The Hidden Costs of Tariffs

As a regular reader of the New York Times and viewer of MSNBC, I am well aware of the macro effects that increasing tariffs are having and will continue to have on our economy. But I am not in the market for a new car, and we won’t be buying holiday gifts for several months (two of our three granddaughters are too old for dolls, anyway), so there has yet to be much impact on our personal buying habits. Little did we know, the ripple effects of these tariffs would soon thread their way into our home.

Here is how the tariff pinch squeezed us. Barb’s many talents include creating beautiful needlepoint pieces of art. Starting with a painted canvas, Barb interweaves threads and beads, silks and trinkets. Pieces take months to complete, and each is unique and breathtaking. Many adorn our walls or have been made into decorative pillows throughout our home. Each grandchild has received at least one wall hanging from their Nana, surrounded by frames carefully chosen with love.

Last month, Barb found a canvas on a Facebook page that would be ideal for her next project. She ordered and paid for the item, then waited for it to arrive. Today, she received an email from the artist who created the canvas, reading:

“The Trump tariffs are wreaking havoc on our production because we use the same painting service that most designers use. Not only are we getting EU tariffs (luckily they are suspended for a little while), but when all of that nonsense started, those designers that also used painters in China switched all their painting to my company causing a back up for delivery to almost 3 months. NOW, anything that would be ordered is going to be put on hold because the tariffs might go back up July 9th and no one wants to pay 50% more.”

Barb will get a refund, or perhaps choose a canvas that the artist has in her current stockpile. It just won’t be the one she really wanted to do, the one she had a spot in our home picked out for.

So it’s not just cars, steel, or lumber that are being impacted by tariffs and trade wars. The arts, with the ability to uplift our lives, will also bear the burden of increased costs and disrupted supply chains.

So is this how tariffs help to ‘Make America Great Again’… one canceled art project at a time?

A Message from the Heart, Not the Inbox

Barb and I don’t receive many handwritten notes anymore—not many people do these days. So when a special one arrived last week, it truly stood out.

The note in our mailbox had an ominous beginning. It opened with “Barb and Les, I am Harriet Burlow’s* daughter, Lorna. I am writing to let you know.” I feared the next few words would be, “My mom passed away last month.” Instead, I read with relief and joy, “Mom is now living in a beautiful memory care facility. She still remembers the two of you and loves the pictures of your grandchildren in your holiday cards.”

Harriet had been our departmental secretary in my first job, a rookie pathologist ignorant of the ways of office and medical politics. Along with her co-worker Margaret, she guided, taught, and occasionally scolded me, helping mold me into the professional I am today.

We probably worked together for about 20 years until she and Margaret retired from the hospital and the working world. Sadly, in the intervening years, the exchange of holiday cards has been our only contact.

I was determined to write back to Lorna, to write something much more personal than the brief, generic message our holiday cards contain. I knew it had to be a handwritten note, not an email in 11-point font to a Gmail or Hotmail address. This needed to be more from the heart.

I composed my message on my desktop—my thoughts flow more easily from a keyboard than a pen clenched in my hand. I told Lorna how much I had enjoyed working with her mom and how much I appreciated her note. Following some light editing, I knew I was ready to write it all out.

My next challenge was finding a note card. I have never had personal stationery. If I write anything down these days, it is usually on the back of a scrap of paper or a receipt. I asked Barb if she had anything appropriate (that is, not overly feminine) for me to send my note on, and after much searching, she found a lovely folding card from our Vietnam trip, complete with a pop-up jungle inside.

I carefully transcribed my words onto the note card. Since my cursive handwriting is unreadable (I know the cliche), I was obligated to use block print. I meticulously wrote out each word, taking care to avoid making any smudges or cross-outs.

I can’t remember the last time I hand-wrote four complete paragraphs. My hand was cramping by the time I printed out my signature. But I was glad that I did it this way. I can envision writing more brief notes and thank-yous in longhand.

I think it’s time I buy some stationery of my own. I don’t want handwritten notes to become a thing of the past, even as we move to the future.

*Names have been changed.

My son Michael had some expiring travel credit with United Airlines and suggested we go away together for a few days. We tossed around a few destination ideas before settling on Las Vegas—a city we hadn’t visited together in 20 years. Back then, we traveled with a group of Mike’s friends and their dads, all (the friends, not the dads) having recently turned 21. This time would just be the two of us.

