking it was trash, threw it out.

I was then awoken and groggily lead to the car, as it was still early in the morning and dark out. Still half asleep I began asking where my ball was and was promptly reassured by my mom that it was in the car and safe. I curled up in the back seat and went back to sleep.

I woke up just outside of Jackson, Mississippi. I immediately looked for my ball. Panic stricken I called out, “My ball is gone!” My mother told me it was in a brown paper bag in the back seat. At that moment I thought I could see my dad shrink several inches. I looked in the back seat. No bag! My mom looked at my dad. “Whitey?”

Dad confessed, and all hell broke loose. I’m crying, my mom is yelling and cussing, telling dad to turn the car around. For the next three hours my dad endured a personal torture that no man should ever go through. Years later I concluded that my dad thought he was tossing out just that goldware and that allowed me to forgive him. I mean that was some cheap junk.

In college I took many a great road trip. As a freshman I drove Tony Bird, Tommy Zentner, and Richard Wilson to Mardi Gras. A trip that should have taken six hours took ten because of all the pit stops to get beer or make room for beer. Richard is now my investment manager. My fraternity brothers and I would pile into Jimmy Burke’s Volkswagen beetle convertible and drive twenty miles to the Texas border so we could buy Lone Star beer and inevitably would have it all drank before we got back to school.

One Mardi Gras James Rivera was driving myself and Bob Everett to New Orleans. We had left at 3:00 A.M. and were going down Hwy 71. It was dark and not another car was around. James was driving five miles below the speed limit because had had accumultaed so many speeding tickets that another one would cause his insurance to be canceled.

Bob and I thought the odds of seeing a trooper that late at night were monumental and we began to urge James to drive faster. Finally he caved under the pressure and sped up. Suddenly way in the distance was a solitary pair of headlights. We told James not to worry that it was probably some isolated car but the minute we blew past it we saw it make a u-turn.

James slowed down and in a stern voice said to Bob and I , “WE ARE GOING TO A FUNERAL!” At that point the flashing lights hit us. James pulled over and burst out of the car. Bob and I saw James gesturing and apparently pleading his case that we were a car of grief stricken young men trying to get to the bereaved. He then pointed at the car and the officer shined his flash light on us only to see Bob and I each holding a can of beer. Under the circumstances we did what any gentleman would do. We toasted the officer by raising our beers to him. Hey, everyone grieves differently. James stormed back to the car, threw the ticket inside, and we proceeded to drive twenty miles below the speed limit the rest of the way. He was also, for some strange reason, irritable the rest of the way.

Of course after I got married I had to take my new bride to Wisconsin  but it was a trip to Williamsburg, Virginia that really tested our covenant.  On the way home we went to Appommatox to see where the Civil War ended and then the plan was to drive down the Blue Ridge Parkway to Asheville, North Carolina. Except I had never driven through mountains before.

What I thought was going to be a three hour trip turned into a six hour trip. We couldn’t go faster than thirty miles an hour and there was no other way to go after we got on the mountain. Beautiful views became reminders of the personal Twilight Zone we found ourselves trapped in. When we finally reached Asheville we got a suite and went into separate bedrooms.

I think going somewhere by car provides so much more to a vaction experience than flying. You become personally engaged in your surroundings and you have control. You can come and go as you please and you get that tinge of excitement when you cross a state line.

So tomorrow I leave for Chicago with my buddy Chip Naus on another trip to the midwest to eat steak and hot dogs, drink beer and watch the Cubs play. I will be met up there by my cousin Jace Cuccia on Friday. My Uncle Dennis Wautlet and my cousin Dave LeBlanc will be joining us on Saturday to watch the Cubs. Dave is one of my favorite cousins, even if he did break my arm forty eight years ago.

Jay Greenleaf died on June 7th, 2011. He would have been 50 years old in August. He was a husband, father of three, and a pillar of the community. He was also my friend. Actually that is a gross understatement. He was a brother, a confidant, and someone I could trust completely.

I met Jay in the fall of 1980. He was an incoming freshman from Irving, Texas. I was the rush chairman for the Kappa Alpha Order and we were down to ten guys. My challenge to our group was every guy get a little brother and if you are good enough get two.

Jay had been to the KA house before. The previous spring he had attended an event called High School Weekend. Prospective students would arrive on campus and stay Friday through Sunday. James Rivera had been assigned to show Jay around. That encounter went something like this. Standing in the middle of Woodlawn Avenue, James began to point at different landmarks. ” You have Brown Chapel, the library, the music building, and the playhouse. Behind them are the science building, administration building, the cafeteria, and the dorms. Do you want to go to the KA house and get a beer?”

Jay pledged KA. I was his pledge trainer and I really liked the kid with the cherubic face and the easy smile. He didn’t take himself too seriously and none of us knew until years later that Jay had graduated near the top of his class in high school.

