This is a story about romance, but probably not the kind you’d suppose.

I was wandering around Old Town Scottsdale a couple of months ago and the See’s Candies store is still operating as it has for as long as I can remember. Most likely, it’s been open much longer, since the company is almost 105 years old.

I’ve never been a big fan of See’s candy, since I prefer savory over sweet and I don’t consume much in the way of candy, anyway.  It’s fine, for candy, but that’s not my thing and it’s definitely not the point I was intending to make here.

(Don’t you just hate it when some guy starts telling a story and runs off on a tangent and has a hard time finding his way back to the point he was trying to make? Me, too. I’d really hate to meet a guy like that.)

Okay, back to my story. Seeing See’s still selling Scottsdale sweets sparked sentimental sensations.

There was a time, kids, when you had to go to an actual See’s Candies store to buy their wares. If someone brought you a box of See’s Candies, it meant they not only traveled hundreds of miles from home, but thought about you while they were on their journey and made the effort to both buy a box and schlep it back for you.

And that’s where the romance comes in. There was something magical about receiving a gift from a faraway locale, an item so rare that your benefactor needed to journey for days in order to find and claim it. See’s Candies sold literally tons of caramel suckers to Midwest travelers who gained panache points from friends when they returned home. (Yes, they probably could have bought candy through mail order, but that’s not how we rolled in The Time Before.)

We all loved everything that was unavailable at home. We longed for a precious six-pack of Coors, which you couldn’t get east of the Mississippi, and we were ready to give a kidney to any friend who brought some back from exotic St. Louis. Coors tastes like water that somebody drank already, but we didn’t care. If we had some, we were more special than all the normies who were still getting their suds from the land of sky-blue waters.

Last year, I visited a half dozen spice shops in Greece, searching for a spice blend one of my daughters and sons-in-law wanted. Eventually I found it…along with the website info for ordering it online any time of any day. I spent more time searching in the spice stores than I would have needed to find it on my phone, but it was the search that created the romance. To me, that easy access made the item less special. It wasn’t a unique product I needed to find in a bazaar. It was one of 200 billion SKUs I could buy instantly from Jeff and Lauren.

Every so often, you’ll find a place in your travels that’s selling something unique, something available only at that store in that town. Whatever it is, buy one. Our world is becoming more bland, even coarse, and we can all benefit from just a bit of romance in our journeys.
 
 
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You're never too old to learn the lessons of life, but I've noticed the tuition gets more and more expensive...

• Shop shop. My car got totaled a few weeks ago and it’s a while before the Chicago Auto Show. I’ve been forced to settle for the next best thing: wandering around parking lots and checking out the cars. I’ve learned a lot from this exercise, including the fact that parking lot security guards have no sense of humor.
  
• Dashed dots. I wrote recently about how valuable I am to all the companies that want nothing more in life than my data. Nobody actually wants to sell me anything; they just want to sell my search history. I’m starting to wonder, though, if they’re doing it wrong. Mom always told me to save everything because it would absolutely, 100%, guaranteed be worth something someday. Then, and I know this will be a shock to any parent who has offered precious heirlooms to their adult children, it turns out nobody wants all the crap I’ve been saving for 50 years. Is it possible that all these data hoarders had moms like mine?
  
• Red eyes. Speaking of data points, I went to the eye doctor for my annual check-up a few weeks ago and they did a half dozen screening tests before the doctor showed up. When he called up the results, the screen pulsated with numbers highlighted in RED RED RED. Not a problem, he said, because I’m doing just fine…FOR MY AGE. Sigh.
  
• Era sure. For almost two decades, we divided history into pre-and-post-9/11. Now, it’s pre-and-post-Covid. I can’t wait to see what the next crisis will be and…strike that…I’m fine with waiting a long, long time.
  
• Vintage cab. I know I’d get lectured about it in a Progressive ad, but I’m one of those old guys who starts up conversations with people on the elevator. Sometimes, I’ll make a small joke that makes them smile or laugh, and I know it gives them new energy as the doors open on their floor and they run off to their next adventure. 
  
• TBC. I’m listening to a very successful man as he relates his life story and just about all his narration includes his father’s story. After a while, I get the sense that he sees his own life as a continuation of his dad’s journey, which seems to make sense. We’re all continuing on a path that our parents continued from their parents in a stream of history we cannot trace beyond a handful of years.
  