We discussed a few things we would like to do in “Sin City”, made reservations for a hotel in the middle of the Strip, and hit the friendly skies last Tuesday morning.

We packed a lot into 48 hours: a big win on a free slot machine play, an introduction to the game of Pai Gow Poker, sunning at the hotel pool, and splitting a steak at Mike’s favorite Vegas steakhouse.

We walked north and south along the strip, visiting a dozen casinos. For a break, we took a longer-than-expected Uber journey to reach an over-filled miniature golf course, where the manager apologized for the unexpected crowd by offering us free ice cream, coffee flavor for both of us.

And there were shows. Shin Lim’s sleight of hand was incredible, but by the end of 90 minutes, the magic routine started to feel, well, routine. On the other hand, there was nothing routine about the U2 movie at the Sphere. Bono has never been more Bono, and the band never rocked so hard as when projected on a screen the size of the Titanic. I’ll count this as the 5th time I have seen the boys “live.”

Throughout the two days, Michael and I talked. We talked about family trips when he and his sister Laury were small; about travel we hope to enjoy in the future; about friends; about music, and about relationships.

Towards the end of the walkabout, Michael asked me what my favorite parts of the trip were. I mentioned U2, great steak, and my gambling winnings (not mentioning the losses). When I asked him the same question, his response was shorter than mine. He said, “My favorite thing was spending time together.”

In that moment, the noise of the casinos and flashing lights faded into the background. It wasn’t about the shows or the wins—it was about us.

My son is a mensch. I couldn’t be happier, or prouder.

Haiku Do You Do?

I published my first set of haiku five years ago during COVID. They were well received. I have waited a long time to write these new verses. Some are personal, some are universal.

I know your lives are busy now, but take a moment, sit back, relax, and let the rhythms (no rhymes) bring you harmony. By the way, my favorite is the final entry; keep reading until you get there.

A final note. To all of you reading on Sunday, Happy Mother’s Day to you and the mothers in your life.

Let the haiku begin.

A curious cat
Cannot understand it, when
Breakfast is delayed.

Baba O'Riley
Though written by the Who, it
Shares a name with me.

Coyotes slither
On our roads at night, waiting
For prey to emerge.

Definite maybes
Are the secret feature, of
Passive aggression.

Easter Island the
Polynesian refuge, whose
Stone heads make you think.

Feeding animals
At zoos is forbidden, while
In shelters is grand.

Gorillas in mist
Imposing to behold, we'll
Observe them next year.

Husbands never know
Politics of romance, 'til
Elections are done.

A basement spot with
Shovels tucked away, as
May blooms in the yard.

Justice, Justice it's
What you all should pursue, but
People disagree.

Knights take silent pawns
Rooks crouch in corners, waiting
To launch their attack.

Leery time to fly
But I'll be in the air, still
A traveling man.

Mothers have a way
Quieting the hurt soul, when
No other will do.

Nadia, gymnast,
The one with the first ten, she
Set the world's standard.

Orange cones laid out
Congestion everywhere, it's
Construction season

Polaroid snapshots
Once were unique treats, now
Selfies everywhere.

Questions in reverse
Jeopardy! way to play, but
Ken is not Alex.

Running on empty
Scouting out gluten-free, when
Pantry shelf is bare.

Streaming until 10.
The Pitt, The Handmaid's Tale, then
Time to watch the news.

Taxi service is
A thing that is gone so, no
Judd Hirsch at the wheel.

Understand the past.
It teaches us the lessons, for
Novel times ahead.

Virtually real
Is not really the same, as
My life its own self.

Walks for the brown dog
Chasing rabbits away, we
Stroll an endless loop.

X-ray med enticed
I went another way, so
Call me the Path Doc.

Yesterday is gone,
Some Beatles are gone too, just
Paul and Starr still shine.

ZZTop told us
Jesus left Chicago, but
New Pope is Sox fan.

That’s the end of the haiku. Tell me which you like, and have a wonderful day

Living with Earworms for Breakfast

When I wake up, it’s Morning Joe for me. No, not a cup of coffee. As most of you know, I don’t drink the stuff—I get my caffeine from fresh-brewed English Breakfast Tea and Diet Coke or Pepsi. Morning Joe is the program on MSNBC that starts my day.

