The Buck Blog: "In My Opinion"

May 6, 2026

I've written about this subject in the past, but I wanted to list the series of childhood events--seemingly insignificant at the time--that led me to the path I eventually took in my working life. I hope it will help my kids--and perhaps my grandkids one day--to better understand the role I played--and how I played it--in our family's history:

When I was very young, I realized that I had a talent for writing things that other people found interesting. What I recall is trying to write the way people talk. And that I could hear a rhythm in well-written things. After receiving some positive feedback from teachers, and winning a couple writing competitions, I started telling friends that I was going to be either a newspaper reporter or a writer of books some day.

Here are the little things that led me to the above conclusion:

I had Sr. Charlotte Francis for home room in the third grade. One day she gave our class an assignment to write a "make believe" story. A couple days later she selected five or six of my fellow students and me to read our stories to the kids in the next classrom down the hall. I wrote something about a "TV doctor" who made house calls to change tubes inside of televisions to make them feel better.

I was in the fourth or fifth grade when I learned that my friend Lawrence subscribed to Catholic Boy magazine. So I asked my mom to get me a subscription, too. The publication had a monthly writing contest. I submitted something about Babe Ruth and how my dad had told me stories about his hitting prowess. (Which was a total fabrication.) I won an "honorable mention," and the magazine, headquartered at the University of Notre Dame, sent me a check for $5.

In the sixth grade I had Sr. Jean Charles for homeroom. She gave the class an assignment to write an essay describing a character from a book, such that the reader was supposed to guess the character based on the written description. So I read a 96-page abridged version of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain and completed the writing assignment. After about a week, Sister said she was disappointed in the overall writing effort of the class. Except for one paper. "Leonard, come up to the lectern and read your essay to the class." That was, perhaps, the biggest shock of my young life.

Later that year, the same nun gave us an assignment to select a picture from a magazine and to write an essay about how we interpreted it. So I cut the cover art from one of the issues of Catholic Boy, featuring a fire truck in front of a fire station being inspected by a fire fighter and some kids. This time, before the nun even looked at our papers, we were instructed to read them, one by one, in front of the class. After I read mine Sister asked, "Leonard, did you really write that?" "Yes, Sister," I replied respectfully. She seemed astonished. That was my second big shock of the school year.

I was in the eighth grade when I learned of an essay contest sponsored by the Polish Women's Alliance of America. Entrants were to write something about the United States and the United Nations. First, I looked up the United Nations in our family's Encyclopedia Brittanica Junior. Then, I submitted something based on the premise of a headline I had seen in an ad on a "car card" near the ceiling of a Detroit city bus : "The UN is not perfect. But what if we didn't have it?" I was surprised one afternoon when the school principal, Sr. Marie Ruth, walked into our classroom with a big trophy in her arms and announced that my essay had won first prize in the state competition.

By the time I was a teenager I realized that I had a talent for writing papers, essays, sports stories, letters, etc. However, I struggled with writing fiction. Nevertheless, after receiving an assignment to write a short story for English class during my junior year, I was surprised to hear from several friends that Sister Ann Josepha had read my story aloud to another English class. I think its title was "The Thing." The setting was in a mysterious dark tunnel, and I wrote about a light at the end of it that kept getting bigger and bigger. I can't remember anything else. I do remember, however, that Sr. Ann Josepha never said a word about my story to me.

The St. Alphonsus Class of '65 was the first not to have a yearbook (inadequate funds). So I was approached by several students to be the editor of a makeshift version--mimeographed sheets bound in a duotang. I recruited a small staff who contributed short biographies of each member of our 120-student graduating class. No photos. No art. Nothing but words. About 15 years ago someone gave me a copy they had saved. It was a hoot to go back and read what we had written.

Finally, I was asked to write some "liner notes" for the graduation announcement of our senior class. I wrote something about our class's high school journey, while envisioning how I imagined one of the popular girls in our class probably felt about it. I was surprised when that same girl came up to me one day and said that what I'd written had captured the essence of her young life, bringing tears to her eyes.

Addendum:

Thinking that I was likely to become a reporter one day, I enrolled in the journalism curriculum at Michigan State. During my first two years, I rarely received a grade better than a C in my field of study because I had difficulty adjusting to the discipline's "who, what, when, where" form of writing. So I switched my major to advertising to become a copywriter. During my second year I took an elective class called Essay Writing, English 213. There were fewer than 20 students in the class. And each week we were to submit an essay based on a topic of our own choosing.

Most weeks the professor complimented my work but counseled me to "cut it to the bone" and to avoid what he called "automatic language" (overused words, cliches, typical phraseology, etc.) At the end of the last paper I submitted that semester he wrote, "A for paper and A for the class. May I keep a copy of this for use in future classes?" That was the day I became absolutely convinced that "I can do this."

Finally, the biggest point of this essay: I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to be when I was just a kid. I am so thankful that I had the awareness to know it, the drive to pursue it, and the goal to become it. Looking back on it all, realizing that I had a budding talent at an early age was one of the luckiest elements of my entire life. Other than the brief periods of time that I reported to a boss I didn't like, I went to my job feeling happy almost every day. I got paid for doing something I would have done for nothing, as they say, if I could afford it.

April 16, 2026

There are ten cousins (the children of my four siblings, as well as my wife and me) on my side of the family, and seven cousins (the children of my wife and me, as well as her two siblings) on the other side of the family. There exists an amazing "I've got your back" connection among them on each side. I really envy their bond because it's something I feel as though I was cheated out of--at least among the cousins on my dad's side, not so much my mom's.

A little background...

During the '50s and '60s, my father was in a business partnership with a brother and a brother-in-law. They were co-owners of National Marble Company, a small shop with a big name in Detroit. My dad was a 50 percent owner of the business, while my two uncles each owned 25 percent. It flourished for a while after World War II, enabling my dad, a risk-taking entrepreneur, to put up the capital to purchase Family Market in Dearborn Heights, an investment he made during the late '50s. My dad recruited his youngest brother, a Kroger produce manager, to be a part-owner and to manage the market while my dad managed the marble shop.

In time, mostly because my uncles in the marble business vetoed my dad's plan to expand and move to a larger facility, and because my dad was quick to anger, family animosities developed--so much so that although I often associated with the cousins on my dad's side when we were very young, I saw them less and less as I grew older because my dad tended to avoid extended family functions. Also, when I was in my early 20s, my dad, with his proclivity for anger, went nuclear when he began to feel as though his younger brother and business partner in the store was taking advantage of him. (I was never able to discern whether he was right or wrong about that.)

