Going Home: Chicago Bids Farewell To Mr. Cub

Hall of Famers Lou Brock, Billy Williams, Henry Aaron and Frank Robinson filled the middle of an All-Star roster of mourners Saturday, as baseball royalty joined Chicago and national dignitaries in saying goodbye to Ernie Banks.



Hall of Famers Ferguson Jenkins and Joe Torre, were also in attendance at the services in the vast Fourth Presbyterian Church. They were and joined by sprinklings of Cubs players and personnel from several generations, as the one and only "Mr. Cub" was remembered by friends and family. For a second day, baseball fans also were drawn to Mr. Banks’ closed casket adorned with a flag bearing his No. 14, needing, wanting one more chance to say thank-you and farewell to their hero, who would have turned 84 today.



"His durability and consistently made him a constant force...in the hey days of guys like Henry Aaron, Willie Mays and Frank Robinson," said Torre. But the Hall of Fame manager, like other speakers, spoke of the man, allowing his numbers to speak for themselves. "His story doesn't revolve around baseball," Torre said, adding later, "Ernie Banks is living proof that you don't have to wear a championship ring on your finger to be a pillar baseball and of life."


Torre, as he often does, summed up perfectly how wonderfully intertwined are Mr. Banks and the concept that is The Cubs: He made the confines of Wrigley friendly," said Torre.



The services Saturday featured many other speakers, of course, befitting Mr. Banks’ place in Chicago and baseball lore. Politicians did their due diligence. So, too, did The Rev. Jesse Jackson, who grew up in a city where Mr. Banks’ smile helped smooth baseball’s often rough passages to a more equitable America in the mid-20th Century.

Mr. Banks was the first African American to play for the Cubs, arriving in 1953 after the Cubs purchased his contract from the Negro Leagues powerhouse Kansas City Monarchs for $10,000. He broke the barriers that remained within the confines of the North Side team’s locker room six years after Jackie Robinson’s advancement to the Dodgers broke the major-league color barrier.

The efforts of all such pioneers, including Mr. Robinson, who shares a birthday with Mr. Banks, could not be overlooked. Chicago, The Second City, embraced Mr. Banks. And he embraced Chicago, making it is own. His arrival signaled a celebration of change, thankfully. But we should not forget: This was no small fete. As Jackson reminded the attendees. :Smiling faces can sometimes conceal what’s deep within,” he said, describing Mr. Banks’ demeanor as a thermostat that “helped control the temperature” of his times.



Mr. Banks transcended more than just a racial divide. He exuded an ability to love unconditionally, something generation after generation of Cubs fans, and players, needed to learn merely for purposes of survival.  Mr. Banks made the losing hurt less. He made the dream of winning shine through forever. He made being a Cub, and a Cub fan, reason enough to smile.



"People not only here in Chicago but people around the world recognize the type of individual he was,” longtime teammate Billy Williams said. "It's beginning to sink in now -- I've lost a great friend, you've lost a great friend."

Thus, the emotions that spilled over, as expected, along the route traveled by the funeral procession that carried Mr. Banks on his final journey to Wrigley Field. The procession, which  passed Daley, passed fans decked in Cubs hats, coats, blankets and tears,  ended at the iconic North Chicago ballpark on the corner of Clark and Addison.

So, so, so fitting, that last trip to Wrigleyville: for Mr. Banks graced that hallowed ground for two decades and made it clear with every declaration, right to his dying day: there was no place else he would rather be.


But now he graces a higher league, where games will never have clocks, where the sun shines for all eternity. As Joey Banks, one of Mr. Banks' twin sons, said, "move over, Honus Wagner, there's a new shortstop in Heaven."

“Michael Nelson Trout, You Get Out Of That Bed Right Now!"

Jeff and Debbie Trout, with Angels GM Jerry DiPoto

There is a river of cynicism that runs through every journalist. You get paid to look at most everything through a jaundiced eye. It’s the nature of the beast if you’re dissecting everything in order to keep ‘em honest!

So when a Mike Trout sends word that he is too sick to collect his American League Most Valuable Player Award from the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America, your first instinct is to smirk. ... Until he sends his parents in his place!

That is what the flu-ridden Trout did Saturday night. And, promised his linebacker-like dad, Jeff; and resolute mom, Debbie; Trout was, indeed, really, really, really ill!

Must have passed the age-old kiss-to-the-forhead test. You know, the one that moms administer to check your temperature. Imagine if he’d failed you would have heard the admonishments all the way from their South Jersey home. “Michael Nelson Trout, you get out of that bed right now, Bubba!”