Yes, I watch it for the politics, and for a recap of whatever bizarre rants may have come across social media while I slept. It’s wall-to-wall talking heads and daily predictions of democracy’s demise. But what sticks with me through the rest of the day is the music—the 5 or 10 seconds of bumper music leading into the commercial breaks.

I don’t know who programs the music (the most recent reference I can find online is to David Quanvie in 2011), but whoever it is shares my musical tastes to a T (not necessarily English Breakfast).

There is U2—lots of U2—whether it is an upbeat few bars from “Beautiful Day” or the martial drum beats of “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” When I hear that, I want to grab a flag and march all around the kitchen.

One perfect Bruce Springsteen riff, and I’ll be humming “Badlands” or “Thunder Road” for the rest of the morning. Today was just a snippet of Joe Walsh’s “Life of Illusion,” but the lyric “nature loves her little surprises” was in my head throughout my breakfast. And the morning will come—I know it will come—when I’ll hear Joe and his Eagle buddies buttering my toast with their steely knives at the Hotel California.

Years ago, a colleague told me she gave up reading my blog posts because my lyrical introductions put too many earworms in her brain. But I’m not complaining about the catchy little ear critters I get from “Morning Joe.” The music gets me in a great mood for the day, something the news itself doesn’t manage to do anymore.

And maybe someday hosts Joe and Mika will entertain us with a “Talking Heads” song. Anyone for “Burning Down the House,” or “Life During Wartime”?

Yesterday, I was sworn in as a Trustee for the Village of Riverwoods. I want to clarify that my blog is not an official voice for the Village nor a forum for conducting Village affairs. It’s me and my readers just having fun!

An Anatomist’s Take on Phone Trade-Ins and My Great Password Purge

To stay ahead of fluctuating tariffs, Barb and I traded our phones for a pair of shiny new Apple iPhone 16s. As I bid farewell to my old phone, I also parted ways with Lockbox Pro, the website password manager that has been my companion for 20 years.

The company that owned Lockbox went out of business between my last phone purchase and this one. Without the company’s support, I couldn’t easily transfer the hundreds of passwords stored in Lockbox to my new phone.

To save all my passwords, I needed to act before wiping all data off my old phone. I manually copied each saved Lockbox password into Dashlane, a different password manager. This process gave me a chance to review each website and password, an activity that brought back as many memories as rifling through my phone’s saved photos.

Reflecting on passwords from way, way back brought a smile to my face. We were so innocent back then, and passwords were so simple! While I never used “ABCD” or “1234,” I used the same six-letter word as a password for every site. When security became more sophisticated and numerals were required, I added the same two digits to my 6-letter word to create my new 8-character alphanumeric passwords.

Naturally, as security continued to evolve, I got smarter about my passwords. “Come up with a sentence and use the first letter of each word. No one will figure that out,” I was told. I crafted a sentence based on my musical tastes, and soon I had dozens of passwords built from it. Later, new rules led me to replace some letters with symbols, making my passwords even stronger.

Many of the hundreds of passwords in Lockbox were linked to websites that no longer existed or were no longer relevant to me. I did not need to transfer information from any entry containing the word “UroPartners” or relating to our old home in Long Grove. Those sites and their passwords are in the past. I said goodbye to passwords from banks we no longer bank at, advisors who no longer advise us, and health care facilities we no longer use to stay healthy. I became the Marie Kondo of password and website decluttering.

After a week, Lockbox—and all the secrets it held—was no longer part of my life. My transfers were complete, and I wiped the old phone.

Today, I vow to do a better job of keeping Dashlane current and up-to-date, purging old sites as my life changes. Or maybe I will just let the list grow, so twenty years from now I might again have a chance to remember how life used to be.

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Why This Night Was Different From All Other Nights

Barb and I spent the week before Passover ensconced in our kitchen. There were sweets to bake for Barb’s Wednesday book club, spicy gluten-free air-fried chicken to prep for my Friday night poker game, and a multi-course dinner to prepare for a Sunday night Seder with our extended family of 24.

Two briskets were baked and sliced (thank you, Sunset Foods), and a fancy Silver Spoon chicken recipe was followed to the letter. Cakes were baked, and a big pot of homemade chicken soup simmered lovingly for hours. Two batches of matzah balls were prepared—one large batch of fifty for 23 of our guests, and a smaller pot of gluten-free pseudo matzah balls just for me.