Jay had a good time in college and to list all his various escapades, that included adventures involving closets and rooftops, would justify a whole column unto itself. The fact was everybody who met Jay liked him and enjoyed being around him. Jay was also a fierce competitor. He was short but made up for that by being slow. Never the less when he played sports, whether it was flag football, basketball, or even shooting pool, Jay gave it everything he had.

Jay moved onto law school at LSU with his Big Brother in KA, Jimmy Burke. Burke was my little brother so the three of us did a lot together. I visited them in Baton Rouge a couple of times and stayed in something that resembled a house. It was during this time that Jay met Aprile Russell and his life would never be the same.

Jay was not exactly a lady killer in college. He was often disheleved and wearing a baseball cap. So when we, his friends, found out that Jay was in a relationship we were curious to see what this woman was like. To our surprise she was pretty, kind, considerate, and also a visionary. Aprile saw the promise in Jay and knew that he would not only be a devoted husband, but that he would be a great father and provider as well. He proved her right on all three counts.

After Jay and Aprile got married they bought a little house in Shreveport and began starting a family. Watching Jay relate to his children was an amazing experience. He challenged them but also supported them. He expected their best but always with unconditional love for them. The fact that all three are remarkable young people in their own right is another testament to both Jay and Aprile.

Jay had applied himself in law school and graduated high enough in his class to be able to gain a position with a top firm in Shreveport. He practiced there with distinction and soon earned the right to represent some of the firm’s top clients. One of those was Anderson Oil and Gas.

Like Aprile, Bill and Hank Anderson saw the promise in Jay and decided that they wanted him on their team. You see Jay was a triple threat. He was a distinguished lawyer, had graduated with a degree in accounting so he understood balance sheets and income statements, and he was a voracious learner. Jay was always trying to get better, to learn something new.  He gave that company a new spark and over a ten year period they became a much more diverse and dynamic place. Most importantly he didn’t commit to anything on behalf of AO&G unless he knew in his heart it benefitted the company and specifically Bill and Hank. Jay summed it up in one sentence. “Bill depends on me.”

It was during this time that Jay’s social conscience became self aware. He became an active youth coach for his children and others, he taught Sunday School and lead his church board, eventually helping to start a brand new church. He was on the board of Volunteers of America and he delivered Meals on Wheels every Thursday. And he didn’t just drop off those meals, he visited with Mrs. Cathcart and Mr. Stewart. He knew their life stories and their medical conditions. He cared.

When Jay committed it was 100%. On the times we were involved in projects together I would often find an e-mail on my blackberry that had been sent at 3:00 A.M. When I approached him about contributing to a fund raiser for the care facility my sons resided in he gave me the single largest donation I had ever received from anyone. And he gave it every year after that. When my wife and I moved back to Shreveport to be closer to our sons Jay went out of his way to help us integrate back into the community. He even let me coach his daughter’s basketball team with him. I paid him back by helping him get kicked out of a game but that too is another story.

Over a year ago I had pressure in my chest and had to go to the emergency room. Both of my sons, profoundly autistic, were with my wife and I. I knew my wife would need help. I called Jay. He came to the hospital, stayed several hours, took my oldest son to my house, and then he and his daughter spent the night with my wife to help her watch both boys. I used to tease Jay that he couldn’t watch my boys because they were so active. He was with me in the hospital after I awoke from my emergency open heart surgery to remove a benign tumor and informed that he had in fact , by his account, successfully watched both boys. I later learned that my youngest son had in fact gotten out of the house twice. When I asked Jay about it his reply was that he had gotten him back both times. We laughed about that a lot…. after I got better!

In the five years that I have lived in Shreveport since my return Jay and I probably never went more than two days without talking to each other. We took a lot of sports related trips and built many memories, memories I thought we would share together into old age. Most recently at a dinner in New Orleans I made a remark on something that apparently I was not supposed to be privy too. Aprile turned to my wife and in an exasperated voice said ” They tell each other everything!”

I miss my friend very much. We worked in the same office building and there are still times when I think that I see him walking out of the corner of my eye. When I watch a basketball game and my phone vibrates for a second I think it is him sending me a text, something we did a lot when watching events from our respective homes.

Jay would have hated the fuss his funeral caused and would have never believed that between 1,500 and 1,800 people would have come to his visitation. But I was not surprised. One of the qualities that made Jay so special was that he could connect with everyone he met with a genuine sense of appreciation and respect.

So I will remember Jay and I wrote this so others will remember him too, even if Jay would prefer I didn’t. The world needs more people like Jay and if reading about him makes someone decide to perhaps do a little more for their family or community then perhaps some good can be derived from losing him. That is something I know Jay would like and approve of.

For all of us our lives are a series of firsts. From our first steps and words we are measured by accomplishments that are a result of work and desire. As we age we pile up those accomplishments and check them off. From graduations, to marriage, to births, to promotions we are driven to reach those milestones that for most people define their existence. But what happens when you wake up and realize that you either met those goals or accept the fact that some of what you wanted may not be achievable?