Clayton Kershaw’s Very Impressive Double Slam Dunk

What’s more impressive than a pitching resume that garners not only a league’s Cy Young Award, but an Most Valuable Player Award?

A pitcher who seems truly humbled not only by the honors and grateful for the recognition by peers, fans, but insistent upon thanking the writers who voted him this rare double slam dunk.

Such is Clayton Kershaw, who came to the annual banquet of the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America to pick up his impressive catch of trophies.

Now, we writers are used to no-shows. We are used to reasons for declining to attend that are far less impressive than Kershaw’s would have been. Derek Jeter, for instance, set to receive the chapter’s biggest honor -- The Joe DiMaggio Toast of the Town Award -- said no. Period. Oh, well. ...

Kershaw could have bailed, too. He did not, however, arriving in New York on Saturday for the evening event just one day after being with his wife, Ellen, as she gave birth to the couple’s first child in Texas.

Kershaw intended to travel back in order to return to his wife and baby daughter immediately following the dinner. But his sense of what was right and in the moment, led him to spare a few hours to say thanks.

He was tired, but almost giddy, accepting handshakes from children to Hall of Famers. When he thanked Ellen for the huge role she plays in his life, Kershaw’s California-cool cracked for a moment and he choked up. He apologized to the audience, reminding he had, after all, just had a baby. “She makes it all worth it,” he said in a near-whisper.

Can you say “standing ovation?”

What was just as amazing was how the arguably dead-on-his-feet pitcher mesmerized the audience. His speech was simply one of the best I’ve heard on such a platform. If it was given at Cooperstown upon his induction into the Hall of Fame, it would, by now, be the stuff of legend.

Kershaw had us at hello, of course, especially after the awards' presenter, Sandy Koufax, dazzled us with tales of Kershaw’s character and content. And, oh, yes, that singularly spectacular season, in which he went 21-3 with a 1.77 ERA in 27 starts. 

Kershaw then proceeded to cause jaws to drop and hearts to melt, one after another, as he proceeded to thank every human being who participated on a daily basis in preparing him for the season of his life. Clubbies. Trainers and others on the medical staff. Weight-room attendees. Coaches, both of his hitting and pitching, and fielding (he is an infielder waiting to be discovered!). Front-office personnel and owners were shown appreciation.

He thanked Don Mattingly, joking first that he’d see Donnie Baseball everyday exiting the weight room following one of his “old man” workout routines. The New York crowd, fully familiar with the Don Mattingly who warmed their hearts for so long, roared with laughter. Then Kershaw spoke in terms that showed how much Mattingly means to him as a friend and skipper: “To Donnie, thank you for staying the same. When I want to flip out or lose my cool, you’re always there to talk me off the ledge.”

Then came the roster. One by one, Kershaw thanked his fellow Dodger players from 2014. Didn’t matter if they’ve now exited left. Matt Kemp, Dee Gordon, every single reliever, every fellow starter, his bullpen catcher, his infield, his outfield. He made the crowd laugh again when he thanked Yasiel Puig for doing things on the field he’d never seen before. Then he gave everyone pause by saying Puig is the most amazing talent he’s ever seen.

Perhaps the most intriguing, and surprising thank-you came at the end. Kershaw thanked the St. Louis Cardinals, the playoff nemesis who’ve hung four losses and a 7.15 ERA on Kershaw in their last four postseason encounters. "Thank you for reminding me that you're never as good as you think you are."

That may have been true in a bad stretch or two in October. But, as Sandy Koufax said after extending apologies to the other pitchers on the dais, Clayton Kershaw is the best pitcher in the game right now. And he’s not to shabby a person, either.

Talk about a solid-gold double slam dunk!

Thoughts Of The Summer Game On A Snowy Winter’s Eve

After several years’ absence, I had the privilege of attending the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America’s annual banquet.

The reasons for the return of the prodigal former chapter chair were three-fold:

I miss my fellow ink-stained wretches, from whom I learned so much about the craft and life these last 35-plus years. I miss writing for newspapers. I miss the organized chaos of the press box that builds and builds, then settles into intense quiet as gifted reporters pound out prose, hour after hour, day after day, game after game, season after season. Most people can hardly take the pressure of preparing even a page of an annual budget. Writers and photographers hit deadline around the clock, thanks to The Internet. Electronic journalism is electrifying. So, too, is print. Hope the world remembers that before it is too late.

The second reason for my return I can sum up in two words: Sandy Koufax.

