Christmas 2014: A kid, some peaches and a lesson learned

On nearly every Christmas Eve since this post in 2007, I've passed along one of my favorite newspaper columns as a message of peace and goodwill and looking ahead to - hopefully - to a good year ahead. For those who want to read that column, penned by the late Shelby Strother, it is here - http://terrylyons.blogspot.com/2007/12/little-shelby-for-christmas.html

This Christmas, I found a very different story to post.  I let the column speak for itself.

Merry Christmas,

TL

***

This story recently appeared in the LA Times:

On a long ago Christmas Eve, an editor understood what we were supposed to do

Written by Al Martinez on December 25, 1986

It happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck. I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.

It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas. We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep. I remember it was about 11 o'clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day's editions.

Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you're young and fast and never get tired. Then the telephone rang.

It was Al Reck calling, as he always did at night, and he'd had a few under his belt. Reck was a drinking man. With diabetes and epilepsy, hard liquor was about the last thing he ought to be messing with, but you didn't tell Al what he ought to or ought not to do.

He was essentially a gentle man who rarely raised his voice, but you knew he was the city editor, and in those days the city editor was the law and the word in the newsroom. But there was more than fear and tradition at work for Al.

We respected him immensely, not only for his abilities as a newsman, but for his humanity. Al was sensitive both to our needs and the needs of those whose names and faces appeared in the pages of the Oakland Tribune.

"What's up?" he asked me that Christmas Eve in a voice as soft and slurred as a summer breeze.

He already knew what was up because, during 25 years on the city desk, Reck somehow always knew what was up, but he wanted to hear it from the man handling the story.

I told him about the kid dying of leukemia and about the peaches and about how there simply were no fresh peaches, but it still made a good piece. We had art and a hole waiting on page one.

Al listened for a moment and then said, "How long's he got?"

"Not long," I said. "His doctor says maybe a day or two."

There was a long silence and then Al said, "Get the kid his peaches."

"I've called all over," I said. "None of the produce places in the Bay Area have fresh peaches. They're just plain out of season. It's winter."

"Not everywhere. Call Australia."

"Al," I began to argue, "it's after 11 and I have no idea . . . . "

"Call Australia," he said, and then hung up.

If Al said call Australia, I would call Australia.

I don't quite remember whom I telephoned, newspapers maybe and agricultural associations, but I ended up finding fresh peaches and an airline that would fly them to the Bay Area before the end of Christmas day.

There was only one problem. Customs wouldn't clear them. They were an agricultural product and would be hung up at San Francisco International at least for a day, and possibly forever.

Reck called again. He listened to the problem and told me to telephone the Secretary of Agriculture and have him clear the peaches when they arrived.

It's close to midnight," I argued. "His office is closed."

"Take this number down," Reck said. "It's his home. Tell him I told you to call."

It was axiomatic among the admirers of Al Reck that he knew everyone and everyone knew him, from cops on the street to government leaders in their Georgetown estates. No one knew how Al knew them or why, but he did.

I made the call. The secretary said he'd have the peaches cleared when they arrived and give Al Reck his best.

"All right," Reck said on his third and final call to me, "now arrange for one of our photographers to meet the plane and take the peaches over to the boy's house."

He had been drinking steadily throughout the evening and the slurring had become almost impossible to understand. By then it was a few minutes past midnight, and just a heartbeat and a half to the final deadline.

"Al," I said, "if I don't start writing this now I'll never get the story in the paper."

I won't forget this moment.

"I didn't say get the story," Reck replied gently. "I said get the kid his peaches."

If there is a flash point in our lives to which we can refer later, moments that shape our attitudes and effect our futures, that was mine.

Alfred Pierce Reck had defined for me the importance of what we do, lifting it beyond newsprint and deadline to a level of humanity that transcends job. He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do.

I didn't say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches.

The boy got his peaches and the story made the home edition, and I received a lesson in journalism more important than any I've learned since.