So those were the family dynamics impeding interaction among the 16 cousins (including my brothers and sisters) on my Dad's side of the family as I was growing up. Fortunately, by the time we had outlived most of our aunts and uncles, my cousins and my siblings got together for a couple of fishing charters, nights out at the bar and visits to each other's homes. However, the fun we had and the memories we shared later in life only underscored, at least for me, what might have been had my dad and uncles not feuded.

Now, back to the young(ish) cousins on both sides of the family...

The Buck cousins all live in Michigan. I have observed them attending sporting events together, going on camping trips, traveling out west to snowboard, collaborating on the construction of a backyard gazebo, pet-sitting for each other, solving one another's car problems, exploring craft breweries, chilling at each other's homes, advising each other on career moves, consoling each other during times of loss, ad infinitum.

The Rensi cousins are more geographically dispersed, so they are not as able to do as many things together. Yet they have taken flights to visit each other, attended each other's weddings, engaged in "group chats," and when most of the boomers in the family were unable to attend the annual Rensi Hike this past Easter, the cousins still traveled to southeast Ohio to be together again, as they often have for the past 40 years or so.

Incidentally, there has even been some cross-pollination over the years among the Buck cousins and Rensi cousins, as evidenced by a trip that some of them took together to Belize.

My siblings, my brothers- and sisters-in-law, and my wife and I, marvel at the solidity of the bond that exists among the cousins on both sides of our respective families.

However, I fear one thing:

I get the sense that a few of the cousins may be entrepreneurial by nature. If any of them ever decide to go into business together, well, it would just about kill me if they should slip into the kind of decades-long conflict that my dad and some of his family members did.

March 27, 2026

I've always done my deepest thinking while walking.

I doubt that I've ever thought more deeply than during my time on the Michigan State campus. I went everywhere on foot in those days. I even hoofed it to a barn out in the country that a friend rented for a party (where we discovered a cow, lying in the hay, when we swung open the door).

As I walked, invariably there would be big questions tumbling around in my head: What don't people get about me? Why can't I meet girls? Do I really have the writing talent I think I have? Will I get drafted when I graduate? How will I make my living one day? Will I ever fall in love?

There were always questions of that kind rattling around inside me.

Recently, while walking the streets of downtown Venice, Florida, it occurred to me how the questions of my youth have given way to questions of a far different kind: How will I die? Will I pass before my wife? Will I outlive my siblings? How many more friends will I lose? And, the ultimate question: What happens when we die?

I don't obsess over these things, but I don't see how anyone can avoid thinking about them when, like me, you're approaching 80 years old.

Meanwhile, it's funny how I always assumed that I'd be dead by that age, or laid up with some sort of infirmity. Oh, I realize that I could die suddenly tomorrow, but other than a few creaky joints, I still have the physical wherewithal to keep doing the things I love.

I should add that there's a specific kind of walk that always causes me to think about my own mortality: the one I take back to my car in the parking lot each week after visiting a hospice patient in my role as a volunteer "companion."

Besides terminal diagnoses, most of my patients have suffered from memory loss. Still, I've had some fascinating conversations with them, such as with a former Western Michigan University philosophy professor who played college hockey, owned a second home in Indonesia, liked woodworking, could paint, and eventually retired to become a gentleman farmer.

Whenever I left his apartment, I would walk to my vehicle, wondering whether I could wind up like him someday--confined to a chair with tales to tell but no memory of telling them after he'd told them. During such times a feeling of profound appreciation for the life I've lived overcomes me.

Lest you think that I'm obsessed with thoughts of death or becoming demented, I can assure you that I am not. However, I do think about these things more than I used to. When my Iife is about to end, I hope that I'll be able to recall that the questions of my youth were satisfactorily answered, resulting in a love for all who were a part of it.

And regarding the ultimate question--What happens when we die?--I just know that all the great religions tell us that physical death is not the final end, but a transition to a new phase of existence. Skeptics, on the other hand, assert that death is like going into a deep sleep.

March 8, 2027

I was reading an essay the other day by a columnist who posited that "One of the paradoxes of human intimacy is that the better you know a person, the less accurately you can describe him or her, and the harder it becomes to deliniate a full, fair, and three-dimensional portrait."

I'm not so sure I agree.

When I think about my closest friends--the people I grew up with, the ones I met in college, long-time work associates, as well as certain neighbors--I think I have a pretty good handle on what most of them are made of.

I know who I can count on to listen when I need to pour out my heart. I know who I can trust. And I know who I can lean on when times are tough. Similarly, I think most of my best friends have a pretty good idea of who I am and what exists in the deepest recesses of my inner being.

That is not to say that I know every aspect of each friend's character. Nor do they know every aspect of mine. We are all human beings--full off paradoxes, deficiencies, weaknesses, etc.

For example, I think that most friends would consider me to be an honorable person, which, of course, is a good character trait. Yet I once feigned being a stutterer in a conversation with a foreign-born college professor, one with a heavy accent, in order to play on his sympathies to give me a passing grade when I didn't deserve one. The ploy worked. It's a long story, and the whole thing seemed hilarious at the time. Today, however, I look back on betraying his trust in me with a sense of shame.

At the same time, some of my friends are as trustworthy as they come. Some are genuinely empathetic. Some are extremely loyal. And yet, I could cite times when each one of them has ocassionally faltered in a particular character trait for which they are otherwise known.

The way I see it, it is the person who routinely does not do what he or she says he's going to do, or who often fails to show up when you're counting on him, or who is caught in a lie with some degree of regularity, i.e., the repeat offender, who is truly lacking in character. And probably not much of a friend at all.

As for the commentator whose thesis I questiontioned above, I wholeheartedly agree with his conclusion that "...only an absolute saint or an absolute sinner (each as rare as the other) demonstrates an inner consistency of character.

February 23, 2026

I dread the thought of getting dementia one day. My anxiety comes the result of having some pretty good insights into the drastic changes it can create in a person.

My Dad was hit hard by the disease. Had there been an autopsy after his death I'm sure that Alzheimer's would have been diagnosed. Toward the end of his life he would stare into a mirror with a look that said he didn't know who was looking back at him. A couple years before that, I recall sitting with him on the shore of Lake Huron during a family vacation when he started a conversation by saying, "I talked to Hitler today..."

My father died, at age 85, a very changed man. He had became someone he had not been.

My mother's dementia didn't advance quite as far as my Dad's. I recall a crisp Sunday morning during the holiday season when I took her to a Polish koledy (Chritmas carols) concert in Hamtramck, and how she so deftly sang along with the Wayne State University music professor who put on the show. Yet by early afternoon that day she had absolutely no recollection of our attending the performance.

Toward the end of her life my mother accused my sister, her devoted caregiver, of stealing her money, clothes and other poessions. My Mom died, at age 87, a different person.

