We make criticizing public officials a spectator sport in this country. In a few cases, the criticism is justified, for every profession has the self-promoting huckster. But as we’ve considered the challenges facing local public servants in recent days, we recall the perspective of Teddy Roosevelt, himself a frequently maligned servant of the people in his day. Spoken in 1910, these words are worth pondering today....
“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”
The whirlwind continues. We headed to sunny California and Palm Springs for the annual Association of Free Community Papers convention and trade show this past week and built in a little time to see Dave and Penny and niece Whitney in Los Angeles.
This will be my third year for peddling my photobook book printing to newspapers and other publications. The publishers and other key people who attend these events are starting to recognize me and the service I offer.
Teenagers are not normally part of my world. But in the past month I have had two important encounters with the under-20 crowd.
Liz Born is now 17 and recently graduated from North Side Prep—an elite magnet school with a strong arts program. I have known her since she was small enough to sleep in an improvised bassinet that we made from a dresser drawer when her parents, Dan and Mary Born, were visitors in my home a long time ago.
She had a one-woman art show June 9 at the Morpho Gallery on the north side of Chicago. I volunteered to help serve food and run errands.
She had hundreds of pieces of her whimsical grotesques on display, ranging from lobster ladies to Mayan warriors. As they sold, she put a red dot on the frame. By the end of the evening she had sold more than three quarters of them—thus selling more in one evening than Vincent Van Gogh sold in his lifetime.
Even I bought a small painting of a Mayan warrior who has a nice uniform and a few extra arms.
“Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former.”—Albert Einstein
“Read it with a grain of salt, then tell me what you think,” my sister said as she slipped a copy of “The Secret” into my hand.
I glanced around and quickly stuffed the book into my bag, feeling that I had somehow just stepped within the grasp of some bazaar metaphysical society. (No offense to my sister, she’ll understand. I think.)
But I also wondered if the world as I knew it was about to change.
I think I’m supposed to die now. It would make sense, now that my life is complete.
I live with the understanding that we’re all put on this earth to accomplish a number of certain tasks, most of them probably not high on our lists, and then when we have completed these duties, we will kick the bucket.
Opinion 