At the age of 52 I looked around and realized that I was in a spot of contentment and it bothered me. My two children were older and I knew that their long term care was reasonably secure. My wife and I have been married 23 years. I was employed by a great company in a position I was well suited for. The pending sale of my apartment house in New Orleans was going to allow my wife and I to become debt free and put the finishing touches on remodeling we had been doing to our house. We lived in a wonderful neighborhood and were blessed to be near friends that we care about deeply. I also was back in good health after a major scare a year ago.

Now none of the above is a bad thing but I realized that I was running out of mountains to climb. Professionally I was probably at my peak, in part because my wife and I moved specifically to our present community to be nearer our children, so any professional development would have to be confined to this area. I had served for years in various civic and charitable organizations and did not feel the desire to move in that direction again.  I needed to reflect and find a new reason to not just get out of bed, but bolt out of it like I used to for so many years.

This blog was one answer. I like to write and I love the ability to connect with anyone in the world with the touch of a key. I finished a book I had written off and on for years. I had it edited and now I am in the process of getting it ready to be mailed to agents in the hope that it might be published. I also got back into coaching basketball, which was my first ever job.

I have been to “mountaintops” and what I discovered for me personally was that the joy was never in reaching the summit but in the climb itself. I am happy that I have achieved many of my personal goals but am equally excited about finding some new ones. Some people want to finish the race, I for one want to run until I can’t run anymore.

I now have new heights to scale and dreams that I want to pursue. For me that is true contentment.

All of us have given names but many of us have nicknames as well. These monikers are generally friendly and endearing but sometimes they can be less than flattering. But our formal names bestowed at birth have significance as well.

I am named after my father who was nicknamed Whitey. This was a natural for him in that he was blond haired and fair complected. To distinguish between us I was called Sandy, reflecting my complexion and hair. It was the only name I ever knew until I reached school age and realized I had a more formal name.

In first grade I was made aware by my peers that Sandy was a girl’s name. So for second grade I informed my parents that going forward I wanted to be referred to as Merrill. Merrill sounded imposing and masculine to me. My parents tried to reason with me about the name Sandy, even referencing Sandy Koufax of the Los Angeles Dodgers. None the less my mind was made up. Merrill was strong and unique. So what if I had to spell both my first and last name for the rest of my life. It was worth it for peace of mind.

That peace of mind was shattered a few years later. In the newspaper astronaut Al Worden was shown being hugged by his children after just completing a space misssion. One of these children was his daughter…named Merrill! I found out that Al Worden’s middle name was Merrill and that his dad’s name was Merrill but that didn’t stop him from giving that name to his daughter. I wanted to write him a letter and admonish him for tainting the masculinity of Merrill but he was a national hero so I decided to cut him some slack.

As I grew older I had some nicknames bestowed upon me, some of which are still used by my friends. One is Coach, given me by my best friend referencing the basketball coaching I did while I was in college. Another is Big M, referencing the fact that well.. I’m a big guy and unfortunately getting bigger. I’m 6’2″ and weigh two hundred and…well you get the picture. Most recently a friend of mine’s daughter and niece started calling me Merbear. Actually I kind of like that one. It makes me sound cuddly.

One I didn’t like was Albino Boy. Yes I am fair complected. If you shine a light on me you can probably see all my internal organs. As a teenager I got hit with that alias and it was a bitter pill. They even made up some songs to go with the name. They actually were pretty clever. No I am not going to give you the lyrics. Four years of serenading was plenty.

I still like Merrill. It has a singularity to it like Pele, Madonna, etc. Many of my friends are referred to by their last names but that seldom happens to me. I was always just Merrill. On the rare occasion that someone has called me Wautlet it has always sounded odd.

Of course I must tell you that Merrill isn’t for everyone. I actually have a cousin named Merrill. He is six months older than me and he is named after my father as well. My mother’s brother, my Uncle Jake, was close with my dad so he named his newest son Merrill. In his defense this was his sixth child by his third different wife. He had two kids with each wife. I just assumed he was running out of names. He is actually a story unto himself. Two of his wives were named Laverne and Shirley, but I digress. Growing up I was Sandy and my cousin was Merrill. Then I became Merrill and to my shock Merrill became ..Charlie!

Now Charles was my father’s middle name so it was our middle name too. Apparently my cousin felt Charlie was a better name for him. Now of course the family was utterly confused. They were constantly calling both of us by the wrong names and then correcting themselves. “Not you Sandy, I mean Merrill, I was calling for Merrill, uh I mean Charlie. Jesus Christ why did you boys go and do this? It’s too damn confusing!”

I went to college and later migrated to banking. My cousin is a rock and roll musician who plays in night clubs all over the south but mainly in the French Quarter in New Orleans. He doesn’t own a bank account, smokes and drinks, and stays up until  4:00 A.M. every night. He has never been sick.I on the other hand have so many surgical scars that all I have to do on Halloween is take my shirt off. Maybe he was right all along about Merrill.