• Whaddya know? I’m taking photos of surfers off a California beach when a guy with a board comes up to me to ask about conditions. I pointed to a bunch of people in the water and said, “None of these guys is finding the waves they want,” so he decided to try his luck further down the beach. He probably should have asked me if I knew anything at all about surfing before asking for advice, but that’s a life lesson for another day. 
• Looking down on people. Every time I take a flight across the country, I look at the small towns and giant farms that fill the landscape and think about how the folks below might see the world. Rufus Miles observed that where you stand depends on where you sit, which probably explains a great deal about differing perspectives. In many ways, the people in flyover country are living in a completely different universe from me, even if we share the human condition in almost every way.

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A costume isn't always a costume and doctors are never satisfied, or at least that's the zeitgeist for this week:

• My server was wearing all black, monster ears, and some kind of bat-like tiara, so I thought about complimenting her on her Halloween costume. Then I realized this might just be how she expresses herself all the time, so I’ll wait and see if she’s dressed the same way in November.
  
• Can we stop pretending that “customer service” bots are a way to reduce costs? The bots merely transfer costs from the provider to the customer, who needs to spend added time listening to prerecorded blather and yell “agent” 20 times until the bot gets the message. Getting rid of the human beings who answer the phone adds to the total cost of every business relationship and damages those relationships along the way.
• I haven’t listened to any new music for about 30 years now, which is making me worse and worse at both Jeopardy and the NYTimes crossword, but that’s the only place it makes any difference. Whenever I’m in an elevator or a grocery store or a doctor’s waiting room, I still feel au courant. It’s really the only time the world gives me a fist bump, but I’ll take it.
• Money’s been tight lately, but I’ve figured out how to keep seeing great shows at local theaters. I just sneak in as everyone is coming back from intermission and nobody checks for tickets before the second act. It’s working like a dream, but could someone explain to me what that Hamlet guy was so upset about?
• I’ve never had a doctor who thinks I’m doing okay with my routines. I say I’m eating fish twice a week and they tell me to make it three. I say I’m getting eight hours of sleep and they tell me to shoot for nine. Last week, I told my doctor I was exercising seven days a week and he told me to make it eight. To tell the truth, I don’t think they’re really listening.
  
• I was walking past the park the other night and I was jolted by the metallic sound of swings hinging back and forth. That’s the sound of nostalgia, now that the grandkids are too old for me to push them, and it recalled one more chapter that’s already closed. As if I needed a reminder: Don’t blink.
• We hardly need to remind you that today is the 100th anniversary of everything that happened on this date 100 years ago today. Be sure to honor the people who gave/did/fought/ran/overindulged on this day by observing it respectfully/happily/solemnly. And don’t forget, tomorrow it will happen again.
• The woman sitting next to me on the plane recommended a restaurant called Las Salivas, which seemed like an odd name to me, but what do I know? Maybe the food’s so good it makes you drool or something. Turns out, she was talking about Los Olivos and I should be sure to ask people to spell things in the future.

 
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I’ve got a seriously big week ahead, beginning with a day of mourning on Monday as the sun crosses the equator (really, it’s vice versa) and the darkness grows to nearly 15 hours at the winter solstice. I swore to myself that I’d get more enjoyment out of summer, which I did, and that I’d spend more time on the bike, which I did, but summer in Chicago is never long enough and our blue marble follows its own path, not mine.

That’s not the biggest challenge for this week, though, as Rosh Hashanah begins later the same day and I confront the greatest illusion in my life. The Jewish High Holidays are always a period of meaningful introspection for me and I’ve been focusing lately on the false belief I share with almost every other person on this planet.

Control.

Somehow, despite all the evidence life throws at us, we have a (Oxymoron Alert!!) seriously goofy habit of thinking we have some control over our existence. It would be a mistake to say we have no control at all, of course. We get to choose whether we have sausage or mushrooms, or both, on our pizza. We get to choose between boxers and briefs. We even get the pick the excuse we’ll use when we tell mom we can’t help her clean out the garage next weekend.

That’s small potatoes, though. When it comes to the big things in life, we reach our limits very, very quickly. We don’t control our health or our smarts or our height or who will hire us or whether our subway train will stay on the rails. We can’t make our rideshare show up on time or ensure that our pizza arrives with the toppings we ordered.

A major message of the Days of Awe, the period between the start of Rosh Hashanah and the end of the Day of Atonement on Yom Kippur, is that we have no control. At this time last year, we had no idea whether we would live to see today and, as Yom Kippur comes to a close, we will have no idea whether we will make it to the next Days of Awe.