Third, I once again was lucky to see baseball’s magic as it appears through the prism of a young child’s eyes -- my beautiful young nephew, Emery. More, much, much more on Emery’s banquet debut in a moment!

As for Mr. Koufax ... One of baseball’s greatest pitchers was one of the honorees, joining Vin Scully and former Cubs pitcher Bob Hendley as winners of the “Willie, Mickey and The Duke Award.

Sandy, being ever the reluctant superstar, insisted beforehand that he was not there to collect, but to give, presenting the NL MVP and Cy Young Awards to Clayton Kershaw. But the audience coaxed him from his seat so that he could recount the game that inextricably linked him to Hendley and Scully -- the perfect game he threw, and won, in 1965, fending off Hendley, who merely tossed a one-hitter. The one-hit game remains a major-league record for offensive futility -- and brilliant pitching.

Personally, Sandy matters so much to me, and has since he caught my attention in 1965. That October, the best pitcher in the game led his Dodgers to the World Series by unfurling a second straight Cy Young Award campaign (he led the league in wins (26), ERA (2.04) and strikeouts -- 382; the highest modern day total at the time). Sandy then he stunned the sport when he declined to pitch the opening game of the Fall Classic because it fell on Yom Kippur. Sandy is Jewish, you see, and though not devout, he felt an obligation to honor his heritage, its history, its people. The world took note, and never forgot.

For that, and many other reasons -- such as a remarkable humility, priceless insight into an ever-evolving game, as well as sweet but whip-sharp wit and a gentle soul, Sandy Koufax is my 1-A hero to Jackie Robinson’s No. 1.

Jackie, Sandy, Larry Doby, as well as Ernie Banks and Tony Gwynn (the latter two Hall of Famers we lost during, then after the 2014 season) are cut from the same cloth. They represent all the right reasons adjectives like “class,” “character,” “charm,” “courage” should attach to any human being, whether famous or not.

So if you tell me there is one more opportunity to appear in the presence of a hero-turned-friend, I will be there.

Now, for the beauty of seeing this all reflected in the eyes of a child.

I used to love taking my boys -- son, Joshua; godsons Christopher and Troy, nephew Will -- to these events. They’ve grown up, and grown away, though, and I miss their company. But I do have a new baseball buddy -- my 12-year-old nephew, Emery, sweet little guy with an old soul, who not only likes baseball, but devours its history. He made his banquet debut Saturday and, perhaps sensing the depth and sincerity, most every baseball figure I introduced Em to took to this sharp youngster like an old friend.

Mr. Koufax, Clayton Kershaw, Buck Showalter, Bobby Valentine, Frank Robinson, Brett Gardner, Terry Francona, Bud Selig, Hall of Fame President Jeff Idelson, all carried on conversations and asked of Emery if he played baseball, and why; what are his positions, what team does he follow (the Yankees, the resident of Harlem and starting center fielder for

Clayton Kershaw and Emery

the Harlem Little League team said). 

When Jeff asked Emery who his favorite Yankees were, the response -- Babe Ruth and Yogi Berra -- was met with an impressed smile. Marty Noble, the veteran baseball writer, upon hearing Emery’s answer, high-fived my nephew. As I said, there’s definitely depth in this young man!

Buck Showalter

Emery got thumb’s up on his position choices -- center and short. Gene Michael certainly approved. Bud Selig gave me a knowing smile when I said “Money Ball!” 

Buck Showalter’s comment: “You must have some speed! Run track?” “Yes,” said Emery. Ca-ching! 

When told that Emery had already competed on the national level, in chess tournaments, Francona pretended to pout, saying “brains, too? Not fair!"

One more Emery story, and it still sends chills through me:

Willie Mays was my father’s favorite player, so, too, my brother, Hawk’s. So Emery -- Hawk’s son -- upon hearing that Willie Mays would also attend the banquet, made it is mission to meet the all-time great and get an autograph. Now there are a couple things Willie Mays does differently than other stars at such events. He does not hang out in the VIP room beforehand. Nor did he demand a seat at the dais after requesting a ticket (same with Frank Robinson). 

Instead, two of the four Hall of Famers in the sat room  sat in the audience of approximately 1,000 (Sandy and Cal Ripken Jr. and soon-to-be HOFer John Smoltz were a part of the program and therefore on the dais. 

Willie Mays 

Willie spent most of his downtime signing autographs. Surrounded by security, he sat at his dining table and signed what security accepted from children-only. Needless to say, No. 24 was swamped, rivaling the crowd that gathered in front of the dais seeking, and receiving Sandy Koufax’s signature!