By the way I have a son named Merrill too. I call him M.C. But that is another story.

I was fortunate enough to play high school basketball in the New Orleans area during the mid 1970’s. It was a special time because with the demise of integration the best players were able to compete against each other, and that made for some epic match ups.

The Catholic schools dominated the headlines.Brother Martin had Rick Robey, who played at Kentucky and for the Boston Celtics. Holy Cross had Carlos Zuniga who played for Tulane. Jesuit had Crystal Chris Jennings, who played for Nicholls State. De La Salle had Jordy Hultberg, who was compared to Pete Maravich,  he also played at LSU, and later Daryl Moreau, who set a national record for consecutive free throws and went on to play for Tulane. Hultberg’s teammates, Gary Lorio and Lee Blankenstein,  played for Tulane and Georgia Tech. The public schools had players too. L.B. Landry had Andre King and James Ray. Ray later played for the Denver Nuggets. East Jefferson had Jerome Reese, Albert Pryor, and Micah Blunt. Blunt also went to Tulane. However there was also outstanding basketball being played at smaller schools in the area and no school, large or small, had as illustrious a basketball history as the Isidore Newman Greenies.

Many of you reading this may recognize Newman as the alma mater of Peyton and Eli Manning and Odell Beckham, Jr. but the school is so much more. It was founded in 1903 to create educational opportunities for residents of the Jewish Orphans Home. Over time it evolved into one of the most prestigious college preparatory schools in the state of Louisiana, if not the whole country.

In the early 1960’s the school hired Ed”Skeets” Tuohy to become it’s basketball coach. Originally from Chicago, Coach Tuohy’s teams were imposing on defense and fundamentaliy sound on offense. District championships were fait accompli. In fact they seldom lost a district game. They competed for and won state championships, and anything less was short of the goal. Coach Tuohy also had a young family consisting of one daughter and three sons. Three extraordinary basketball playing sons, Ed, Sean, and Seamus. When a sudden illness took Coach Tuohy off the bench he was replaced by his assistant Billy Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald had played at Jesuit and Tulane and he was fortunate to have Ed Tuohy Jr. and Sean Tuohy on his team.

In  1929 a group of families founded Metairie Park Country Day School just outside of Orleans Parish. Country Day also gained a reputation as an outstanding college preparatory school. Given that both institutions catered to upwardly mobile and successful families it was only natural that a rivalry developed. But it wasn’t much of one.

Country Day was smaller than Newman so they competed sporadically in athletics and with limited success. In fact Newman was so highly regarded in basketball that it was a regular participant in the New Orleans Catholic Youth Organization Tournament and was able to host it’s own tournament, the Newman Invitational, that attracted the best teams in the area as well. In 1976, Ed Touhy Jr.’s senior year, Newman was seemingly unbeatable. But in the early round of the playoffs the unthinkable happened. Newman lost!

Meanwhile just seven miles away the Country Day Cajuns were making a push through the playoffs. The year before they had sneaked into the post season when another team in their district had gotten disqualified. They were soundly routed in their opening game. The following year, behind 6’7″ center John Derenbecker, the team that had lost only one starter from the previous season had matured and was now marching to Alexandria, Louisiana and the Top 20 tournament. The Cajuns run finally ended in the state championship game. But under fiery coach Richard Jarrett that team had discovered that they could compete with anybody. And there was one team the Cajuns all wanted to play next year. That team was Newman! I can write with assurance about this because I was a starter on both the 1976 and 1977 Cajun basketball teams.

Now Newman had nothing to gain and everything to lose by playing us. They played every top program in the city and competed in a much more difficult district than us. We played higher classification schools as well but had to travel greater distances to find opponents. While Newman routinely made the playoffs and advanced to the Top 20, prior to the 1976 run Country Day’s only other Top 20 appearance was in 1966 and they were beaten badly in the opening game.

Although Newman was a small school not one of their basketball players competed in football. They played together all summer and their 1977 team had every starter back except for Ed Tuohy, who had graduated and had accepted a college scholarship to play basketball at Northwestern State.  We on the other hand had four key players on our football team, including our top two guards. We also only had two returning starters, although that was mitigated in part due to the fact that we had eight seniors on our team. After much negotiation, and what I am sure was some spirited behind the scenes politics, Newman agreed to play us. But it would be under difficult circumstances.

Newman set the game for early November. It would be their seventh game of the year and only our second, in part due to to football. To make matters worse our football team only had one loss and was heavily favored in it’s last two games. If they won as expected the football team would be in the playoffs and our basketball team would have to face the Newman juggernaut without our full roster. Finally we would have to play them at their gym, a hell hole known as Death Valley!