I wanted you to know that this Christmas Day.

A Christmas Tradition - A Little Shelby Strother

Merry Christmas everyone. 
TL

Each Christmas Day Contains the Past, Present and Future

By SHELBY STROTHER

TL's Favorite Book

It did not matter that the wind-chill was life threatening. It was Christmas morning, and a bright sun stabbed the frozen land. And children were playing.

The decision over which to play with - the official World Cup soccer ball or the Turbo Football - never materialized. With all the snow, a soccer match was out of the question. So spirals of pink and black performed in the most sincere imitations of Rodney Peete and Joe Montana floated back and forth in the yard.

What a nice sight.

The Annual Second Chance is near - it's called New Year's Eve. It is the window of opportunity where the hopes and fears of all the year (not to mention the mistakes) can be erased.

But Christmas Day is a time of reinforcement and the essence of tomorrow. And children playing with toys are the finest examples of what that tomorrow looks like.

I look out the window. I've been in that yard. All young boys have. Sports become such a part of childhood. Santa is aware of all of this, naturally.

This particular day is exquisite, I think to myself. I take personal inventory, not only of blessings and personal satisfaction, but of the presents of Christmas past. Still the kid, I suppose.

I got my first basketball when I was six. I made my first basket a year later. There was a tetherball set; I must have been eight. And a football helmet when I was ten. A Carl Furillo-model baseball mitt at eleven. There were tennis rackets and fishing poles and boxing gloves and shrimp nets and a Mickey Mantle 32-inch Little League bat and one time, even a badminton set.

Every Christmas, I'd play out my dreams and my mind would fly over the rainbow, imagining my propulsion. Of course, I would become a major-leaguer, an All-Star, an all-time great, a Hall of Famer. We all would. My vision extended well beyond the day.

My athletic ability, alas, never kept stride. It was not the worst realization I would ever make.

But I have noticed a direct correlation between Christmas gifts and sporting dreams. The dreams are for the young. So are the gifts. Usually, the two disappear in unison. The rare few who project into greatness discover they do not need imagination to make those lofty flights of fantasy. Hope is not the co-pilot. Expectation is.

It must be a wonderful view.

I was thinking about all of this when another memory nudged me. My 17th Christmas I got a typewriter.

It was about the same time that I'd maneuvered my fantasy a few extra miles. I'd received a baseball scholarship to pitch at a small school in Florida. There were other opportunities, other colleges available. But none that would allow my athletic vision to continue.

I had expected a Christmas of more games in the yard. More dreams to celebrate. I got a typewriter instead.

"What am I going to do with a typewriter?" I asked.

My mother said I'd need it for college. But she also said, "Sometimes you get too old to play games. But you never get too old that you can't use your imagination."

Sometimes Christmas is taken for granted. Almost always, in fact. I think Christmas music, and I hear bells. I turn on the radio and I hear someone named Elmo and Patsy lamenting their grandmother's head-on collision with a reindeer. I think of the meaning of Christmas, and I think of the most special birthday in the history of the world. But I turn on the TV and there are all these Claymation raisins doing Doo-Wop homages to the joys of buying machines wherein a microchip can seize command of entire generations.

Christmas (will soon) be gone, 364 days to go. But children still play. They chase the wonderful image of themselves as they would like to be seen. Christmas is their favorite arena. But they settle for lesser stadia.

But remember this - the present is sometimes confused with the package it comes wrapped in. Sometimes the gift is simply the freedom to imagine. There may be no greater one.

It was a great typewriter. I still play with it.

- A column by Shelby Strother

(For my Blog Entry on Christmas Eve over the past six years, I've alternated by posting memorable columns from a few of my all-time favorite writers. This column is, by far, my favorite column of all-time so read on my friends and "followers."  Here is to Shelby and a Merry Christmas to all).

