Different Slants

Seeing the World from a New Angle

Rainbows: Seeking a Dead Man’s Forgiveness, 60 Years Later

Filed under: Uncategorized — Bob at 10:06 am on Friday, May 19, 2023

by Robert M. Katzman ©  May 18, 2023

A friend, Ron Buzil, sent me and a number of our other classmates from Caldwell Grammar School at 8546 S. Cregier St on the South Side of Chicago a message that a person I once was in kindergarten with in 1955, Michael Froman, had just died at 72. What follows is a series of unexpected emotions and memories locked away (I thought for good); but I guess the lock was sorta rusty. Long forgotten, I realized I had a debt to pay.

Michael Froman was a person I only knew in a glancing way. We were in a class of baby Boomers, meaning we filled every seat at every desk in every class from kindergarten to 8th grade – and sometimes there weren’t enough chairs for all of us post World War II children. About 33 kids per class, I believe.

Mike was quiet, not athletic, not disruptive, not abrasive, and most likely very smart. After all, he ended up becoming a lawyer.

There was an obituary I saw online saying there would only be a graveside service in Illinois, and I had no intention of going to it, since I live in southeast Wisconsin, and he and I weren’t really friends. He never called me, I never called him. I didn’t know his family and except for one person, or whether he had any brothers or sisters. I thanked Ron for keeping me in the loop as yet another one of our class from 1964 died. When you hit your seventies, between grammar school, Hebrew School, high school and college, the dead begin to pile up.

So, I dismissed any other thought about Mike other than I was remotely sorry he died so young; and went on to other things.

Except I have a subconscious – which I have learned is impossible to be ignored, and seems to have the ability to be a bully in my brain, pushing all the other parts around so it can be first in line to remind me about something I didn’t want to remember. Maybe I thought Mike was incidental to my life, when unbeckoned, my memory opened up like the Yellow Brick Road and demanded I walk the walk to examine the Mike Froman files a little more closely. After all, who did I think I was, anyway?

There were no witnesses, no one to hear the tumult in my darkening mind as I was dragged, kicking and bitching to confront the facts as I knew them. It seemed that I was on trial and being called to account… whether I was willing or not. When my subconscious demands attention, everything else just falls away and I must listen to the silent voice from decades and decades ago.

I was a wild, angry, disruptive and dangerous (when provoked) kid in grammar school… who, unknown to anyone in the Fifties and early Sixties, was being beaten daily and shrieked at in an always-darkened house by a mentally unbalanced mother. This was a big secret. People in those times didn’t talk about stuff like that. Didn’t matter if I was smashed in the face with her fist, beaten with rubber garden hoses, leather belts and sometimes the belt buckles, this was not to be revealed.

Because I was in so many playground fights; the visible bruises or welts on my face, neck or arms must have been thought to be from that – my teachers might have perhaps assumed. No one ever asked me about that between 1955 and 1964.

Whomever I clashed with – and there were many, because I was perpetually angry and had a short temper – quiet Mike Froman was never in my sights. He was unprovocative and seemed to exist on the edges of the class population. I never talked to him, even though he lived next door to my beloved Aunt Adele; who was across the street from the school’s playground, on the corner.

So we graduated and he went with 99% of my class to Bowen High School to become part of the 1968 graduating class there of 680 people, and I went to the University of Chicago Laboratory School with one other classmate, becoming part of 160 graduating students in 1968 in Chicago’s Hyde Park.

I stayed in touch with a small group of people I cared about even though we were miles apart. Mike Froman wasn’t one of them.

Then, in 1969, I opened a (sort of) kosher deli, the Deli Dali – across the parking lot from my (then) pretty well- known Bob’s Newsstand. One of our suppliers was a Mr. Froman who sold us a range of cheeses. I knew he was Mike’s father when I would see him to say hello; and remembering my terrible French, thought it was amusing that a Mr. Froman sold us ‘fromage’. But that bit of humor was soon forgotten after I sold the deli and went on to buy other newsstands instead. I remember he was an immigrant, possibly from Germany. He had a strong accent.