On Sunday evening, the second night of this year’s celebration, I led the Seder—the ritual retelling of the Jewish people’s escape from slavery in Egypt. My Seders are condensed, but I make sure to include all the essentials: the children asking the Four Questions, everyone dripping wine while reciting the Ten Plagues, and all our voices singing Dayenu, a song in praise of God. With guests ranging in age from 4 months to 94 years, I aim to keep everyone engaged.

When the Seder concluded, all eyes turned eagerly to Barb for Shulchan Orech—the festive meal.

Soon, the house filled with the comforting aroma of piping hot soup. Each bowl was brought to the table, brimming with golden broth and perfectly formed matzah balls, plump and glistening. Once everyone had been served, I grabbed a bowl and sat down to enjoy.

The first sip was heavenly—rich with chicken and root vegetables. I broke off a tiny piece of matzah ball, and my taste buds lit up. It was, without a doubt, the most delectable bite I’d had in years. Which could only mean one thing: I’d taken the wrong bowl. These matzah balls were definitely not gluten-free.

I quickly swapped my bowl for a fresh one and filled it with more chicken soup and matzah balls from the gluten-free pot. Then I braced myself for the usual GI fallout as a result of the one taste of regular matzah balls. But then—a Passover miracle! The symptoms were minor, and the rest of my week has passed by plaguelessly.

Dayenu!

If Only Joe Had Listened To Me

Eighteen months ago, I wrote the following speech on behalf of then-President Joe Biden. When I published it in my blog, every word was true. It still is. If only Joe had taken my advice and given this speech in November of 2023, we might be living in a very different country, in a very different world. Sadly, we will never know.

November 15, 2023

My Fellow Americans:

Three years ago this month, in a hard-fought and fairly won election, you chose me to serve as your President. Thus far I have served you faithfully and to the best of my ability, and I will continue to do so for the remainder of my term of office. But tonight I am choosing to look beyond the next 12 months. I look to the Presidential election of 2024 and the consequential four years to follow.

After deep, thoughtful, discussions with my family, my friends and advisors, the leaders of both houses of Congress, and after examining my faith, I have decided that I will not accept my party’s nomination to be the Democratic nominee for President of the United States in 2024.

I feel a great sense of pride when I look back on my first three years in office. Our economy is booming, with unemployment virtually non-existent, inflation tamed, and interest rates ready to fall. We have launched our efforts toward a carbon-neutral environment and we have seen unions once more mark out a space for our working class.

Sure, we haven’t solved all our problems. This is good ole Joe, and I know that! We have worked for humanitarian solutions to the situations at our border, to poverty, and to crime. We are not there yet. And the world remains a dangerous place. But we have strived to remind the world that we Americans will defend countries seeking freedom, peace, and an absence of terror.

Why have I decided that January 20, 2025, will be my last day as your President? I have no fear of another election battle, one I am confident I would be triumphant in. I have no concern that my age would prevent me from fulfilling my duties in the manner the position requires. I have no doubt that with the aid of Congress, we would continue to make progress on the matters of most consequence and their impact on the lives of everyday Americans.

But each man is allotted a limited number of days and years on this earth. By the end of this term, I will have given 54 years to the service of my country. I have done so gladly and I have not regretted a single moment, from my days on the New Castle County Council to my years in the White House. Soon will be the time for me to be with my family, to provide them with support and comfort. I want to write my memoirs while all is still fresh, and of course, remain a strong voice for freedom and democracy.

My party is filled with brilliant, caring individuals who have already done much and deserve the opportunity to do more. I encourage these men and women to seek the Democratic nomination for the 2024 Presidential election. I hope Kamala Harris, who has been a strong advisor and a willing ear during her Vice-Presidency, will be one of those, but that is her decision to make.

I want to assure the nation that I will not be a “lame duck” President. In the 14 months remaining in my term, I will continue to fight for what I believe in, those ideals that make us the strongest, proudest, most equitable nation we can be.

In closing, as we approach the 160th anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address I repeat his words that this “government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

God Bless You All. Goodnight.

Eighteen months later, the speech remains unread by the man it was meant for, and the moment it was written for has passed. We’ll never know what might have changed had these words been spoken. But they still hold meaning. Not as a roadmap to a different past, but perhaps as a quiet reminder of what leadership can look like—and what it still might.