###

Notes: For those of you who did not know Shelby Strother, I pass these little tidbits along; He was a very good friend. I've lost a father and an older brother. I've agonized and felt helpless as we've since watched close relatives and friends of the family pass away, but Shelby was the first good friend in my life who went and got cancer and then died. My good buddy, Bob Rose, did the same damn thing this past year.

Back to Shelby... I can remember Shelby attended the 1991 NBA All-Star Game in Charlotte, NC. That Sunday night, he said that he didn't feel well and was going to bed early. That was about Feb. 10, 1991. The next month was a bad dream, each minute of every day for a solid month. Shelby died in the suburbs of Detroit on March 3, 1991, leaving his wife, Kim and two great little guys, Tommy and Kenny (the latter joined Shelby in heaven a few years back but that is a terrible fact of life to be told another day). Shelby grew up in the great State of Florida and loved it. I met him when he was a writer for the Denver Post. He went on to be a sports columnist for the Detroit News, but when big news was breaking and the News needed a writer, they sent Shelby. Berlin Wall coming down, off went Shelby. I could go on.

A Special Message: Brought to You by my Friend Shelby with Love & Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays:

(For my Blog Entry on Christmas Eve over the past five years, I've alternated by posting memorable columns from a few of my all-time favorite writers. This column is, by far, my favorite column of all-time so read on, my friends, read on).

EACH CHRISTMAS DAY ALWAYS CONTAINS the PRESENT, FUTURE AND PAST FOR BOTH the YOUNG and OLD ...

By SHELBY STROTHER

TL's Favorite Book

It did not matter that the wind-chill was life threatening. It was Christmas morning, and a bright sun stabbed the frozen land. And children were playing.

The decision over which to play with - the official World Cup soccer ball or the Turbo Football - never materialized. With all the snow, a soccer match was out of the question. So spirals of pink and black performed in the most sincere imitations of Rodney Peete and Joe Montana floated back and forth in the yard.

What a nice sight.

The Annual Second Chance is near - it's called New Year's Eve. It is the window of opportunity where the hopes and fears of all the year (not to mention the mistakes) can be erased.

But Christmas Day is a time of reinforcement and the essence of tomorrow. And children playing with toys are the finest examples of what that tomorrow looks like.

I look out the window. I've been in that yard. All young boys have. Sports become such a part of childhood. Santa is aware of all of this, naturally.

This particular day is exquisite, I think to myself. I take personal inventory, not only of blessings and personal satisfaction, but of the presents of Christmas past. Still the kid, I suppose.

I got my first basketball when I was six. I made my first basket a year later. There was a tetherball set; I must have been eight. And a football helmet when I was ten. A Carl Furillo-model baseball mitt at eleven. There were tennis rackets and fishing poles and boxing gloves and shrimp nets and a Mickey Mantle 32-inch Little League bat and one time, even a badminton set.

Every Christmas, I'd play out my dreams and my mind would fly over the rainbow, imagining my propulsion. Of course, I would become a major-leaguer, an All-Star, an all-time great, a Hall of Famer. We all would. My vision extended well beyond the day.

My athletic ability, alas, never kept stride. It was not the worst realization I would ever make.

But I have noticed a direct correlation between Christmas gifts and sporting dreams. The dreams are for the young. So are the gifts. Usually, the two disappear in unison. The rare few who project into greatness discover they do not need imagination to make those lofty flights of fantasy. Hope is not the co-pilot. Expectation is.

It must be a wonderful view.

I was thinking about all of this when another memory nudged me. My 17th Christmas I got a typewriter.

It was about the same time that I'd maneuvered my fantasy a few extra miles. I'd received a baseball scholarship to pitch at a small school in Florida. There were other opportunities, other colleges available. But none that would allow my athletic vision to continue.

I had expected a Christmas of more games in the yard. More dreams to celebrate. I got a typewriter instead.

"What am I going to do with a typewriter?" I asked.

My mother said I'd need it for college. But she also said, "Sometimes you get too old to play games. But you never get too old that you can't use your imagination."