Many years went by. Three guys from Caldwell: Ron Buzil, Steve Golber, Bobby Kopple and I, went out four times a year to celebrate our conveniently spaced birthdays, at a range of restaurants across the Chicago area. One of those times, I somehow connected with Mike and invited him to join us at a French-Vietnamese restaurant: Pasteure’s. I don’t remember the details, but it was a pleasant evening and I supposed we all had wondered if he wanted to become part of our group. But he never joined us again or called me.

The dinners went on for about 20 years until Bobby Kopple sold his business and decided to travel the world with his wife. After he left, the dinners stopped. It just wouldn’t have been the same. Not too much later, Bobby died at 70, and it was a shock. Money couldn’t buy him Time.

About 2000, I found Mike’s office in an older building near the Old Orchard Shopping Center in Skokie, IL.

When I rode up the elevator to see him, I saw the carpet was worn and the fragrance in the hallway was not so welcoming; but when we met and shook hands, I didn’t mention any of that. I had been unemployed for two years and knew all about what life was like with very little money. Perhaps Mike’s legal career wasn’t doing so well, but I had no idea. I didn’t ask him. We talked for a little while and then he told me something about my life I didn’t know.

I had been in a six-year distribution war with America’s largest distributor of publications in an intense battle that received much publicity because of the “David vs Goliath” aspect of our competition. I was Gulliver’s Periodicals. They had been a monopoly for most of a century and my entering their locked-up market caused an incredible response from them. They wanted me to quit. I wouldn’t quit. Things became tense and steadily worse for me; when a newspaper story in Chicago’s Reader, a free alternative press at that time, told the city what was happening to me – a fly on the ass of the bigger company – and an anti-trust lawyer appeared out of nowhere to defend me in court for the duration of my battle to survive.

His presence changed the entire situation; because now there was someone willing to fight for me whenever something was done to me that he said was illegal. After six years, they gave up, and agreed to settle. As part of the settlement a large amount of money was paid to me, plus the other company had to give me one of their retail chain of Chicago magazine stores. It was an unambiguous victory.

But while I thought the war was over, a person on the other side didn’t think so. And as my fortunes tumbled for a range of reasons, they were able to push me over the edge. I lost my five stores and became unemployed and unemployable. A nightmare at 35 years old.

Eventually I was able to open a small store, gradually leading to my largest ever, and my life was back on track  – except for brain surgery in 2004, and a range of other bad medical moments.

Mike told me that my fight with the other company had made legal history, because no one in America had ever defeated a monopoly in the periodical distribution business, and the consequences changed far more than I ever realized. Mike told me the battle was being taught in law schools. I stared at him. This was unimaginable. After everything fell apart for me in 1985, I felt like a total loser, not some “historic figure”.

No one else in the 15 years between that year and my moment with Mike in his office had ever said anything about it to me. No one. Gulliver’s Periodicals would live on, somehow, even if I never knew it. I was stunned and thanked him for telling me. I wished him well, left his office and we never saw each other again for the next 22 years, until Ron Buzil’s message told me of his death.

As the day wore on and the memories returned, something very dark arrived: In 1962, my next-door neighbor Mr. Meyers, a Chicago cop and someone very handy with tools, made a slingshot for me out of plywood with a wide rubber band to hold the BB’s he handed me. He showed me how to use it, told me to practice with some paper targets he gave to me from the Police Dept shooting range for officers and I did that, day after day. I began to get better and better, then very good at hitting whatever I aimed at.

I was twelve; and as I said in my earlier self-description: a wild, angry child. I was quick to strike out at another kid I felt was hostile. This was endless. One day, as I was going across the street to have lunch at my Aunt Adele’s house, I saw Mike Froman standing in his doorway about to go in. I pulled out the wooden slingshot, centered a BB in the rubber band. I shot the BB into Mike’s eye. He screamed.

I froze; unable to comprehend what I did and who I did it to – for no reason at all. I can’t recall more than that, except that Mike’s eye wasn’t permanently damaged, and my slingshot disappeared forever. I have no memory of ever speaking to Mike about it or apologizing for my brutal act.

