Frank Murtaugh, 1969
I’ve come to believe the purest form of gratitude is being happy with when you were born. It’s a component of life for which we’re given no choice. And from that point — our first breath, on whatever our first day happens to be — we grow into decision-makers, influenced by those who choose to share our interests.
Since completing my 50th lap around the sun last March, I’ve found myself grateful for the half-century behind me. In retrospect, it’s hard to pick a more distinctive year to arrive than 1969. I may have been wearing a diaper, little more than an immobile bundle carefully placed on my great aunt’s bed in Etowah, Tennessee, but I was there for the Apollo 11 moon landing. No, I don’t remember the images my parents saw on the TV screen the night of July 20th that year, but they saw those images through the eyes of new parents. That counts for a lot. A month later came Woodstock, as though 1969 needed more to be remembered for.
We don’t get to choose the times in which we live, and we are much like that white feather that opens (and closes) the Oscar-winning film Forrest Gump (released in 1994, a month after I married my own “Jenny”). I was too young to be caught in the fiery winds of Vietnam and too old to be considered for any combat in the aftermath of September 11, 2001, probably the single most world-altering day of my lifetime. I’ve been tasked with raising children in a post-9/11 world, one in which violence is committed as often in the interests of personal agenda as national cause. You could say I chose to become a father when I did, but my daughters’ feather flights, if you will, were as randomly chosen — from their unique perspectives — as mine.
I devour presidential biographies, be they about titans (FDR), scoundrels (Richard Nixon), or men who fell in-between, even by accident (Chester Arthur). I like to place myself — the man I am today — in the times of U.S. presidents, imagining how I might have thrived, or at least survived, in the circumstances of an earlier time. It’s the closest any of us can come to time travel, the looking back at people, events, and causes that preceded us. The looking back contextualizes the people, events, and causes that are actually shaping our lives today. I’m grateful to be a Memphian in 2019, as the Memphis in 1919 — or 1969 for that matter — needed a lot of improvement. Modern Memphis must continue to improve — to grow — and my hope is to play a small role in that endeavor.
In retrospect, it’s hard to pick a more distinctive year to arrive than 1969.
I’m grateful for the disparity of places that have flavored and informed my feather flight. I’ve called Southern California home, as well as New England, even Italy for a magical year as a boy. When asked about my hometown, a conversation starts, one that requires explaining, and I’m grateful for those conversations. I’m not of a particular place so much as those places are parts of me. (My hometown is Northfield, Vermont. If we cross paths, ask me about it.) Importantly, I’ve come to recognize I lived in each of these homes at precisely the right time. The geographic hops I’ve made have been foundational layers. Tell me I have a Yankee accent and I’ll introduce you to a high school friend who insisted I read Huckleberry Finn out loud for my Southern drawl.
As a child, I’d find myself envious when my dad would share stories of St. Louis Cardinals legend Stan Musial. I’d look at the baseball cards, or read stories of “The Man” to get closer to my dad’s hero … but it’s not like seeing him, like living in his time. Today, I find myself trying desperately to explain to my daughters how brilliant Ozzie Smith — the Cardinals’ Hall of Fame shortstop — was with a baseball glove on his left hand. They can check YouTube for highlights but, again, it’s not of their time. I’m grateful for the Cardinals’ current legend, Yadier Molina, now 16 years into his career as the greatest catcher the franchise will ever suit up. I hope to be around when his statue is unveiled someday outside Busch Stadium. But if I’m not, my daughters will be thinking of me — my time — as well as my dad (Musial’s time) and even my grandfather (Dizzy Dean’s time).
Give thanks this month, and start with those you love, those who have influenced your time. My hope is that you’ll also share gratitude for the now of it all. For this is our time.