Living close to Newman’s campus I had attended many of their games and even played at their gym as an 8th grader when I was at De La Salle. When you walked in you saw the ceiling draped with pennants listing all their district championships. On the wall was a compilation of all the state championships. On the back wall painted in huge letters behind a basket was a sign that read Welcome To Death Valley! Home of the Newman Greenies!

The Newman players would file in wearing green blazers adorned with the Newman crest. Even the coaching staff wore those blazers. The team would sit in the stands with a cocky self assurance only consistent winning can muster, waiting patiently to adminster their brand of basketball on their next victim. Because of the intimacy and acoustics of the gym, the noise in there could be deafening. As such Newman almost never lost at home. Once we knew the game was on it was all both student bodies could talk about. Of course no one gave Country Day a chance. It wasn’t if we would lose to Newman, but by how much.

Of course I think I am fair in saying that those of us on the team had some doubts about our chances against Newman. After a lackluster scrimmage against De La Salle in the Tulane arena it became obvious that we were not the same ball club without our full roster. I never was one to root against my school in anything, but I must admit it wasn’t going to break my heart if we lost to Ridgewood in football.

Ridgewood was a private school in Metairie that was in our district. It was a good school but not considered to be on par with Newman, Country Day, or St. Martin’s academically or athletically. In recent years we had dominated them in almost everything. They were a baseball powerhouse, but other than that, fairly mediocre in other sports. Our football team had already beaten New Orleans Academy and the game after Ridgewood was against Crescent City Baptist, which was in no way capable of standing up to us in football. If we prevailed against Ridgewood the playoffs were pretty much a certainty.

When game day arrived we lined up at Metairie Playground to watch what was expected to be another massacre of the Ridgewood Golden Eagles. When Ridgewood took the field we were mildly amused that they had gotten new uniforms and were jumping around like fanatics.

The game started as expected. On the opening series quarteback Chris McMorris, who was slated to be our starting point guard, hit Timothy Bright, our starting shooting guard, with a 58 yard touchdown pass. However we misssed the extra point so we led 6-0. That missed extra point ended up being an omen. Country Day was a soccer powerhouse in those days and was one of the first football programs to employ soccer style kickers. In fact we often carried two kickers. We seldom missed field goals, let alone extra points.

The rest of the game was a slug fest. Neither team could score on the other. With time running out Ridgewood put together a scoring drive and  converted their extra point. With less than two minutes to go, they were now in the lead.

There would be no miracle finish. We ended up losing 7-6 and our chance to go to the playoffs. Selfishly two things came to mind. We would have our full team together when we faced Newman, and if we could lose to Ridgewood in football, then Newman could lose to us in basketball!

We had a little over a week to get ready for Newman. Practices were intense. We opened our season against Archbishop Shaw, a Catholic school on the West Bank of the Mississippi River. Prior to that game we had gone as a team to watch Newman rout Chalmette High. Now it was Newman’s turn to scout us. As I took the floor I looked in the stands and saw the Newman basketball team sitting together.

Unfortunately, against a Shaw team that was less than stellar, we played uninspired basketball.  Derenbecker was his usual dependable self, and I had a good game going six for six from the floor, but you could see that some of our players were still trying to get into basketball shape, and the team chemistry was not where it needed to be. We won by nine points but Newman was 7-0 and had won every game by double figures. Who could blame them if they were feeling over confident?

When it was finally time to face the Greenies tensions were high. The tiny Newman gym was packed to the point where people were having to stand in corners to be able to see the game. Given that it was a contest being supported by student bodies that were used to writing college essays, instead of signs exhorting one team to beat  the other you had a solitary card board poster that stated “Enough has been said” Below it was a long dissertation that I had neither the time nor inclination to read, but it’s title drove the point home. It was time to put up or shut up!

We took the floor wearing our road royal blue uniforms trimmed in red with Cajuns stitched across the front. The home team was in it’s white uniforms trimmed in green. In bold letters on the front of their jerseys was NEWMAN.

During warm ups I felt like my feet were not even touching the floor. I was not one who possessed great jumping skills but that night I felt like I was going to literally leap out of the gym. By the time we were set for the opening tip I was twitching.

I looked at the Greenies. At center was Rich DeCamp. He was 6’3″ with long arms and he was left handed, making him even harder to defend. He had become Newman’s go to guy and leading scorer. At one forward was 6’2″ David Pointer. Pointer was a four year starter and as an 8th grader was considered one of the best basketball players in the city. At the other forward was Clark Hinrichs. A reed thin 6’2″, Hinrichs was fundamentally sound and considered a defensive stopper. At one guard was Billy Gardner. A solid ball handler and defender he was also a good shooter and a Junior Olympian. At point was Sean Tuohy. Tuohy was already regarded as one of the best, if not the best, point guard in the city. He was a little over 6’0″ tall and could do anything he wanted with a basketball. Although not known for his scoring he could put up points if he had to.