Sometimes Christmas is taken for granted. Almost always, in fact. I think Christmas music, and I hear bells. I turn on the radio and I hear someone named Elmo and Patsy lamenting their grandmother's head-on collision with a reindeer. I think of the meaning of Christmas, and I think of the most special birthday in the history of the world. But I turn on the TV and there are all these Claymation raisins doing Doo-Wop homages to the joys of buying machines wherein a microchip can seize command of entire generations.

Christmas (will soon) be gone, 364 days to go. But children still play. They chase the wonderful image of themselves as they would like to be seen. Christmas is their favorite arena. But they settle for lesser stadia.

But remember this - the present is sometimes confused with the package it comes wrapped in. Sometimes the gift is simply the freedom to imagine. There may be no greater one.

It was a great typewriter. I still play with it.

###

Notes: For those of you who did not know Shelby Strother, I pass these little tidbits along; He was a very good friend. I've lost a father, and an older brother. I've agonized and felt helpless as we've since watched close relatives and friends of the family pass away, but Shelby was the first friend in my life who went out, got cancer and died.

Shelby attended the 1991 NBA All-Star Game in Charlotte, NC. That Sunday night, he said that he didn't feel well and was going to bed early. That was about Feb. 10, 1991. The next month was a bad dream, each minute of every day for a solid month. Shelby died in the suburbs of Detroit on March 3, 1991, leaving his wife, Kim and two great little guys, Tommy and Kenny (the latter joined Shelby in heaven a few years back but that is a terrible fact of life to be told another day). Shelby grew up in the great State of Florida and loved it. I met him when he was a writer for the Denver Post. He went on to be a sports columnist for the Detroit News, but when big news was breaking and the News needed a writer, they sent Shelby. Berlin Wall coming down, off went Shelby. I could go on.

If you want a great Christmas present for a friend or yourself, type in to "Amazon" or "Google" the words "Saddlebags" and "Shelby" and "Strother" and see what comes up. Buy it. Saddlebags is where the story above was written. There are dozens of other great stories just like this one.

SHELBY for CHRISTMAS: Must Read Column

Just as I did back in 2007 & 2009, here's a little Shelby for Christmas. It doesn't get any better than this column to pass along the true meaning of Christmas.

Saddlebags, a book dedicated to Shelby

By SHELBY STROTHER

It did not matter that the wind-chill was life threatening. It was Christmas morning, and a bright sun stabbed the frozen land. And children were playing.

The decision over which to play with - the official World Cup soccer ball or the Turbo Football - never materialized. With all the snow, a soccer match was out of the question. So spirals of pink and black performed in the most sincere imitations of Rodney Peete and Joe Montana floated back and forth in the yard.

What a nice sight.

The Annual Second Chance is near - it's called New Year's Eve. It is the window of opportunity where the hopes and fears of all the year (not to mention the mistakes) can be erased.

But Christmas Day is a time of reinforcement and the essence of tomorrow. And children playing with toys are the finest examples of what that tomorrow looks like.

I look out the window. I've been in that yard. All young boys have. Sports become such a part of childhood. Santa is aware of all of this, naturally.

This particular day is exquisite, I think to myself. I take personal inventory, not only of blessings and personal satisfaction, but of the presents of Christmas past. Still the kid, I suppose.

I got my first basketball when I was six. I made my first basket a year later. There was a tetherball set; I must have been eight. And a football helmet when I was ten. A Carl Furillo-model baseball mitt at eleven. There were tennis rackets and fishing poles and boxing gloves and shrimp nets and a Mickey Mantle 32-inch Little League bat and one time, even a badminton set.

Every Christmas, I'd play out my dreams and my mind would fly over the rainbow, imagining my propulsion. Of course, I would become a major-leaguer, an All-Star, an all-time great, a Hall of Famer. We all would. My vision extended well beyond the day.