The whole process is belittling and liberating at the same time. We spend our lives obsessing over things we cannot control, getting angry or stressed or impatient with people or events that we cannot even influence. Sometimes, we feel responsible when things go wrong, as if we really could have made the difference, or take unearned credit for successes we didn’t really create. Freed from that conceit, we can focus on the only thing we do control, which is our own actions.

I agree with Louis Pasteur that chance favors the prepared mind, and I’m a big fan of planning ahead, but that doesn’t mean I think I can control much of anything. Almost the opposite. Preparation makes it easier to make good decisions when, inevitably, things don’t go as planned. If I had more control, I wouldn’t need as much planning, but I don’t, so I do.

After the High Holidays, I’ll keep on making plans, if only to give God a good laugh. I’ll also try to keep both my stress and hubris in check by remembering control is an illusion.
 
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So, when you meet someone who has been sick for a long time, should you ask them how they’re feeling?

At first, this looks like a no-brainer. Of course, you do. What kind of lowlife, inconsiderate, uncaring, ice-in-the-veins mass of worthless protoplasm wouldn’t ask a sick person about their health?

This one.

Yeah, if they just came home from the hospital or they just had some procedure done, I’ll ask about it right away. But, if they have a chronic condition, it’s not going to be one of my top five conversation starters. I’ll probably get to it eventually, but I’ll do them the favor of ignoring the issue as much as I can. If it's fatal, I'll make an effort not to talk about it at all.

Maybe, people who are chronically ill get tired of the questions. Maybe, they’re sick of being sick and want to change the subject. Maybe they want to be seen as more than their malady. Maybe, they want someone to ask them if they’ve been any place interesting lately or whether they saw that new show on Hulu or if they think the Bears will get into the Super Bowl. (Bears/Super Bowl questions are always good for a laugh.) Just maybe, they’re tired of talking about their illness and they’re damned tired of having it define them.

I’ve actually asked a couple of chronically ill people who say they hate being treated like avatars of disease, and I understand the conflict in their lives. Any chronic condition is what we have, but it isn’t who we are. The topic will come up If the conversation goes on long enough, but we don’t have to dive into it like it’s our secret handshake.

I’ve seen people wearing T-shirts that say things like, “Ask me about my grandchild,” or “Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,” but I’ve never seen one that says, “Ask me about my goiter.” Maybe there’s a reason for that.

We all want to be seen as complete human beings who have layers, just like ogres. We want to talk about the things that interest us and excite us and trigger our pheromones. No matter what challenges we’re dealing with, we have days when we just want to forget about it and have a normal life.

The funny thing is, the standard opener for pretty much all of us is, “How are you doing?” Almost always, that’s a vague question that can simply trigger whatever is top of mind. But when we know a person isn’t doing well at all, another opening might be preferable. IMO.
 
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I told my daughters I want their children to get hurt and they agreed that it's a good idea.

TBH, I was expecting some push-back, maybe even indignation at the suggestion. What kind of monster looks at the most vulnerable in his family and wishes them pain? Instead, I found out they had been thinking along the same lines. And that was very gratifying, because it makes them thoughtful parents.

We all want to give our children the security and confidence that enables them to grow without fear. We work to protect them from negative experiences, even to the point of insulating them from the fact that those experiences exist. We know it won’t last forever. Reality will intervene. No matter what kind of cocoon we wrap around them, they will eventually graduate into a real world where parental force fields dissolve.

We want them to be carefree and happy and enjoy life like kids, but they also have to learn to be street smart in a way that requires them getting knocked down a few times. The more they interact with the world on their own, with no blocking and tackling from the guardians in their lives, the more likely and more frequent the beat-downs will be.

One day, they’re holding your hand as they cross the street and they don’t have to think about their own safety and, if you blink, you’ll find them maneuvering through rush-hour traffic on a Divvy bike. Suddenly, safety requires that they keep their heads on a swivel, along with the painful awareness that they can’t trust everything that gets said or the people who say it.

Some of life’s most valuable lessons come in only two sizes: bad and worse. The kids can’t mature into fully-capable adults without those lessons, so I’m rooting for the bad ones. I want them to learn about life the hard way, but not too hard. I want them to get bumped, but not bruised; hurt, but not damaged; wary, but not cynical. We need to step back and let them fall, but not so hard they can’t get back up and carry the lessons they’ve learned into a happy future. Or, so we hope.

As parents, as humans, we can never hit the balance point precisely, but it’s a worthy target. It’s also the hardest dance we need to master in life, with too many intrusions, too many variables, too much of the real world outside our door. The kids in my universe are aging into the danger zone, and the best I can hope for is that they only get hurt.

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