As I write this essay in the Florida sun, my 96-year-old mother-in-law sits a few away. We have lived under the same roof with her for about six weeks now. She is unable to recall the names of her grandchildren, and one morning, about two weeks after we'd left the harsh Midwest weather, she asked, "Len, what state are we in?"

Both her short-term memory and her long-term memory have pretty much evaporated. Cognitively, she is anything but the woman she once was.

As for me, I think I am slower than ever to recall the names of obscure recording artists, stars from the early days of television, 1950s Detroit Tigers and old Spartan athletes whose names, not long ago, I used to be able to tick off almost instantly.

People say, "Aw, Len, it's a normal part of the aging process." Maybe so. But I carry around with me the images of the behavioral transformations that took place in both my mother and father toward the ends of their lives. And it gets to me because I dread the thought of becoming someone who I have not been.

No one gets to choose how he or she will die, of course, but if I should go down with dementia, I've instructed my kids to do the following:

Put me out in the sun as often as you can with a cooler of beer...bring me a ham sandwich made with Krakus Polish ham...and don't forget to put my Bluetooth speaker at my side.

February 2, 2026

Here we go again with a collection of miscellany not worthy of a full-blown column--or perhaps anything else, for that matter. And apologies if I've listed some of these things before:

I've long wished I knew how to properly tie rope, line and string into a variety of cool knots, but all I know how to make is the weak granny.

Because of my last name, I've had dozens of nicknames since I was a kid: Buck, Bucky Beaver, Buckwheat, Buccanneer, Bucko, Bucky Boy, to name but a few. If I were ever to have a boat--which I never will--I would christen it Buck E. Buoy. (Thank you for that one, Kenny George.)

I pride myself on being able to consistently pick out the biggest head of broccoli crowns from the pile in the produce section at the grocery store. It's a little game I like to play with myself.

I much prefer using the smaller, more nimble grocery carts (whenever practical) that stores introduced a decade or more ago. Whenever I have to use a big one it feels akin to being at the wheel of a big ol' land yacht from the mid '70s, like, say, a Cadillac Eldorado.

I know people who seem to be able enjoy music from their mobile phone's speaker, but it's beyond me how they can derive any pleasure from it. Good living room speakers or head phones or ear buds are the only way to enjoy tunes.

We recently stayed in a wonderful old hotel room in Steamboat Springs that required the use of a "real key." I liked that it had substance and that I could actually feel it in my pocket.

When I was in grade school (circa 1956), Truan's, a neighborhood maker of ice cream and candies, charged 45 cents for a banana split (the best I ever had). I recently paid $9.75 for one.

The year was 1963. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. We were 16 years old. I asked my Dad to drop off Garry, Larry and me at the Fox Theater downtown to see (allegedly) the film Lawrence of Arabia. When we exited the car my Dad said, "Now don't wander over to the burlesque show." Thing is, that was precisely our plan. Off we went to the Stone Burlesque for some cheap thrills. I've always wondered whether he knew.

It used to be that grammatical, spelling and word-order errors rarely appeared in print editions of major daily newspapers. I have digital subscriptions to both the Detroit Free Press and the Detroit News, and now I spot errors not caught by the reporter's "auto correct" almost every day.

It frosts my socks when I see concert promotions featuring groups such as the Diamonds, Duprees, Supremes, Four Tops, etc., when not even a single original (or longtime) member is in the current iteration of the group.

I can't count the number of tunes recorded since the '60s with lyrics about "a change is gonna come," "the times they are a changing," "a new day is coming," etc. I'm still waiting.

Sometimes I make spaghetti sauce using the recipe of the mother of an old childhood friend. I was surprised when he told me that Italian familes usually serve pasta as an appetiser or side dish. Rarely the main course.

I was a very young child when I came to believe that killing another human being was the worst possible sin a person could commit. Then I came to believe that owning another human being was the second worst sin. Thus I could never understand why there wasn't an eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not enslave.

I don't know what it is about elderly ladies who work as cashiers at grocery stores, but I'm struck by how kind, wise, even nurturing toward me many of them seem to be. (I must admit that there are some sourpusses out there, too.)

Ever since I was a kid I have lamented being a painfully slow reader with poor comprehension. One of my favorite pundits recently wrote a column based on a novel that he "read over the holidays." I have never--and could never--finish a book in that amount of time.

Whenever I'm at a gym where I can secure my valuables, I try to score a locker with a number I wore on teams in either grade school or high school--5, 8, 11, 23 or 34. If they are taken I often go for 56 (Joe Schmidt's number for the Detroit Lions during the '50s, and one of the all-time-great years for car design, doo wop and men's greasy hairdos.)

Punk rock turns 50 this year. It evolved with its own attitude, culture, clothing and political point of view. I thought it was pretty lame music five decades ago. I still feel that way today.

January 25, 2026

My first roommate in college, Eric Simandl, was "double promoted" in grade school; had astronomically high SAT scores in high school; was a National Merit Scholarship semi-finalist as he entered Michigan State University; and was a member of Mensa, the society for people with IQs in the top 2%.

We lost my old roomie due to a heart attack on January 16, 2026.

Despite his huge intellect, I doubt that the humble, rarely boastful Eric thought of himself as anything more than just one of the guys--going back to his days as a 135-pound starting center on the 1964-65 Caro High School football team--from a small town with one stoplight in the "thumb" area of Michigan.

Actually, we roomed together for two years. I was between 18 and 20 all those times I sat on my bed listening to him in the dorm, enthralled by his ideas pertaining to literature, music, politics, sports, popular culture, the counterculture, great issues, etc. Looking back, he was the person most responsible for influencing me to try to understand--really understand--both sides of any argument.

As his college years evolved, Eric "dabbled" in engingeering, chemistry, mathematics, political science--all the easy majors, right?--before finally settling on advertising as his field of study. Ironically, at least to me, he left MSU just six or seven credits shy of receiving his undergraduate degree.

He seemed somehow proud of that, too, in his inimitable, "Simandlesque" sort of way.

Later in life, the "rolling ball of facts," as a college buddy once described him, qualified not once but twice to appear on Jeopardy, although he was never selected from the pool of potential contestestants to be on the show.

And clever?

Just days before he died Eric sent me a short email message that said: "I just turned 78. So 45 years ago I was 33. I feel like a record collection."

During the days of the Free Speech Movement in the '60s, student activists would say, "Never trust anyone over 30." Eric would say, "So that means when I turn 30 I won't be able to trust myself."

I think he could have been a writer for Saturday Night Live.

During the early '70s I landed my first big-boy job after college as a copywriter for AAA and was able to help him get an interview with AAA's ad agency.

He got the job and moved with wife Andrea--"Andy" we called her-- from East Lansing to the outskirts of metropolitan Detroit. He was soon tasked to write a full-page newspaper ad celebrating AAA's historical accomplishments. Here's the headline he came up with for it: "We invented the stop sign and kept right on going."