As the present day wore on, I became more and more morose remembering this terrible thing. Too late forever now to ever say I was sorry. And to think I saw him twice in all those years and he never brought it up to me. That made it worse. He was a saint; I was a beast. I became very upset.

I called a man I know, Rabbi Tzali Wilshanski, who has a Chabod in Kenosha,Wisconsin; fifteen miles south of my home. I don’t join things and belong to no synagogue, but in the seven years I knew him since I moved north from Illinois, we had become very friendly. Then after his kindness toward my wife Joyce, who was dying from cancer… friends.

He is forty, young enough easily to be a child of mine; but I hold him in high esteem. He has a talent for listening and for teaching.

I called him and asked him if he could help me with something. He swiftly agreed. I asked him to say Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead. He asked me to find out Mike’s Hebrew name, meaning to find out his father’s first name which I didn’t know. My Hebrew name is R’u-vain ben Yisrael, or Robert, the son of Israel. After calling the funeral home to get that name, we settled on Moshe ben Liaban, or Michael, the son of Lewis.

I then asked the Rabbi to also tell me a prayer for forgiveness, for when a person has been wronged.

When I went there today, which is Saturday January 7, 2023. It is Shabbat, or the Sabbath. There were about a dozen men gathered in the room for prayers. In Chabods, which follow Chasidic traditions, women sit separate from the men. The time came for me to say Kaddish (which is not in Hebrew, but actually Aramaic, an ancient lingua franca from the Middle East at the time of Jesus – because the Romans, Greeks, Jews, Arabs, and Samaritans all spoke Aramaic as the common tongue everyone could understand, just like English today is the lingua franca for business all over the world).

I have read the Kaddish many times, most recently five years ago when Joy died. It is not an easy thing to do. The Rabbi stood near me, uncertain about whether I could remember how to say the Aramaic prayer or read the Hebrew letters it was written in. But I did. I read it clearly, one word following another – when, to my total surprise, I became overwhelmed with emotion at my guilt and dissolved into tears, unable to continue. The Rabbi waited for me to continue, but I sat down and it was obvious to him I was in complete misery, my face streaming in tears. So, good man that he is, he swiftly took over from where I stopped; walking away to where the Torah was opened to draw attention away from me, and to him instead.

I was quiet for the rest of the service. No other person there said a word to me. Then he included the prayer of apology in the rest of what he said, on my behalf. Not everyone can be a Rabbi. It is a calling for a very special few who somehow can comprehend the Jewish soul. I later walked over to him to thank him for how he handled an awkward situation so well, saving me further embarrassment.

I sat there while the Rabbi was finishing the service and rolling up the Torah to return to the Ark, its resting place. I began to scan various pages in the heavy blue prayer book, looking for nothing.

While randomly leafing through my prayer book written in English and Hebrew, by chance, I noticed a small line item on the bottom of page 566, right side, called “Prayer for Rainbows”, which made me stop and reread it. It was partially in Hebrew which I can read but not understand. It also said a man should not stare at a Rainbow too long. What? Is that one of the 613 commandments?

I know in Jewish tradition and maybe other religions, too: the Dove returning from dry land somewhere no longer submerged under the Flood with a little green twig in its beak, followed by a brilliant Rainbow never seen by anyone before the Great Flood, somehow communicated to Noah a promise from God that He would never Flood the world again.

This may be a fairy tale like all the other fairy tales in all the world’s religions about how everything came to be out of bleak black Nothingness.

Nevertheless, fairy tales can be very necessary when they help a guy express himself during his grief over a real bad thing that happened a little less than thousands of years ago. Long ago, another wise and warm Rabbi told me that there are no coincidences, that all is preordained. That was a lot to take in.