We had a now 6’8″ John Derenbecker at center. A first team all state selection as a junior he was our undisputed leader and captain. At one forward was junior Billy Shepherd. Shepherd was sleek and smooth with a soft jump shot. I manned the other forward spot. I was 6’2″ and was more of a banger, preferring to mix it up close to the goal. At guards we had 6’1″ Tim Bright, a shooter with tremendous range, and at point we had Chris McMorris. McMorris had played against Tuohy for years in various leagues. He was probably one of the few guards in the city who could hang with Sean. We also had the extremely athletic 6’1″ Joey Agular who started several games for us as a guard and forward.

In times of great focus you can slow things down. The opening half was like that for me. We were all over Newman and were scoring at will. John was unstoppable. The whole team was in a zone as it relates to shooting. On my second basket I was given a pass on a dead run. I took a step and leapt to the basket. In mid air I saw Gardner moving in to take a charge. I contorted my body away from his and released the ball as I went out of bounds, attempting to kiss it off the glass. I could tell by the sound of the crowd that the shot had went in and in addition the referee had whistled Gardner for a blocking foul. On defense we knew where Tuohy was going with the ball, but still couldn’t stop him. Never the less we opened up to a double digit lead and went into the half leading by 9 points.

In the second half the Newman five settled down. Both teams scored 15 points and our lead remained at 9 points as we entered the fourth quarter. It was now boiling down to Newman’s two best players, DeCamp and Tuohy, against our stalwart, Derenbecker.

In the 4th quarter the football curse began to hit us as fatigue was setting in. We had two players foul out and Newman’s guards were causing turnovers. Newman executed the run and jump to perfection. One guard would force the ball handler to the sideline. He would release as his teammate came and sealed. At that point the first guard would reach around and bat the ball to his teammate who would in turn pass it back for an easy lay up, or they would just trap and cause that ball handler to pick up his dribble on the sideline. Either way a turn over usually resulted. In addition the Newman crowd was starting to get into the game. Seeing the change in momentum our coach called a time out.

This was a difficult time and our coach made a decison that was risky. He decided to go into a delay with Derenbecker on the point. We were now going to milk the clock and in essence try not to lose instead of trying to win.

Now putting the ball into the hands of your best player is generally not a bad idea but in this case it proved to be a tall order for John. For one thing we had not practiced the four corners very much prior to this game, and had never run it with our center as the point of attack. Secondly we had  John way out above the top of the key being guarded by DeCamp,a smaller and quicker player. This negated the five inch height advantage John enjoyed. I remember DeCamp looking defiantly at John in his defensive stance, legs bent, hands spread wide, almost grinning. I made things worse by trying to force the ball into John twice when he tried to post up, resulting in turnovers both times. Of course on each and every turnover we committed either Tuohy or DeCamp made us pay. By stalling it also took our other players out of the flow, as we all felt that John was the only player who should attempt to score from that point on.

With very little time remaining Newman took the lead and ended up winning by 5 points. The final was 67-62 and Newman had outscored us 24-10 in the 4th quarter. Tuohy and DeCamp accounted for 67% of Newman’s points scoring 24 and 21 points each. Derenbecker led us with 26 points followed by me with 12.  I sat on the bench recalling a basket I had made that had been waved off for traveling and my two turnovers late in the game. I was sick and heartbroken. I also had severe muscle cramps in both of my calves.

Afterwards in the locker room we could hear Newman coach Billy Fitzgerald screaming and using colorful language exhorting his team on their effort. Over and over he said they were the best team in the state. They would , to the best of their ability, prove him right.

We went into a bit of a funk after that game but eventually righted ourselves. We finished the year 29-6 and won Country Day’s first ever state championship. Newman went 32-1, and other than two epic games with neighborhood rival De La Salle that they split with each game being decided by a last second shot, Newman had no trouble winning yet another state championship for their storied program. The New Orleans area scored a trifecta when Archbishop Rummel of Metairie won the state 4A championship by upsetting  a 41-0 DeRidder team that featured Mike Sanders, who would later play for UCLA and the Cleveland Cavaliers. In 3A Redemptorist of Baton Rouge would prevail, led by Howard Carter, who would later star at LSU and play for the Denver Nuggets.

Both DeCamp and Tuohy made all-state with DeCamp being named player of the year. Tuohy would lead Newman to another state title his senior year before heading to Ole Miss where he led the Southeasten Conference in assists three years in a row. Now a successful businessman in Memphis, many of you know him as the legal guardian of Michael Oher from the Blind Side. That book was authored by Michael Lewis, who also attended Newman.

Derenbecker was named first team all state in our classification as well as player of the year. He accepted a basketball scholarship to attend Centenary College.In that I was also accepted at Centenary it allowed me to follow John’s collegiate career for at least two years. After his sophomore year, in which he started and served as captain, he transferred to Vanderbilt, where he was also elected captain. He is now an attorney. His son, along with the son of another Country Day teammate and Centenary alumnus named Trip Ludwig, led Country Day to a state championship in 2009. Both Matt Derenbecker and Eddie Ludwig later played  basketball together at LSU.