Now, Willie does not sign paper, only baseballs. Emery took an autograph book. Not knowing Willie's policy, Emery went forward in about 10 different waves, only to be turned away when Willie tired. He’d walk back to out table, ever-watchful, then queue up, again, when he saw Willie starting to sign, again. Still, one fail after another. Still, one attempt after another. 

Not til his final attempt did he get a real chance, only to be told he needed a baseball.

As he turned to walk away, Marty Noble took Emery’s arm and walked him back to Willie and introduced him. Willie, who wasn’t doing much eye-contact with anyone, looked up, then started chatting with Emery. When told about the baseball dilemma, Willie pulled a bankroll out of his pocket ("Hundreds and fifties and tens," Emery told me in amazement.)

Willie peeled off a $10 and said he'd sign that for Em. Em, bless him, said he could not accept because it was too much. So Willie pulled out a $1 and signed it. Then the two center fielders continued to talk ball. Emery's one regret: he was so excited he forgot to tell No. 24 that his Harlem Little League team plays very near where the old Polo Grounds -- Home to Willie's old New York Giants -- used to stand. Talk about kindred spirits!

Emery also listened as well as talked. He hung on every word that the adults said to him. About baseball tools, about school, about life. 

He listened intently as ALS “Ice Bucket” crusader Pete Frates accepted a humanitarian award for his part in raising $100 million in donations last August. Frates spoke to a still crowd from a wheel chair and through a computerized speaking apparatus. I watched Emery as he watched the scene unfold on one of the large screens. Transfixed was the word that came to mind. As I said, an old soul in a young body. 

Lastly, like his parents, I was very proud that Emery refused to take the $10 bill. The smile he wore the rest of the evening, as he showed the likes of Tito and Buck the dollar bill, well, that was worth much more than $10. It was priceless! 

              

                                                               

Game Called On Account Of Tears: Mr. Cub Is Gone

AP Photo/Jim Prisching"

Such beauty, in a smile, in a swing, in the conduct of a life well-lived. Ernie Banks had it all. Not even The Curse, nor a career devoid of a single postseason game could obscure the fact that when Ernie Banks stepped from the Negro Leagues to the Major Leagues in 1953, a bright, shiny star was born.

Mr. Banks, who became a fixture on The North Side, died Friday, mere days before his 84th birthday.  Now, the man who always saw the possibility in the bright light of day, who always thought two games were preferable to a mere one, will play no more.

In baseball, there is a saying that you can rest in the off-season. Mr. Banks, there is no game today, just eternal rest, and the gratitude of a game and a nation.

Mr. Banks, signed by the Kansas City Monarchs as a 19--year-old before World War II, served two years in the military before making the transition from the Leagues of Cool Papa Bell and Josh Gibson, to Wrigley Field. He was not the first to help shatter stereotypes and push the national pastime away from its shameful segregation policies. There could only be one Jackie Robinson, and thankfully only one game-wide color barrier to smash.

But Mr. Banks was the first African American to play for the Chicago Cubs,  putting the National League team on the  right side of the ledger in The Second City's baseball history. He then crafted his legacy by using his bat with the skill of a surgeon, his glove with the deftness of an artist, and his personality with more congeniality than found in a thousand beauty contests. He was a perfect teammate for sweet-swinging Billy Williams and Ron Santo. The three future Hall of Famers were inextricably linked, not because of the Cubs' futility, but because their charm and talents made all those near-misses and canceled parades tolerable in a city that never tired of dreaming. 

The tale of the tape, chronicled from debut to Cooperstown, includes Banks 11 All-Star Games, more than 500 home runs and back-to-back MVP honors, a National League first. He was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1977, his first year eligible.

Banks was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest honor awarded to civilians in the United States, by President Barack Obama in 2013.

Even that seems like to little. Thank you for your service, and your belief in us all, Mr. Banks. Thank you for making us smile while always wishing for just one more game.

Stuart Scott: A Trailblazer and Hero, Gone Too Soon

On the days where there is a lot of heat, but not enough light, higher powers have a way of snatching up the human race and showing you what is important: A life well-lived, true courage, utter passion, real compassion, unwavering commitment. We are reminded of the the true meaning of “warrior,” shamed, at least for a day from attaching the word to anyone just because he or she carries a ball or overcomes the “adversity” of sucking at grownup behavior.

Such reminders of what a true warrior and great courage is came today with the news that Stuart Scott, the iconic ESPN announcer, succumbed to cancer at age 49.