Let me know what you think.

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Last week, just three days apart, I experienced both a vision of my future in public service and a heartwarming reminder of my past contributions. These two moments—separate in time but united in spirit—revealed a common thread in my approach to community leadership.

Our village’s municipal election was held on Tuesday. I was on the ballot as a candidate for the Village of Riverwoods Board of Trustees. The outcome was a given (three positions, three candidates, no write-ins allowed), but the final tally was still gratifying.

I will be sworn in at the beginning of May and take my place on the Board. Like all small municipalities, we have limitations because of our size, but despite this, I hope to be a leader in maintaining and improving the quality of life for our residents while fostering a spirit of collegiality on the Board.

As I prepared to take on this new role, I was fortunate to be reminded of what effective public service looks like. Barb and I attended a retirement dinner for Terry Moons, a 40-year member of the Stevenson High School Board of Education, whom I served with from 1995 to 2011.

The dinner was a wonderful evening at a local restaurant. I had the opportunity to reconnect with former colleagues and meet several newer Board members who have served since my tenure ended. I enjoyed catching up with longtime administrators and meeting newer ones.

Old memories were rekindled as I heard words and phrases I hadn’t thought about in years: ED-RED, SEDOL, Site and Facilities Committee, Chump Change. These had once been part of my daily lexicon. Each one sparked memories of impassioned, often intense meetings with renowned educators who took pride in leading a world-class high school and were always seeking ways to improve. On Friday night, the district superintendent had that same passion as he did his best to explain the concepts of proficiency-based instruction and grading to Barb and me. In all my years on the Board, I never heard anyone say, “We’ll do it that way because that’s how we have always done it.”

Pride, friendship, collegiality, and shared purpose—these defined my time on the school board, and they are what I hope to encounter as a village trustee. I carry that vision with me into this new role, anticipating that my new colleagues share in that commitment.

Pins, Pickleball, and a Personal Revival

Was the Chicago Tribune’s Rick Kogan reading my mind?

I was contemplating a blog post about my resurgent interest in bowling—but Rick preempted me with his column in today’s Trib, “When billiards and bowling were all the rage.” At first, that short-circuited my writing plan since I didn’t want to look like a copycat. But after reading Rick’s column, I realized I won’t be copying him at all.

Rick wrote a nice piece detailing the growth and decline of bowling’s popularity, including a little poke at pickleball, today’s “fastest-growing sport in the country for the third year in a row!” Rick’s history of bowling begins with a 1939 photo of four stylish lady bowlers, but as I read, I never got the sense he had ever picked up a ball himself. That’s why my experience and post are different.

While I wasn’t born with a bowling ball in my hand (my parents never bowled), much of my tween years in Rogers Park were spent in bowling alleys. From Howard Bowl at the far northeast to Nortown Bowl at the southwest edge of my neighborhood, rarely a week went by without my rolling three games. I enjoyed kid’s leagues, winner-take-all pots, and even my 12th birthday bowling party, slip-sliding down the alley with friends, barely an adult in sight. I won that winner-take-all pot once, a 163 game the pinnacle of my youthful forays.

In time, bowling faded for me. Barb never enjoyed the smokey atmosphere in most bowling alleys, and I lost touch with my bowling buddies. But a few years ago, just before COVID-19, a family friend named Marty, an ardent bowler, asked if I would like to join him for a few games.

I excavated my bowling bag, ball, and shoes from a basement closet and met Marty at the neighborhood alley. In those first games, I felt clumsy and awkward. I had forgotten my bowling etiquette, and every other ball seemed headed for the gutter. But despite the setbacks I enjoyed myself.

We had to wait for COVID to pass before we could go at it again, but now I join Marty on the alleys almost every week. My scores have steadily improved as I follow Marty’s tips not to throw across my body and to follow through on my release. What I lack in consistency, I make up in determination. The sight and sound of pins tumbling to the deck after a perfectly thrown strike ball is electrifying. And those are getting more and more frequent.

I know bowling doesn’t have the upscale popularity and cachet of pickleball. My pickleball friends laugh in astonishment when I tell them I bowl. They believe I am joshing with them. I am not. Rick Kogan implies that bowling is dead, but for me, the sport has been resurrected.

I want to keep those pins exploding. Marty, you will be seeing a whole lot more of me!