Newman no longer plays in Death Valley, which is now known as the Tuohy Gym. They play in the spacious and modern Cotonio Palaestra. And fortunes have reversed themselves in the 21st Century. Country Day now has the upper hand , having won two additional  state championships along with numerous Top 28 appearances. The two schools now play routinely as they are in the same district,and while the rivalry is still fierce the stakes are not nearly as high.

While 40 years have passed I still think of that game and what might have been. If I had made one more shot and had one less turnover. If we had used that time out to regroup and keep attacking rather than stall and try not to lose. If we had not lost two key players to foul trouble. But Newman demonstrated character, poise, and determination. They deserved to win that night. But some things you just never get over.

When my wife and I moved to our present home she it made it clear she wanted an older house in an established neighborhood. To our mutual delight we found a house on a shady street in an older residential area that inspired nostalgia. If you looked down the sidewalk you almost expected to see Wally and the Beaver heading your way. In walking distance was a bucolic park and shopping and dining was less than a mile away.

But of course with an older home comes issues. Over the past five years we have painted our dining room twice, painted our formal living room and furnished it, replaced two hot water heaters, rebuilt our deck in the backyard, replaced one air conditioning unit and repaired the other, repaired several gas leaks, put up outdoor ceiling fans on our pergola, covered our cracking pool deck with flagstone, bought a new heater for the pool, a new dishwasher, and put hard wood floors in our master suite. But that was small change compared to what loomed next.

Most newer homes have large roomy bathrooms attached to the master bedroom. In older homes the bathrooms tend to be smaller. This house is unique in that it has 4 1/2 baths. We have a full bath in between our son’s bedrooms. Additionally in one of those bedrooms is a tiny bathroom with a shower, toilet, sink, and some storage. In another part of the house is an additional master suite with a full bathroom and walk in closet, and outside we have a 1/2 bath off the deck. To make things easier I turned that other master bedroom into my office and took that bathroom as my own. This left my wife with her own private bathroom off of our bedroom.

The problem was my wife didn’t like her bathroom. She didn’t like the colors, the fabric around the mirror, the tub, the toilet, nothing. The vanity top was fading, the toilet when flushed would stick and it was so small and low you felt like you were sitting on the ground, the tub had handles in it that made soaking for her uncomfortable, and her cabinet doors would not shut. Even her make up mirror was cracked. Given that for most people the bathroom is where you spend a lot of time first thing in the morning, if you don’t like that space that is not the way to start your day. And if Mama isn’t happy, nobody is happy.

After a lot of thought I told my wife we should renovate her bathroom to her liking. Now to her credit she did not push for this. My wife is fiscally conservative but I pressed her on it. I told her that this was our last house and that I wanted her to be happy. Selfishly if she is in a good mood all the better for me.

Given the size of the space I thought it would be a simple and relatively low cost project. I swore I would never build a house or do a major renovation because of the vicarious experiences I had with friends and also being familiar with that business given my banking background. But a small space like this, I mean how bad could it be?

We went to an established contractor who did nothing but renovations. Their reputation was impeccable and the staff was first rate. But after our first meeting I felt the onset of a throbbing pain in the exact same place where I carry my wallet.

In one of my earlier blogs I wrote about the top ten things a husband should know about married life. Number seven on that list is that your wife is going to want your opinion on things like colors, types of tile, wallpaper, etc. She will make her own decision but you need to show you care. So I began sitting through the process of picking fixtures, what type of toilet, flooring, etc.

The truth is we made an excellent choice when we selected our contractor. They were invaluable in helping us with our selections, explaining the differences between the various items we were looking at, and they put together a computer presentation that showed us what the bathroom would look like upon completion of the work. After getting over the fact that this bathroom would cost the equivalent of a small German luxury car we signed the contract and put down a deposit. That’s when the fun began.

First we had a portable toilet put in our front yard. Now that is required by law but it still gives your property a certain panache it didn’t have before. I also learned from a neighbor that one day a guy on a motorcycle pulled up to our house and actually used the facility. Equally humorous to me was that he used it even though there was sign on it that that said WOMEN.

When they tore up the floor we were showed that there was water damage. That meant a change order. I signed off on it and took an ibuprofen. I also found out I had to pay for the change order in full right then and there. I wrote the check and took another ibuprofen. That added a couple of days to the work. Then we saw they only replaced part of the floor. I took an ibuprofen and showed my wife. She got mad and wrote an e-mail. I proofed it, softened it, and then persuaded her to delete it and call the project manager instead. She did, he came out and looked at the work, and agreed to credit some of our money back. A small victory and no one got hurt.

Then we had a period of bad weather. While this was an indoor job for some reason that slowed things up. Then the floor we wanted was four pieces short and, those pieces had to be ordered, so the floor remained partially done for a few weeks.