My athletic ability, alas, never kept stride. It was not the worst realization I would ever make.

But I have noticed a direct correlation between Christmas gifts and sporting dreams. The dreams are for the young. So are the gifts. Usually, the two disappear in unison. The rare few who project into greatness discover they do not need imagination to make those lofty flights of fantasy. Hope is not the co-pilot. Expectation is.

It must be a wonderful view.

I was thinking about all of this when another memory nudged me. My 17th Christmas I got a typewriter.

It was about the same time that I'd maneuvered my fantasy a few extra miles. I'd received a baseball scholarship to pitch at a small school in Florida. There were other opportunities, other colleges available. But none that would allow my athletic vision to continue.

I had expected a Christmas of more games in the yard. More dreams to celebrate. I got a typewriter instead.

"What am I going to do with a typewriter?" I asked.

My mother said I'd need it for college. But she also said, "Sometimes you get too old to play games. But you never get too old that you can't use your imagination."

Sometimes Christmas is taken for granted. Almost always, in fact. I think Christmas music, and I hear bells. I turn on the radio and I hear someone named Elmo and Patsy lamenting their grandmother's head-on collision with a reindeer. I think of the meaning of Christmas, and I think of the most special birthday in the history of the world. But I turn on the TV and there are all these Claymation raisins doing Doo-Wop homages to the joys of buying machines wherein a microchip can seize command of entire generations.

Christmas (will soon) be gone, 364 days to go. But children still play. They chase the wonderful image of themselves as they would like to be seen. Christmas is their favorite arena. But they settle for lesser stadia.

But remember this - the present is sometimes confused with the package it comes wrapped in. Sometimes the gift is simply the freedom to imagine. There may be no greater one.

It was a great typewriter. I still play with it.

***

I frequently make note in this blog, if you want to buy a great book, "Google" ' Saddlebags and Shelby Strother' or head to Amazon.com and do the same.  Then, buy the book.  Click HERE.

Christmas Cheer: Bird Understands the True Meaning of Christmas

My business colleague and good friend, John Caron, passed along a column by longtime Boston Herald scribe Joe Fitzgerald.  It was written for the December 21, 1997 edition of the Herald and John took the time to get the page blown up to "posterize" the words for all patrons of "West End Johnnie's" to see when they visit our establishment during the holidays.

Larry Bird (left) with Earvin "Magic" Johnson

It's been an amazing year for Johnnie's.  From the scary economic times and touch & go operation of 2008-09-10, we turned the corner and haven't looked back.  It's still not perfect, but Johnnie's is healthy and proud of the hard work that has brought the restaurant to the year 2012 with a promising future ahead.

My business partner(s) put in a lot of hard work and we've been thrilled with the wonderful atmosphere that the patrons of Johnnie's bring out in our joint.  No one has worked harder than John Caron and Dave Glucksman as they strive to make West End Johnnie's a destination for everyone in Boston who wants to have some great food, great drinks and meet some great people in Boston's West End, near TD Boston Garden.

So, here's a great column, recommended by John Caron and brought to you by his proud business partner and friend, The Blog (at) TerryLyons (dot) com

***

By Joe Fitzgerald, Dec. 21, 1997

Larry Bird, out of a Celtics uniform since 1992, left a ton of memories at this address, but none more poignant than a Christmas memory he shared with several hundred Boston schoolkids, repeated here this morning because, quite frankly, sports could use a dose of reality.

"What kills me about Christmas," he said, "is that while it's a time of excitement for some people, it's a time that makes other people sad, like kids who just can't have the things they see their friends getting. A lot of people - and I know people like this - can't wait for Christmas to be gone.

"You know how they say it was the Grinch who stole Christmas? It wasn't the Grinch at all. It was the rich people. They're the ones who've stolen it, buying everything they can for their kids and not worrying about other kids who are going to end up feeling left out. They've taken Christmas the wrong way.  I mean, it's suposed to be a time for letting people know how you feel about them, isn't it?