Oh, how I envied him for being able to write stuff like that.

But neither the pressure of the ad agency business nor big-city life suited the young couple. So in 1973 they moved to Marquette in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where his dad was the personnel director at Marquette State Prison.

When his father died suddenly, Eric and Andy moved into his parents' home on Middle Island Point--"camp" he called it--on the shore of Lake Superior--one-eigth of the world's fresh water supply, he always reminded me--and across from an island where moose could be seen entering the water for a swim.

He had a handful of different jobs during his years in the UP, including as a salesperson for Charter Communications. But his favorite one of all was that of a talk show host on WDMJ radio, facilitating discussions about everything from complaints about the local dog catcher to commentary about the federal government.

I was able to catch him on the air once, and I thought he was amazing.

Then one day in 1996, he and Andy decided they'd had enough of snow that didn't melt until May. So they moved to Las Vegas, of all places. Incredibly, only two weeks passed between the time they decided to relocate and the day they started moving into their new home in the fastest growing city in America (at that time).

He soon found work as a tech-savvy quantitative risk analyst for Credit One Bank and eventually received several awards for his accomplishments. His talents were regarded so highly by his employer that after he retired he was coaxed back to work for the company.

Considering his genetics, Eric never expected to reach anything close to age 80. His father died of a heart attack at 49. His grandfather died of a heart attack at 46. More than once he confided to me that he doubted he would make it to 50. But, of course, he defied the genetic odds.

During the 1970s and 1980s, before digital communications, he and I often exchanged five-and six-page letters, single spaced. The ones he sent to me usually started out with this salutation: "Leonard, m'boy..."

January 9, 2026

After chekcing in with a service advisor to get some work done on my Outback before driving to Florida, I walked into the showroom and decided to pay a visit to my neighbor who is a salesperson there. As I approached her desk I noticed she was on the phone. We made eye contact and I motioned for to her to meet me in the customer lounge.

A few minutes later she sat down next to me and we began to talk. Within seconds I noticed that she had watery eyes and seemed to be upset.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"I just got off the phone with my son. He's such a @#$%!," she vented. "He trashed the car I bought him, ruined the tires, and hasn't replaced the alternator which he said he and his buddies would fix. I bought the part for him a month ago."

Then she recounted how she found some incriminating things in his car, ticked off various misadventures with his friends, and lamented his lack of effort in school.

Moreover, despite being without a car, he refuses to take the bus to school--not a cool thing for a teenager to be seen doing, I guess--and is dependent on friends with cars to pick him up in the morning and drop him off in the afternoon.

Hoo boy, tough job for a single mom trying to do right by her son.

Eventually, the service advisor, a woman close in age to my neighbor, approached to tell me that my car was ready to go. When it became apparent that her fellow employee and I were acquainted, she sat down to join the conversation.

The next thing I knew I was listening to her problems raising a teenage boy: how by virtue of living "out in the township" and wearing "camo" to school he had been perceived by the other kids as a redneck, was being bullied, and, as a result, did poorly in school.

Perhaps it was my age. Or the fact that my wife and I raised four kids that both women seemed to be looking to me for advice.

Lord knows I've been exposed to some crazy teenage behaviors in my time: from the outlandish--such as when my sons spent an afternoon snowboarding off the roof of a friend's home--to the outrageous--such as when friends of mine as kids drove a stolen car to school and took a nun on a shopping trip in it.

I tried to assure both mothers that "You're not alone because teenage boys have a propensity to do some insanely stupid shit."

While this was going on, in the back of my mind was the highly emotioal experience of my wife one night while at a friend's house for a monthly card party, including fellow moms, when we lived in Clarkston and our kids were in high school.

It was the evening she broke down after the women around the table went on and on about the various accomplishments of their high-achieving teenage children and seemingly idyllic family lives. Finally, she broke down and cried, "Don't any of you have any trouble with your kids? Am I the only one?"

Well, let me tell you, her emotional outburst opened a floodgate of true confessions about everything from teenage obstinance to brushes with the law to the difficulties of dealing with a teenage boy's "coming out."

In any case, none of what I had to say, I assured the mother who is my neighbor, excused her son's misbehaviors. And while empathizing with the mother whose son had been ostrasized at school, I supported her decision to take him out of Grand Haven High School and get a fresh start at nearby Spring Lake High School (where he is now more comfortable and bringing home good grades).

If I left the two women with anything worthwhile that afternoon at the dealership I think it was this: No matter what a teenage boy says he wants, give him what he really wants--attention, interest and understanding. However, when he screws up, sometimes you just have to let him touch the stove and get burned.

December 8, 2025

I'd heard much about the religious community that my youngest brother and his family belong to at St. Augustine, a small Catholic parish in Livingston County with a church made of field stone. But I didn't fully appreciate the intensity of the emotional connectedness among its parishoners until I attended a post-ordination party for my nephew in a sprawling tent on the church grounds last summer.

I was aware, of course, of the shared religious beliefs among parishoners, and I knew of the tight bond among them from stories my brother told me about the church's summer festival, its annual Polish-themed party and other parish events.

It was at the ordination party, however, where I heard an older priest say that he knew what everyone else in the parish seemed to know--that my nephew "walked like a priest, talked like a priest" when he was just 15. I also learned from some parishoners that they chipped in to help send my nephew to the seminary he attended in Minnesota.

So, yes, the togetherness, unity and other important human benefits of community among members of the St. Augustine parish were clearly evident to me. However, what comes easy for a small church in a small town isn't necessarily so for unbelievers, or people who live in big cities, or who work at home, or countless others.

For example, people who lack faith are sometimes shunned by church communities. People who live in large urban areas, especially those marked by extreme poverty, street crime and food deserts may feel disinclined to come out of their homes to interact with people. And being sequestered in a home office every day may be highly productive for some, but denies remote workers of the social relationships I think we humans need.

I am good buds with a neighbor who is a retired Ohio State English literature professor, as well as Shakesperean actor. He remains resentful of the dogmatism of the Jesuits who taught him at the all-boys Catholic high school in Chicago he attended during the early '60s, a time when his mother was putting heavy pressure on him to become a a priest. Yet despite his background and being an avowed atheist today, he attends services at the local Episcopal church where the pastor and congregation open their arms to the poor, the hungry, those battling addictions, LGBTQ folks, the disinfranchised, etc.

And he is very active in the "extracurriculars" of the church's spiritual community in order to teach, mentor and share what he knows about great books, poetry, philosophy and theater. He seems most fulfilled when spending time among those in the church's inclusive social web.

Or consider how, when I worked in Detroit during the '80s (and again in the late '90s), I felt alone and conspicuous while walking down Woodward Avenue past the wig shops and boutiques I knew would never make it because the sidewalks were practicfally devoid of people in a downtown without a sense of community.