I’ve decided that the next Rainbow I see will be a sign from Michael Froman telling me he heard my silent plea from the Great Beyond where Time means nothing, about something that pains me greatly today. I will take that Rainbow as a sign of forgiveness and get on with my life. Maybe when I was a wild twelve-year-old I could care less about shooting Michael in the eye with my slingshot. But Mike, sixty years later as an old man – I can surely feel your great pain today, almost as if I were you. I don’t know if that transformation is possible, but there are a lot of things I’ll never understand.  My waiting for my forgiving Rainbow from Mike begins today: January 7, 2023.


Today is May 7, 2023.

Six months have passed, and no Rainbow has appeared in my life. I had thought about this from time to time, the strangeness of never seeing a single Rainbow through the mist of a Spring day. I am in Santa Fe, New Mexico, on my first anniversary, after marrying dear Nancy a year ago. Not a rainy place. I had stopped thinking about no Rainbows because it seemed eerie to me and made me feel strange. And sad.

We were in the Georgia ‘O’Keefe Museum in a beautiful sand-colored building on a clear sunny day. I was and am a big fan of hers. Seeing her ethereal work can make a guy feel a little ethereal himself, maybe. After seeing all of her work in the small building, I decided to look around the bookshop there for some postcards. The bookstore is filled with a range of books, jewelry, glass items and other items of clothing. I was passing by a window and saw a piece of putty-colored fabric – and to my utter amazement, there was a tiny Rainbow, a clear, complete Rainbow with all the colors running across the slightly rumpled fabric. It was under a piece of glass about a foot above it with a beveled edge. I stared at it. My Rainbow? Delivered in a time and place of Mike’s choosing? As refracted light and incredibly illuminated, running across the fabric and as thin as a pencil?

With my “impossible-to-believe” own life, I am very careful to look Fate in the mouth and accept whatever comes my way, like messages delivered by Jewish Butterflies. After determining where the light from the sky was coming from, through that small window, I put my hand under the Rainbow, so it ran across my skin, like a multi-colored caterpillar, moving this way and that as I moved my hand, or flexed the skin. I was playing with light. I was playing with something cosmic I’d been waiting for, for so long. I began to take photos of my hand and arm, letting the rainbow run across my forearm and the back of my hand, like it was liquid light. I became transfixed by this odd situation. And then I became overcome with emotion and ran out of the bookstore and out of the building.

I don’t like people to see me cry.

It is too deep a look into my soul and that must be private.

Standing behind the adobe-colored building in a large shadow, I felt the warm tears on my face.                                                                                              It had been five months of waiting for this moment.

In my invented “Terms of Michael’s Symbolic Forgiveness” I had challenged Nature to give me what I wanted so I could find peace within me about hurting a twelve-year-old boy, sixty years ago. Nature has little to do with me and my problems. Why did I choose something so hard to grasp?

My remembering Michael, my going to that Rabbi, my seeking not private forgiveness, but instead public Jewish forgiveness, my tears interrupting the moment with the Rabbi, my random flipping through the Chasidic Prayer book in my frustration and misery, my stumbling across this incredibly obscure prayer about Rainbows, my learning the translation, my choosing to ask Michael to use a Rainbow to express his forgiveness to me, because Rainbows require a person to be at the right time and place, and especially, to (in most cases, I guess) look up, Heaven-ward. In my case, it was 1,332 miles west of Racine, Wisconsin to look up to the clouds.

Again, a great Rabbi I once knew very well a long time ago, once told me there are no such things as coincidences. Everything is preordained by God.

I am not some holy-roller, imbedded in religion or miracles. I belong to no Temple and rarely go to services. My relationship with God is conversational and matter-of-fact. I think God expects me to inspire others through my stories and poems, and for him, that is the same thing as prayer. Then I heard Mike’s voice in my head, as real as if he were standing next to me, except it was his twelve-year-old voice.

“Hey, Katzman – what were you expecting? You slug me in the eye with a metal BB and then feel sorry about it… sixty-years later?

And then what?

I’m supposed to drop everything and rush a Rainbow to you?

By Fed-Ex maybe? Are you so important or something?

To you, a day, a week, a month… may seem like a long time to wait for something.

I face eternity.