One day I came home after work, walked in the bathroom and in my jolliest voice cried out, ” Hey they put the vanity in.” Instead of a joyous refrain of “I know isn’t it beautiful!”I was serenaded with all it’s flaws. The legs are too fat, the drawers aren’t deep enough, there was supposed to be a basket underneath. It ended with ” IT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THE DRAWING!” This was further complicated by the fact that her design specialist had left the company.

Once again I prevailed upon her to call the project manager to come out and see it. He did, and he agreed with my wife. They reviewed the drawings, made some modifications, and it was sent back to to the carpenter. Of course as they took it out the back door they stepped on the drainage pipe attached to my air conditioner and snapped it off.

After the vanity was redone it was painted. I came home after work, walked in the bathroom and in my jolliest voice, ( sound familiar?), cried out ” Hey they painted the vanity.” Instead of a joyous refrain of “I know isn’t it beautiful!” I was serenaded with how awful it looked compared to our other furniture. It felt funny to the touch, it didn’t show wood grain, it was too dark, etc. It ended with “IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE STAINED!”

Once again we called the poor project manager. He came out and agreed to change it. The painter came out, painted one drawer, and smart guy that he was he showed it to my wife and asked her to compare. He also said politely that bathroom vanities are not furniture, they are cabinets. Of course it was at this point that I heard my name being called. Curses! I was forced from the safety of my office and was now having to once again abide by one of the ten rules of husbandry.

After walking in and being briefed I surveyed the room. Staring at me was my wife, the project manger, the painter, and his assistant. I knew a lot was riding on the words I was about to utter.I swallowed hard and said that if she recalled I liked the original color and was in favor of not changing. She gave me a long look and to my relief agreed. I couldn’t see it but I know the project manager and painters were mentally high fiving me.

At this point we were home free. A  job started in late January was finishing up in late April. I no longer had to trudge across the house for my middle of the night bathroom breaks and my wife now could do all her morning magic in her renovated deluxe salle de bain. Earlier this week, as she emerged from her toilette looking fresh and fabulous, she peered at me and said ” If we move the kitchen door to where the window is we can add granite countertops and make them extend so we can have a breakfast bar. Of course we will have to redo the cabinets too with new hinges and hardware. I also think we should change the stove from electric to gas.”

I turned slowly, opened the cabinet door, and took out the bottle of ibuprofen.

I really don’t like personal income tax. I think it punishes success and encourages people to cheat and be deceitful. But I also realize that our government needs revenue, and as such a tax is needed. But what is a fair way to do that?

I think consideration should be given to abolishing federal and state income taxes and replacing them with a combination of sales, sin, and value added taxes.

Now I would exclude food items that are considered staples. Items such as candy, desserts, and chocolate milk could be assessed a value added tax (VAT). But all other goods, furniture, clothing, etc.,would be subject to sales taxes, and items such as tobacco products and alcohol could be assessed a sin tax. If I could keep all of my earned income I would still purchase items but my purchases would be based on my capacity to pay. In essence we are all treated fairly and equitably.

Some might say this is punishing the poor but I disagree. I have driven through many neighborhoods where I saw less than stellar living conditions with a luxury vehicle in the driveway and a large flatscreen television mounted on the wall. If food is not taxed then the lower wage earners would have to purchase clothes, furniture, and electronics that are within their means. While many might view this as being harsh I view it as an incentive to work harder and try and earn more. If you are a waiter you keep your salary and 100% of your tips. You now have to budget and save. The cost of food is lower unless you are buying non-essential food items.

I realize that all of this is more complex than I am letting on and there is no way the government would abolish income tax overnight. But if it was phased in slowly I think you would see economic activity on a grand scale. Fatter paychecks will result in more money being spent. The fact that electronics and furniture carry higher taxes won’t stop people from buying those items.

Getting back to lower wage earners another way to assist them is to exempt non-profits from charging sales taxes. For example If you purchased clothing and furniture through Goodwill or the Salvation Army those purchases would be exempt from sales tax.

In essence each individual would have the ability to control how much tax they pay every year. But by keeping 100% of your pay most people will spend and save at higher levels, even with increased taxes on purchases.

I don’t think a distinction should be made as it relates to foreign or domestic goods. The fact is we are now a flat earth with a global economy and many foreign companies have American plants and factories, along with American shareholders. Free trade agreements would allow for more competition and more choices, giving the “tax payer” more options on how much tax they pay.

This would not excuse our government’s accountability on how they spend and our elected officials have to curtail the kind of pork barrel spending that has created this monumental deficit. But that will take time as well. When inflation comes, and trust me it is coming,  people are going to hunker down and our situation will probably get worse. They already have VAT taxes in Europe so we may yet see that as well here in America. But higher sales taxes combined with income taxes won’t spur the economy, it will slow it down.

I believe if you let people essentially tax themselves many will choose to pay more taxes by spending more. The only difference is that they will possibly feel patriotic about it. It would make “Buy American” take on a whole new meaning!