Today, however, there are condominium owners, apartment and loft dwellers, office workers, tourists, etc., on the street doing their urban thing, walking past the Apple store, Shinola Hotel and other businesses in what is now a busy and connected downtown social structure.

For example, I know the young owners of Rocco's, a thriving Italian deli in Midtown (formerly known as the Cass Corridor, notorious for drugs, hookers and the homeless), and I can tell you that they are very connected to the area's community of fellow business owners, bar and restaurant employees, regular patrons and those living in the area who are all striving together to make it flourish.

And consider the concept of "work communities" such as I belonged to at AAA and Ross Roy during my days in advertising. It felt good to walk the halls of corporate headquarters, running into people I knew, feeling as though I was connected to something larger. Plus there was all the small talk at the printer, debates about sports or politics at the coffee machine, idle chatter at the copying machine--little things that helped to create a work place culture. Also, there were the occasional drinks with colleagues after work where we got to know each other, not just as creatives, production people and account types, but as feeling, thinking human beings with hobbies, families, challenges and individual stories.

It was great being part of a collective and feeling that "we're all in this together." It made getting up and going to work in the morning easy for me.

I've been thinking about these things since I came across a statistic indicating that between 1990 and 2021 there was a decrease of 25 percentage points in the number of Americans who say they have five or more close friends.

As someone who has always had many friends, that fact is unsettling for me. It aligns with a personal observation that I find concerning: that there is an epidemic of loneliness among young people in our society today.

I think Covid had a lot to do with it.

One of the many things that the pandemic did was open our eyes to the benefits of working at home: the elimination of long commutes, a reduction in distractions, greater autonomy and much more. However, there has been a huge negative associated with working remotely: It creates high levels of social isolation.

Yes, working at home means being able to do one's job in front of a screen in pajamas, never having to get stuck in rush hour traffic, and having your lunch delivered by Door Dash. But there are trade-offs: lack of attachment to the outside world, social unhappiness, the risk of becoming a bit dull, and, ultimately, a large measure of loneliness.

People need people. We need to spend time together. We need to laugh with each other. We need to commiserate. We need to touch and be touched. And there is value in solving little conflicts with strangers "out in the world" because it sharpens who we are and what we can become.

Which is why the hybrid model--working some days at home and some days in the office--makes so much sense to me.

When I was part of a team that put together communications strategies for the launch of new Chrysler vehicles, we would spend considerable time in meetings at the client, learning about the company's marketing plans. We'd go to "ride and drives" and get out on the test track to experience the vehicles. Back at the office, we spent much time in our own meetings to come up with ideas for the catalogs, videos, merchandising materials and direct marketing packages we created. It was my job (and that of others) to write the stuff. When it was time to deliver, I would often be at my desk at 7:00 a.m. so I could write without the distractions of phone calls, noise in the hallway and people popping into my office to chitchat.

In retrospect, I'm sure I would have saved much time and gotten a lot more sleep had I been able to take a couple days to work at home each time a manuscript was due.

And what of online communities?

To my way of looking at it they are communities in name only: random assortments of people who like the same things, hate the same things, do the same things or believe the same things. Nobody sees anybody's face or body language. Nobody hears the sound of a human voice. Nobody touches another's hand. And nobody feels deep, personal kinship in a virtual community.

Online connectedness is wonderful entertainment and can be intellectually rewarding, but it's no substitute for communal interaction.

When my wife and I retired to Grand Haven, we got involved with the community at the YMCA, and through volunteer work, attendance at city council meetings, as well as the happy accident of having wonderful neighbors. A few years ago a friend with culinary skiils who lives down the street volunteered to cater a large brunch for visitors at our house the day after our daughter's wedding. Last year, neighbors up and down the block worked out a schedule to deliver daily meals to an elderly woman who was failing due to dementia. And just last week our neighbor two doors down cleared our walk with his industrial-strength snowblower after we got dumped on with a foot of heavy white glop. And I can't tell you how many world and family problems we have solved on pub crawls with the couple who live across the street from us.

By contrast, there is a fortyish single man who owns a home on our block and prefers to keep to himself. Every day he leaves early for work at a local manufacturing facility and returns home at the same time every afternoon. That's about all we see of him. Oh, I have had small talk with him. Debbie and I even accompanied him to the veterinarian when his dog was dying. And yet, he has never shown the least bit of interest in becoming involed with our neighborhood community. Day after day he remains virtually isolated in his home.

I just know that it is fulfilling for my wife and me to be in a close relationship with our neighbors. The young man? Not so much, I guess. I hope that he at least feels a sense of community at work.

October 29, 2025

My wife and I recently took a tour of a neighbor's home after she hosted a political discussion among candidates for local office. The house is a contemporary piece of architecture, with multiple levels and a view of the nearby Grand River. It was built on the site of an old, hillside home that was cost prohibitive to restore.

The new home has many design elements and nifty details that appeal to us, including hallway doors featuring a raised pattern of geometric shapes. I asked the owner, "Where on Earth did you find doors like that?"

"Oh, I found some wood panels that were left behind in the old garage, had them cut to size, glued them to the doors, and painted everything white," she replied.

They are absolutely gorgeous.

My wife and I really go for that sort of thing: the use of decorative items--antique, handmade, repurposed or artistic--that help to make a house a home. What's more, we love the stories that often go with them.

For example, when we renovated our present home, we used pudding stones I collected over 20 years from around the state and had a mason work them into the wall behind our wood stove. And much of the oak furniture in our bedroom, dining room and office was purchased not from an Amish store but handmade to our specifications by an Amish carpenter (with nine curious children) who we met in southeast Ohio. Also, we have a piece of art on a wall that our son made with parts from an engraved saxophone that my wife inherited and played in high school--salvaged from the rubble of our Clarkston fire 15 years ago--and affixed to stainless steel that he hit from behind with a blowtorch to create a special effect.

Here's a story, with a bit more detail, about a funky looking metal chest that we found in my father-in-law's workshop and turned into a cabinet with an industrial feel and much character.

My father-in-law was the type of person who was always giving away things he'd collected over the years. On several occasions he offered me the aforementioned metal chest that had been stored in his workshop. Frankly, it looked like a piece of junk to me. The surface had been painted to look like fake wood grain. Eventually, I agreed to take it off his hands and used it to store lawn fertilizer in my garage.

After a couple years I began to wonder how the chest might look if I stripped the paint from the metal. So I bought the most caustic stuff I could find, got out my rubber gloves, and began to remove the old paint. Sure enough, there was a cool looking, gun-metal gray surface under the goo I stripped off. However, there were also black streaks that were impossible to remove.