Letting you wait six months seems like seconds to me, but I wanted you to feel the pain I felt, in 1962.

Now is enough.

Forget me, get on with your life.

Remember to be nice to people, kind to people, even if it is inconvenient.

Got it, Katzman?”

Then the voice went away. My tears stopped.

I felt as if we were standing on the sharp white crushed stone of our Caldwell Playground, standing face-to-face in 1962.

I have the photos of the Rainbow on my hands.

I will remember your words, Michael, even if in my imagination, even if it is inconvenient, for the rest of my life.

And Michael, thanks.


And I thought that was the end of Rainbows in my life.

But it wasn’t.

On Thursday, May 11, 2023, we two old people were celebrating our first wedding anniversary: me 73, she 71; and we were driving the 70 miles from Santa Fe through the dusty mountains to Taos, New Mexico: miles and miles of barren, elevated highway, climbing ever higher.  I couldn’t keep awake for some reason, so Nancy drove our rented car.

Then I noticed the mountains merging together, like I was seeing them cross-eyed. My tongue felt thick and I told Nancy something must be wrong, then I felt too sleepy to talk. This repeated as we drove steadily higher and Nancy was distraught, though I had no memory of her being that way.

Eventually, about thirty minutes later we rolled into tiny Taos, New Mexico, Heaven on Earth for wealthy art collectors for decades. We two? Tourists in Watercolors, Oils and Charcoal Land. But I wasn’t aware of it.

On the southern fringe of Taos was a small Hospital, Holy Cross, and Nancy pulled into the emergency area. I was able to walk and was less disoriented. I entered the room, told the woman behind the glass what I could, she handed me a clipboard to fill out my name and all that. But I never did fill it out. Not even my phone number.

Instantly, really instantly, a person appeared in scrubs and led me into the ER and helped me off with my shirt. Another person came in to assist the first. I had no clue about what they were doing, but I told one of them I had something with me they might find useful and pulled this thin stapled sheaf of papers out and handed it to the person who was about to insert a needle into my left arm. Another person inserted a needle into my right arm. This little room was becoming complicated for dizzy me. Then the doctor, or one of them, came in and asked what the papers were.

I explained that I had been carrying them with me for decades, as the pages increased. It was my complete medical history going back to 1951, listing on the front page my contacts, blood type, religion, current drugs, allergies – half of the front page! – weight, height, my doctor and where his hospital was. The doctor, tall, thin, balding, intelligent expression on his face, about forty or so, looked at the document, slowly turning the pages of what may have seemed to him a short story about my 42 operations and the incident in 1951 which probably caused all of them to happen.

My being virtually bathed in X-Rays at a hospital in Chicago in 1951, was a new ‘cure’ for swollen thyroid glands. This treatment had been used since 1946. It was considered a miracle cure at the time – until 1954. Then, as the babies grew up, they began dying of cancer, first a few, then hundreds, then thousands, eventually tens of thousands. Among them was me, a rare survivor, but losing my left jaw from cancer in 1968, at 18. Many transplants followed. I first began writing my medical history at about 20 to save time in explaining to new doctors what happened to me, when and why. Over time, pages were added. I updated it annually, changing doctors, contacts, wives and drugs.

As the years went by, my original older doctors retired or died, and I acquired younger doctors. Moving to Wisconsin in 2015 when I was 65, I found doctors who were younger still. My medical history (now about 7 pages in 12-point type), were organized by decade. The many younger doctors I now have were aware of the terrible scandal in Chicago, where so many babies had become doomed by the massive x-ray exposure which eventually closed the hospital. But it was ancient history for all of them; and rarely had they met with one of the few survivors. I became used to their disbelief (as if I were a living Neanderthal Man) when they read my history. My many operations became numbing to them. Conversations flowed and some of my younger doctors became good friends.

The tall doctor looked over my pages, then at me, his visiting 73-year-old patient from the (for me) lethal Midwest. He expressed astonishment and said that he had never seen such a thing as my history in his entire career. I was laconic about it, used to this and told him I doubted it would ever become a best-seller. My deadpan humor also surprised my new doctors, including this one. How was I supposed to be? Morose? Sorry for myself? I was approaching the average American man’s life span of 76, a fact that had made me spiritual over the years.