"That's why, next to family, the most important thing in my life today are the old friends I have back home, the guys I went to school with, the guys who look at me and don't see money, or the cars, or even the Celtics. They couldn't care less about all of that. They live in a different world, the world I came from, where old buddies are still buddies 'cuz they know what's important, and it sure ain't money.

"I look at my little brother today, and when I see him wanting Reeboks, or Champion shirts, it bothers me because kids don't realize fads and fashions aren't what determine how good you are, or how important you are.

"Whenever I'm out speaking to a bunch of kids, maybe doing a playground clinic, I always look for that one who stands off by himself, whose clothes don't look too good.  I'll go out of my way to make a big deal over him because I used to be that kid.

"We got mostly clothes at our house every Christmas, 'cuz that's what we needed.  I can remember my friends getting bicycles, and thinking how I'd buy the best bike in town if only I had the money.  But that just wasn't possible.  Still, my Mom did a good job.  Christmas was a big thing around our house. There was always a pile of five or six gifts for all of us; as soon as you opened one, you went right to the next one.  It was chaos, and even though we knew it wasn't going to be a lot, we appreciated how tough it was for our folks to get us what they did.

"So I'll tell you what we did one year. We knew there'd be no toys that year because the funds just weren't there. My older brother got the rest of us together and said, 'Let's do something special for Mom and Dad before we open our presents. Let's just tell 'em we love 'em and see how they react, OK? I'll do the speaking.'

"You've got to understand, 'love' wasn't a word we threw around much in our family, so just hearing it said that way was new to me.

"Anyway, we're all sitting around the tree and my brother stands up.  He says, 'Mom, dad, we want to say something to you tonight. We want to tell you we appreciate all you do for us, giving us things we know you had to work overtime to get. And, we just want to tell you we love you.

"Well, I'm sitting there thinking, 'Gee, that's a pretty strong statement,' when I saw tears coming from my mother's eyes - and my Dad, he just sat there so proud. You could tell it really hit a chord.

"So look, if you guys want to do something really special this Christmas, tell your parents you love 'em, OK? Tell 'em thanks for all their hard work.

"That's all I really came here to tell you.  Thanks for listening.  Good luck to every one of you, and Merry Christmas."

- L. Bird

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.  Check in on The Blog tomorrow for another special column - a Shelby Strother piece - that's become a bit of a tradition at this space each and every Christmas Day.

A little Shelby for Christmas ...

EACH CHRISTMAS DAY ALWAYS CONTAINS the PRESENT, FUTURE AND PAST FOR BOTH the YOUNG and OLD...


By SHELBY STROTHER
It did not matter that the wind-chill was life threatening. It was Christmas morning, and a bright sun stabbed the frozen land. And children were playing.

The decision over which to play with - the official World Cup soccer ball or the Turbo Football - never materialized. With all the snow, a soccer match was out of the question. So spirals of pink and black performed in the most sincere imitations of Rodney Peete and Joe Montana floated back and forth in the yard.

What a nice sight.

The Annual Second Chance is near - it's called New Year's Eve. It is the window of opportunity where the hopes and fears of all the year (not to mention the mistakes) can be erased.

But Christmas Day is a time of reinforcement and the essence of tomorrow. And children playing with toys are the finest examples of what that tomorrow looks like.

I look out the window. I've been in that yard. All young boys have. Sports become such a part of childhood. Santa is aware of all of this, naturally.

This particular day is exquisite, I think to myself. I take personal inventory, not only of blessings and personal satisfaction, but of the presents of Christmas past. Still the kid, I suppose.

I got my first basketball when I was six. I made my first basket a year later. There was a tetherball set; I must have been eight. And a football helmet when I was ten. A Carl Furillo-model baseball mitt at eleven. There were tennis rackets and fishing poles and boxing gloves and shrimp nets and a Mickey Mantle 32-inch Little League bat and one time, even a badminton set.