One day, my son-in-law, a talented do-it-yourselfer, spotted the partially restored piece in my garage, inquired about it and volunteered to take it home to see what he could do with it.

To make a long story short, he used an angle sander, disc sander, and a high-powered pressure washer to bring the chest's original surface back to life. Also, he refinished a decorative strip of quarter-sawn oak around the outside of the piece.

You should see the finished product now. It fits perfectly under a low window in our den/office--with old magazines, posters, papers, etc stored inside--and with a world globe, radio and books positioned on top.

When I sit in the room reading, writing or whatever, I often stare at the piece with admiration and appreciation of my son-in-law's considerable efforts to bring it back to life.

Some people purchase a new home and can have it decorated in a matter of weeks or months. For my wife and me, however, it takes years because there's a narrative attached to practically everything we put in our rooms or hang on the walls.

September 30, 2025

My three-year-old granddaughter, Emilia, has been diagnosed as having a "mild to moderate form of autism."

Evaluation of her condition began just before her third birthday. Some of the triggers that lead her parents to seeking out testing by trained professionals included limited speech capabilities, atypical shyness, and head banging or running into doors, walls, etc., in her effort to express frustration.

Until recently Emilia would routinely divert her gaze from me, not allow me to pick her up, or to sit her down on my lap.

As time passed I found it difficult not to compare her behaviors to that of other chatty or rambunctious three-year-olds I know.

Admittedly, I concluded that she seemed a step behind in her development.

But on a visit to my daughter's home in June, young Emilia allowed me to push her in a wagon and to stand next to her--without recoiling or running away--while she blew bubbles in the back yard.

I counted that as big progress in our relationship.

Then, on a return trip to my daughter's home recently to babysit Emilia and her baby sister, Emilia was encouraged by her Mom to "Give Dziadek (Polish for grandfather) a big hug."

She brightened and smiled her innocent smile from behind the wispy strands of her Angela-Babel-like hair. Then she came to me and gave me a big hug.

Hoo boy! It absolutely melted my heart.

Now I notice Emilia (at three years and three months of age) frequently talking in complete sentences. And although she is less verbal than most kids her age, she is articulate. For example, I heard her parrot her Dad one evening pronouncing--absolutely perfectly--the word "insulator."

How many three-year-olds can do that?

I also notice that she likes to bob, jump and move to the beat of music. Thing is, she can actually step in time. I don't think too many three-year-olds can do that, either.

Emilia's parents have been advised that with early intervention of special education she very well may turn out to be a pretty typical child.

I'm betting that she'll be able to do just that. In fact, I'm thinking that it will turn out that she has some extraordinary talents. We shall see.

In the meantime, I remain a big believer in what I think Emilia is capable of and a huge advocate for her.

Also, l plan to keep my big, fat mouth shut and not stun, startle or scare her as I'm inclined to do with our other grandchildren.

September 4, 2025

I'm not entirely sure where this is going to go. I just know that I had to put something down in writing:

Last weekend I hooked up with Tony (who I met in the first grade) to visit Tom (who I met in the third grade) at the hospital where our late friend Garry (who I met in the ninth grade) was the CEO until he retired in 2014.

Tony, Tom and I played together on practically every grade school and Dearborn recreation sports team that a kid could possibly play on in our old neighborhood during the late '50s and early '60s.

A couple years later, Garry transferred to our high school, St. Al's, when we we were 14-year-old freshmen. He fit right in and eventually became one helluva student, athlete and teammate.

We were but four young friends among dozens of close young friends who played sports, attempted to outsmart the nuns every day, participated in pranks aplenty, while harboring dreams about what we might do one day with our lives. Underpinning it all was that "St. Al's thing"--a brotherhood, a connection, a bond that has endured to this day.

I have a problem finding the words to describe the emotions I felt the afternoon that we sat at the foot of Tom's hospital bed. However, I have little trouble finding the words to describe the childhood memories that scrolled simultaneously through my mind like a flurry of YouTube videos:

How as a ten-year-old I begged my mother to buy me blue and gold practice shorts, just like Tony's; how I was envious of Tommy, the "new kid," being selected for the lead role of Baby Jesus in the St. Al's Christmas play; and how Garry taught me how to drive a four-speed in his brother's Volkswagen when neither of us had yet obtained a driver's license.

In any case, Tony and I sat there, two years short of our 80th birthdays, with an old pal struggling to tell us how he feels, while at the same time we reflected on a lifetime of memories.

In the parking lot after we left the building, we tried to make sense of what we'd just experienced--an attempt at communication with our old buddy, looking disheveled and feeling out of sorts. Before getting into our cars we expressed gratitude that the both of us were still alive and kicking. Then we embraced. And admitted that we were lucky to be the kind of friends who can tell each other things that we'd find difficult to tell anyone else.

As the sun set that evening, I drove back to my sister's house where I was staying for the weekend, trying to process it all.

I concluded that I was feeling conflicting emotions associated with the "circle of life." That didn't make it any easier to accept seeing an old friend seriously compromised in the hospital, or missing the pal we lost who had always been the best at practically everything he did.

August 12, 2025

The "Buck" clan just came off our tenth--as near as anyone can figure--extended family vacation at the time of Grand Haven's annual Coast Guard Festival. During porch time someone also figured out that we started doing family sabbaticals--in one form or another when my Mom and Dad were still alive--about 30 years ago at a sprawling Frank-Lloyd-Wright-type house on Drummond Island in the Upper Peninsula.

Over the years we've vacationed in a group of small cottages on Lake Huron in Harrisville, a massive home in walking distance of Lake Michigan near South Haven, and a rustic retreat in the woods of Wolverine, Michigan. It's always been great fun doing such things as skeet shooting, pontooning, salmon fishing, kayaking, etc. One time, during "Coast Guard," we rented a dunk tank. Another time we had a competitive dead-fish toss that was videotaped by a Kalamazoo TV station for broadcast on the 11 o'clock news.

There have also been some wonderful late night campfires. Amazing meals, such as the smoked brisket recently prepared by millennial members of the family. And along with the Coast Guard Festival's annual parade, drone show and fireworks, our clan has had its own festival tradition: a night of hip-shaking to raucous music for passers-by--cheered on by family members--under a "dance tunnel" formed by two colorfully lit canopies erected over the sidewalk in front of our house.

Neighbors up and down the street have been known to kick back in camp chairs on their front lawns to take in the entertainment provided by our shenanigans.

Of course, there have been pranks galore during our family vacations, such as the time my brothers and sisters spiked my box of raisin bran with tiny plastic ants. Being up to their tricks, however, I purposefully chomped down on the damn things--and rid them from my mouth with the deft swipe of a napkin--as though I never noticed a problem, while my siblings watched astonishingly through the crack of a slightly ajar kitchen door.