Gone too soon does not cover the immensity of this loss, for the Scott family and friends, for ESPN, for our profession. The tears throughout the electronic and print media are real, as real as the tributes from the millions who admired him from afar are bountiful.

Over 4 million viewed ESPN’s on-line obituary within hours of the announcement that Stuart had passed. President Barack Obama issued a statement. Moments of silence were held at sporting events around the nation, including both NFL wild-card playoff games, and basketball games in the NBA and college play.

Said the President: "I will miss Stuart Scott. Twenty years ago, Stu helped usher in a new way to talk about our favorite teams and the day's best plays. For much of those twenty years, public service and campaigns have kept me from my family -- but wherever I went, I could flip on the TV and Stu and his colleagues on SportsCenter were there. Over the years, he entertained us, and in the end, he inspired us -- with courage and love. Michelle and I offer our thoughts and prayers to his family, friends, and colleagues."

Why does this loss matter so to so many people? My theory is that what we saw in Stuart we would hope to see in ourselves when the situations seem most dire. We want to achieve the level of inner peace Stuart found when fighting cancer for a third time. I was undone in fighting the disease in its earliest stage one time. Stuart simply grew stronger and stronger as cancer did in each savage attack on his frail body.

Never was Stuart’s strength more evident than at the ESPYS last July 16, when, shortly before his 49th birthday and fresh from cancer surgery, he accepted the Jimmy V Award for Perseverance. Stuart, ill but incredibly strong when he needed, spoke with such eloquence and poignancy, the moment and his acceptance speech resonated around the globe. 

Stuart’s most touching, now-famed lines that evening: "When you die, it does not mean that you lose to cancer. You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner in which you live.”

Stuart Scott and Robin Roberts

Amen. 

How Stuart lived was legendary within his field long before he
became the face of the battle against cancer.  He was a pioneer, one who brought a new lexicon to sports-speak, straight from hip, urban black America.

His signature calls wet filled with “playahs,” “boo-yahs” and were always, always as “cool as the other side of the pillow.”

By giving voice to a previously underrepresented culture, Stuart enriched not just sports talk but also the national dialog. And he  in a way the "suits" who tried so valiantly to prove their commitment to diversity never dreamed. It took a maestro at a microphone to open the dialog. It took Stuart. 

Without apology, but always with a smile, Stuart made the language of his youth, of our black America a language shared by all. And the sound, the rhythm were as cool as he, as he played the black keys and slipped in sharps and flats with ease.  The Count, The Duke and Miles would have been proud. Black America certainly was.

"He was a trailblazer,” ESPN anchor Stan Verrett told ESPN.com. “Not only because he was black -- obviously black -- but because of his style, his demeanor, his presentation. He did not shy away from the fact that he was a black man, and that allowed the rest of us who came along to just be ourselves."

"Yes, he brought hip-hop into the conversation,” SportsCenter anchor Jay Harris told ESPN.com. “But I would go further than that. He brought in the barber shop, the church, R&B, soul music. Soul, period.”

It took the walking of a fine line. Miss a note here, and you were a bamboozler. Miss a note there, and you were an angry black man. Stuart? He was just Stuart, and America noticed the sincerity. Because he was himself, he was the change our profession needed. 

Steve Levy and Stuart Scott

As other journalists took note, then embraced, being bi-lingual became not only cool but, at last became a two-way street. You cannot imagine how fascinating that was to we African Americans who’d felt that being fluent in both American “languages” was a required only of us

My one regret is that perhaps Stuart did not know the extent to which we in the African American and journalism communities recognized these very significant contributions.

Is it too late to say just how much a game changer he was, to say how grateful we all are, how much the better we are to have called him friend and colleague? I pray not. Because Stuart Scott should know how he truly was the epitome of a warrior, a hero, a great dad, a role model -- the real deal on every level.

Cool as the other side of the pillow? That Stuart Scott was.  That is why we mourn.

Thank you, Stuart. May you rest in eternal peace.

Related link: http://espn.go.com/espn/story/_/id/12118296/stuart-scott-espn-anchor-dies-age-49?ex_cid=sportscenterTW

2014, You Did Not Kick Me To The Curb!

The first day of the new year is in the books. It was lovely. Visiting with my best friend, Sophia Agbaje; sweet, sweet nephew, Will Smith, and his little lad, Julian. Sophia filled me up with great food, lots of laughs and plenty of reminders of why a 40-plus year friendship can't be diminished by time.