Every Christmas, I'd play out my dreams and my mind would fly over the rainbow, imagining my propulsion. Of course, I would become a major-leaguer, an All-Star, an all-time great, a Hall of Famer. We all would. My vision extended well beyond the day.

My athletic ability, alas, never kept stride. It was not the worst realization I would ever make.

But I have noticed a direct correlation between Christmas gifts and sporting dreams. The dreams are for the young. So are the gifts. Usually, the two disappear in unison. The rare few who project into greatness discover they do not need imagination to make those lofty flights of fantasy. Hope is not the co-pilot. Expectation is.

It must be a wonderful view.

I was thinking about all of this when another memory nudged me. My 17th Christmas I got a typewriter.

It was about the same time that I'd maneuvered my fantasy a few extra miles. I'd received a baseball scholarship to pitch at a small school in Florida. There were other opportunities, other colleges available. But none that would allow my athletic vision to continue.

I had expected a Christmas of more games in the yard. More dreams to celebrate. I got a typewriter instead.

"What am I going to do with a typewriter?" I asked.

My mother said I'd need it for college. But she also said, "Sometimes you get too old to play games. But you never get too old that you can't use your imagination."

Sometimes Christmas is taken for granted. Almost always, in fact. I think Christmas music, and I hear bells. I turn on the radio and I hear someone named Elmo and Patsy lamenting their grandmother's head-on collision with a reindeer. I think of the meaning of Christmas, and I think of the most special birthday in the history of the world. But I turn on the TV and there are all these Claymation raisins doing Doo-Wop homages to the joys of buying machines wherein a microchip can seize command of entire generations.

Christmas (will soon) be gone, 364 days to go. But children still play. They chase the wonderful image of themselves as they would like to be seen. Christmas is their favorite arena. But they settle for lesser stadia.

But remember this - the present is sometimes confused with the package it comes wrapped in. Sometimes the gift is simply the freedom to imagine. There may be no greater one.

It was a great typewriter. I still play with it.

###

Notes: For those of you who did not know Shelby Strother, I pass these little tidbits along; He was a very good friend. I've lost a father, I've watched close relatives and friends of the family pass away, but he was the first friend in my life who went out, got cancer and died. Shelby attended the 1991 NBA All-Star Game in Charlotte, NC. That Sunday night, he said that he didn't feel well and was going to bed early. That was about Feb. 10, 1991. The next month was a bad dream, each minute live and in color. Shelby died in Detroit on March 3, 1991, leaving his wife, Kim and two great little guys, Tommy and Kenny (the latter joined Shelby in heaven a few years back but that is a terrible fact of life to be told another day). Shelby grew up in the great State of Florida and loved it. I met him when he was a writer for the Denver Post. He went on to be a sports columnist for the Detroit News, but when big news was breaking and the News needed a writer, they sent Shelby. Berlin Wall coming down, off went Shelby. I could go on.

If you want a great Christmas present for a friend or yourself, type in to "Amazon" or "Google" the words "Saddlebags" and "Shelby" and "Strother" and see what comes up. Buy it. Saddlebags is where the story above was written. There are a few dozen others just like it.

I really relate to his column. I think of Shelby every time I read it, shed a deep sigh or tear wondering why he was taken from us at such a young age. I've read it every Christmas Day since 1992. I've never had the forum to share those facts, share the column itself or the work of Shelby Strother.

Now I do.

I remember when my Mom and Dad bought a bright, shiny, "Brother" electric typewriter and wrapped it up for me. It was a tough present to gift-wrap. I remember typing term papers on it, long before the "IBM Selectric" or even an invention like a word processor came along. I remember it very well. Somehow, my typewriter didn't work quite as well as Shelby's did. But, I'm working on that fact, practicing, striving to be a better writer each and every day.

Shelby was a good friend. I wish he could play with his typewriter this Christmas.

Maybe, he can. Maybe he just did?

###