But the thing I've always enjoyed most about family vacation are the heartfelt little conversations I've had during quiet time, mostly with my nieces and nephews.

I recall sitting on the back porch a few years ago with a college-aged nephew when he said, "You know, Uncle Len, every time I come here I learn things I never knew, get insights I never had, and feel like I come away better for it."

That puffed me up, to be sure.

During family vacay earlier this month I had an introspective conversation with a nephew who told me he had just completed his 588th straight day of "bodyweight exercises." Talk about self discipline. It's clear to me that this once-hell-raising young man has been able to apply the same intense focus to the development of the business he's currently building.

A day or two earlier I found myself in a deep conversation on the side porch with his wife regarding her views on child rearing (of which she and her husband are doing a marvelous job), as well as about the many significant novels she has read. I was impressed by the depth of her thinking.

And during a walk to the food trucks at the Elks Club down the street I had a fascinating discussion with another nephew and his wife about the pros and cons of a classical college education in the effort to develop critical thinking skills compared to one that endeavors to prepare you for a career.

After dinner on the last night of vacation that same nephew asked the "elders" if there might be a reason for how our family has been able to consistently pull off decades of family vacations, Thanksgiving Day celebrations, large Christmas Eve gatherings, etc., with a minimum amount of rancor, drama or hurt feelings.

He and others then heard us tell the story of how my sisters and I, when we were just children during the '50s, while sitting on the living room floor of my grandparents house and within earshot of yet another extended family shouting match in the dining room, made a pact never to be like my Dad and his four brothers who argued incessantly at family gatherings, creating such anger and lasting enmity that attending family functions eventually became something to be avoided, thereby robbing my sisters and I of the ability to get to really know our cousins.

July 21, 2025

I've been to music festivals before: Polish music festivals, Irish music festivals, even one in Ontario with an amazingly eclectic mix of genres, including Canadian rock, acappella and cosmic jazz. But they were day-long events. Blissfest, the one I attended a couple of weeks ago in northern Michigan, was a three-day affair attracting over 5,000 people of all ages who spent the weekend in tents, campers and motor homes.

Although this year's Blissfest--focused on bluegrass, folk and roots music--was the 43rd annual, I'd never heard of it until our across-the-street neighbors began singing its praises a few years ago. So my wife, two sisters and I decided to rent a pop-up trailer and join them for a long weekend of music, camping and carrying-on near Harbor Springs.

I'm glad we did.

Yes, the music was wonderful. And to my surprise there were a couple groups doing a thing that was more in my wheelhouse: a Los Angeles band called Ozomatli, playing a mashup of jazz, funk and salsa; and a group out of Venice Beach, California, called Dustbowl Revival, a soulful  collective with eight or nine members who meld funk, bluegrass, roots and blues into a genre-defying sound featuring a couple of trumpets, sax, trombone and a Janis Joplin sound-alike on lead vocals.

But here's what was exceptionally cool...

Although I saw countless people walking around with cans of beer, cocktails in plastic cups, or pre-rolls in their hands for three days, I did not encounter a single stupid person. Not one idiot. No one got mean and threw hands. No one threw up. Refreshingly, I saw no political signs, t-shirts or hats. And nowhere on the grounds did I encounter even a hint of the rancor so prevalent in our society today.

What's more, even the young children displayed exemplary behavior. No whining. No crying. No acting out. The entire weekend was, indeed, blissful.

At first I was surprised by how many concertgoers wished us "Happy Bliss." (Are these people that nice, that happy, I wondered?) It took me a while to comprehend that Blissfest was more than just about the music of 50 or 60 groups and individual artists. It was also about a unique "vibe" throughout the festival grounds--at the various stages where music was performed; in the woods where mostly young people camped in tents so colorfully lit that at night the forest looked like a gargantuan psychedelic poster under black light; and among everyone else hanging out at their recreational vehicles parked in rustic areas on the periphery of the festival property.

I can't say for sure whether or not we'll return to Blissfest next year. After all, seventy-somethings such as ourselves find it more difficult than ever to hang with younger folks late into the night, especially after crisscrossing acres of property in the hot sun, quaffing CFOs (cool frosty ones) most of the day and occasionally taking a hit on a doobie. On the other hand, there is this, causing me to want to return next year:

It was an absolute delight to be in the presence of so many strangers who, for us, became something beyond that, who just seemed to "get it" in terms of how to co-exist and treat one another. For me, the trickle-down effect of gratuitous anger, me-first-ism and to-hell-with-the-next-guy attitudes that seem to emanate from the very top of our culture these days has gotten really old. Blissfest was a tonic, a rejuvenating elixir for that.

July 7, 2025

It's been 60 years since I graduated from high school (1965). Back then, all that I could think about were girls, sports and rock 'n' roll. It was a time when my pals and I thought we were so cool, with many of us combing our hair in a style that resembled the fins of a swept-wing Dodge. Speaking of cars, it was the era of Detroit "muscle"--Ford Mustangs, Pontiac GTOs and Chryslers with "hemi engines." Musically, we were mostly into Motown as the "British invasion" had only just begun. With an early '60s mindset, here are 20 things considered ordinary today that I did not have on my radar as future possibilities. If you were on the leading edge of the baby boom, how many more can you think of?

Ball caps with company names or logos. (Back then it was strictly caps with the first initials of the cities of professional sports teams or that of your high school or recreation baseball team.)

T-shirts with company logos on the front. (There were neither shirts with Nike, Addidas, Rebok or Under Armour on the chest, nor shirts with the logos of car companies, outfitters, lumber yards or bars. I do, however, remember t-shirts with the names of one's favorite college or university.)

Paying for water that comes in plastic bottles. (Who would ever pay for water?)

Computers smaller than a transistor radio. (At the time, "main-frame" computers were so big that a few of them clustered together took up space equivalent to a two-car garage.)

Being able to watch a movie on an electronic device (iPhone) that fits into your pocket.

Hands-free steering in a car.

6'9" basketball players who play point guard.

Offensive lines--even at schools we now call mid-majors--that average over 300 pounds per man.

A time when jeans are made by dozens of companies beyond just Levi Strauss or Lee.

The number one automaker in the world being anyone but General Motors.

The number one selling vehicle in America being a pickup truck (Ford F-150).

Men wearing anything but a suit or sports coat to the office every day.

Alcoholic cocktails that come in a can.

A world where people on the street know your dog's name before they know yours.

Having to spend much, much more than five dollars for a "box seat" at a major league baseball stadium.

Blackwall tires on black rims being more popular than whitewall tires on chrome rims.

Seeing a coyote, hawk or wild turkey in an urban area.

Paying someone other than a taxi cab driver or chauffeur to take you from point A to point B.

Millions of people across the country earning extra income by regularly renting out their homes for periods as short as a weekend.