Another blessing: Got to spend time with my godson, Troy Morris, my "son" of almost 25 years. The occasions are too rare, so I really cherished our time together. Tomorrow I I'll see my other godson, Christopher Agbaje -- my heart. Hope to see my beautiful niece, Stephanie Smith. Her sweet mom, Valerie Duffan; and Grandmom, the elegant Ernette Reid; also visited on New Year's Day, making the holiday all the more special. In all, a great start to 2015.

In short, the first taste of '15 already suggests that 2014 will pale in comparison.

But...

I don't know if I could enjoy what I've enjoyed this holiday season if 2014 had not re-shaped all my notions of life.

What I thought I knew, about life and living, family and friends, all flew out the window that day last February when I learned I had breast cancer.

The invincible-on-the-outside, completely worn-to-a-nub-on-the-inside me, that person had to change or drown.

I could no longer pretend to be Super Woman. I was fooling no one but myself, anyway.

I had to realize that allowing myselt to trust was a sign of strength, not weakness.  To do so meant to break down walls four, five decades in the making. So when friends and family flocked to my side, I forced my eyes open in the first time in forever, and I saw what I really never had before: I was not alone.

Even though I had cancer -- the scariest word in the world to me -- deep down, I knew there was no danger of drowning. My sisters, brothers, cousins, friends in the "Fight Like A Girl" legions simply would not have it!

The loving helping hands were many.

Don and Judy Skwar, Cindy Carlone and her lovely mom; Len and Sherry Lampugnale, and brother and sister-in-law Hawk and Yinka Smith, never allowed me to take a step by myself to or from the walk-ups to surgical procedures, or the operations themselves.

Nicola Lange, Tracie Dickey, Lisa Saxon, Sophia, Yinka, Cindy, Pam Stec, Suzyn Waldman and Ginny Heilemann all had hotlines reserved for just me. Shoulders for my tears alone also came with the package! So, so many conversations, many deep into the night. But when your friends ring the world, there really is no darkness, because the sun is always shining somewhere.

Cindy Carlone “babysitting” me!

Even the written word proved beautiful. Thank you, Alfie Boe, Damian George, Michael Boe. Your encouragement will never be forgotten.
As for coping with a frightening disease for the first time, I was given so many ways to kick silly old cancer, its round arse is square to this day! To Pam, Suzyn, Lisa, Ginny and the remarkable Pete Cafone, your wisdom, insights and guidance were and are invaluable, your generosity remarkable. Love you as never before!

Just as important, I was not alone in the fight. I learned of colleagues, friends, family, fighting the same battle on their own terms. To Eiryl George, Shelley Smith, Carla Sassani DelVecchio, you continue to be inspirations to me.

And how can I begin to thank the many ESPN and BBWAA peers who never let me stumble, but simply beckoned me, welcomed me back to work? And Don and Becky Baylor, Willie Randolph, Dave Wi

nfield, Don Mattingly, you’re Hall of Famers-all when it comes to friendship!

Facebook family, my beautiful Alfie’s Angles, I simply love you all to pieces. You made our world a village where no one is ever forgotten or left to battle on alone.

Along the way through the toughest days of 2014, I not only listened to the voices of encouragement. I learned a lot, from others, from myself, about myself.

Learned to say "yes" rather than an automatic "no thanks" to offers of help -- anathema to those who've always thought they could do it all. And the result: gifts of caring, time and life saving beyond compare! Paul Hensler's supermarket and Sushi runs; Nancy and Ken Davis saving my dad's artwork when the basement flooded and I could not cope with the stairs; I cannot even assign value to such moments. All the gestures, big and small, simply meant the world.

 Along the way, I also learned to be just a wee bit selfish, integral to    living instead of just existing. I feel Josh and I crossed an important bridge. We learned to let go, to extract our baggage from each other’s lives. I love him as never before. He will be okay, because he’s discovering strengths within. I am no longer an impediment to his growth, nor is he to me. Onward!

Mostly, I learned that while I could be shaken by the setbacks -- the radiation burns, fatigue and fear -- the tough stuff wasn't the stuff that would undo me. Because it didn't. Bent me, but did not break me, shook me more than once, but did not sink me.

So while I am glad 2014 is over, while I would not ever want to revisit its issues, I can't say I hated that 365-day roller-coaster ride. I gained, learned, experienced, grew and lived too much to ever want to give what 2014 back brought into my life.

Love you, family and friends. Onward.

From lovely Jennifer Parr

From “Angel” Anna Fernandes