Receiving an email--an email?--about tickets to a minor league baseball game indicating that the stadium is a cashless one for the purchase of hot dogs, beer, souvenirs, etc.

June 16, 2025

With all due respect to Bob Talbert, the late Detroit Free Press daily newspaper columnist who occasionally wrote a column called "Out of My Mind on a Monday Moanin'," here's another one of my attempts at a similar effort:

As a child in grade school, I can remember hearing the word "UNICEF" on the radio and thinking it sounded cool. Then one day it appeared as one of the multiple choice options on some sort of standardized test we had to take. So that's what I marked. I've always wondered whether I got that one right.

I'd rather eat liver (smothered in onions) than venison or turkey.

I never had a non-alcoholic beer I liked until I sampled Free Wave, a hazy IPA by Athletic Brewing Company.

Try as I might, "modern country" is not a type of music I much care for. Bluegrass, on the other hand, is one I rather enjoy. I dig the pickin', pluckin' and strummin'. I also like the sound of a stand-up bass.

Let's be honest, we'd all be better off if we spent less time on our electronic devices.

During my youth, as many times as I drove down Ford Road in Dearborn (through open property that was once part of the Ford family farm), it rarely caused me to think of Ford Motor Company.

I like searching kitchen cupboards for a coffee mug at the homes of friends and relatives because I enjoy seeing where their collections come from--sports teams, places of work, promotions, commemorative events, festivals, etc. I'm weird.

I saw a young couple at the store, pushing a toddler in their cart while they shopped. The man was wearing a t-shirt that said, "Fuck Off." Really? C'mon, man...

I have been 5' 10" since I was a sophomore in high school. Now, at the doctor's office I measure 5' 8.5". But I don't seem to require shorter pants. Why is that?

It kills me when people call PBS biased. Name a news organization that plays it more down-the-middle. MSNBC? CNN? FOX? I don't think so.

More words that I understand but don't think I've ever used in a declarative sentence: fraught, vis-a-vis, proffer, agency (as in having the power to influence an outcome), evince, paean, withering, feckless, mercurial, shibboleth, rubric and bifurcate.

Most of my friends from back in the day rank the voice of William "Smokey" Robinson as the best ever in the history of Motown. I would agree. I put the underrated voice of Levi Stubbs (lead singer of the Four Tops) at number two.

As a child, I heard the term "writ of habeas corpus" several times on '50s TV crime shows. I had no idea what it meant, but I thought it was a very cool sounding phrase. Still do.

I like coffee. And I appreciate really good coffee. Black. But I don't understand coffee mixed with syrups, whipped cream, fizzy milk, etc.

I notice that a lot of old white guys wear old white running shoes with shoelaces that are WAY too long.

In the eighth grade I had a young lay teacher (I attended a Catholic school) who taught us how to properly write a check; touted the benefits of whole wheat over white bread; introduced us to weight lifting; brought chocolate covered ants and grasshoppers to class for us to sample; and introduced us to instrumental rock 'n' roll based on classical music, such as Asia Minor by Kokomo, an adaptation of Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor. Thankfully, in addition to algebra and history, he taught us many practical things I've used my whole life.

Fifty-five percent of the population in Dearborn is Arab-American. I got used to and came to appreciate many aspects of the Arab culture long ago. One thing I have a difficult time understanding is Arab women who wear a hijab (headscarf) while doing vigorous exercise at the Planet Fitness. Sure seems as though it would feel uncomfortable while doing bench presses, military presses, etc. And hot.

June 4, 2025

My best guess is that it was the fall of 1967, when the Buckeyes came to East Lansing to play the Spartans, that I first heard the Ohio State marching band play their interpretation of "Hang On Sloopy" by The McCoys. When they did so, two things came to mind for me: 1) They did a heckuva job with the tune. 2) Only a handful of fans in the stands likely knew that The McCoys had ripped off the Cleveland R&B group, The Vibrations, covering the group's original 1964 recording, "My Girl Sloopy."

But I knew.

The Vibrations' tune was the sort of music that most white people rarely heard back in the day because it was largely relegated to black radio stations. The very best of it was often covered by white artists and played for the masses on rock 'n' roll or pop stations. Think "Little Darlin'," as a prime example, a song originally recorded by an obscure doo woo group called the Gladiolas and covered by the Diamonds in 1957. Its success catapulted the white Canadian singing group to early rock 'n' roll fame.

That sort of thing--black music covered by white artists for fat profits--has always been a prime beef of mine. I'd like to take you back in time for some sense of how I came to think that way.

One night after a basketball game during my junior year in high school, I and two of my teammates, Garry and Dennis, were cruising Detroit's Woodward Avenue in seek of urban adventure.

I was at the wheel of my Dad's Pontiac Bonneville, heading south in front of the not-yet-restored Fox Theater, when I turned right onto Columbia with the intent of driving by the Lester Hotel, notorious for its reputation as a brothel, just to satisfy our curiosity to see what the place looked like. (Honestly, it was not our intent to patronize it.)

We did, however, park the car nearby and walked down steps into a funky little restaurant we noticed below street level, a crowded diner with huge windows that revealed an eclectic clientele inside. My adventure that evening took the form of ordering scrambled eggs and "pork brains."

I recall the scene so vividly because I associate it with singing along to "My Girl Sloopy" which had been playing on the radio as I turned onto the side street. The Vibrations' tune was a discovery made while listening to deejay "Frantic" Ernie Durham on Detroit soul station WJLB. It knocked us off our feet.

As not-always-conforming teens, we did stuff like that--cruise the city's streets while listening to soul music on one of the Motor City's black radio stations, or CKLW, a "white station" out of Windsor, Ontario, that regularly dipped into the black discography for its playlist.

The exploration of urban areas and the hunger to discover music from the black culture was a way of asserting our independence, I suppose. I think we thought we were "so cool" because we knew and did stuff that other people didn't know and do.

Vestiges of that sort of thinking have never totally abandoned me. It was sparked in me recently when I read the New York Times obituary for Rick Derringer, lead singer of The McCoys. Derringer, a guitar player and producer, went on to have what sounds like a wonderful career that included work with Edgar Winter, Johnny Winter, Steely Dan, Peter Frampton and many more.

Meanwhile, after all these years, the Ohio State band is still playing "Hang On Sloopy" between the third and fourth quarters of home football games in Columbus. A great tradition. The song is also played at Cleveland Guardians, Browns and Cavaliers games. In 1985, the Ohio Legislature adopted "Hang On Sloopy" as the state's official rock song.

Based on the long list of notables that Derringer worked with during his career after his success with "Sloopy," I suspect he did quite well for himself and lived a comfortable life. On the other hand, I'm betting that the guys in The Vibrations made diddly-squat off their original recording of the song.