I felt my survival was connected to a responsibility to write my stories, inspire other people and to give them hope that whatever ill fortune may beset them in their lives, mine was worse. And yet, I survived. Periodically, I even prospered. I accepted this as an assignment with resignation. My extremely violent home life as a child, my escape from it at 14, my odd education and self-employment at 15, my unexpected love life beginning at 17, my early career of resistance which became covered by the press. Eventually my entire career was a series of entrepreneurial ventures, including businesses rising and falling, and my involvement in Judaism despite all the surgeries, and my lifelong friendships (which I felt were normal, but gradually discovered were unusual for someone of my violent background) and my belief in God, which defied logic for much of my life.

An MRI of my head was taken at that little hospital. I had all these stickers attached to my chest, was monitored for hours, and met this small crew of very nice people; like I had landed in Mayberry instead of Taos, and was now part of a heart-warming episode.

I was upset while lying there for hours, worried that with whatever was happening to me, I’d never be able to finish my late-in-life big project: to publish all 600 of my stories and poems into 22 books, organized by topic. Nancy, a graphic artist, had designed all the covers, the books were completed and were being magically assembled on Nancy’s computer and my Illinois printer was awaiting the books. I prayed for extra time, whatever time was mine in the first place, time to finish something dear to me which might matter to others, eventually, whether I survived or not. In my woozy state, this prayer repeated itself. I was sad, sorry for myself:

Extra Time, please allow me Extra Time, time to complete my books. Extra Time, please. Extra Time.

After four hours, everything was disconnected, needles extracted from my arms, stickers removed and a conclusion arrived that I had possibly experienced a “Transient Cerebral Ischemic Attack”, unspecified, as my new documents expressed, or more commonly called TIA by who worked people in hospitals.

A fancy group of words meaning a mini-stroke. For me, terror. Now what?

The doctored told me I was very, very, very (three times) lucky, and probably just missed having one, because one of my many drugs slightly expanded my arteries. He smiled at me, like my operation was successful, though none had occurred. Perhaps reading my complicated medical history, he became aware that now he was part of it, Edition 2023. If my books ever sell in large numbers, he will be my hero, one of them. Maybe he’ll know. That would be cool.

This very nice man told me to immediately get an echocardiogram of my Carotid arteries and to find myself a cardiologist when I went home. He asked me if I wanted to be admitted for further tests. I declined. I was due to fly home on May 15th, three days later. He suggested I add an 81mm aspirin to my daily regimen of a range of drugs, a blood thinner, until I saw my doctor. I did that. Then they gave me the report on what they found, or didn’t find, and I left the hospital with Nancy. I have always felt walking out of a hospital to be very inspiring.

Days passed as Nancy and I immersed ourselves in art gallery after art gallery and then museums. It was a sublime experience for two people so involved in art. Nancy had been an art teacher for twenty years. I had gone to art school for six years assuming it would become my future, though that wasn’t to be. Designing my many stores and being a photographer since I was 16 was to be my connection with art. Taos is a wonderful place for two old people to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, with paintings and adobe everywhere we looked.

Driving north to our motel further up a big mountain – 30 miles each way of scary winding roads – something happened. It was raining somewhere in the distance, which in the Southwest is easy to see, a complete rainstorm. The sun was shining somewhere else, skies, blue, clouds fluffy which looked like whipped cream, the usual, when Nancy said,

“Bob, look!”

It was a Rainbow, a real Rainbow — not a refracted one like in the gift shop exactly seven days earlier.

It was hanging there up in the sky in front of a mountain, all the colors in order, partly concealed in clouds. Both of us stared at it, because it was real – it was five months since I decided seeing one was forgiveness from Michael. Red – Orange – Yellow – Green – Blue – Indigo – Violet. Damn, it was stunning, fantastic!

I decided that this one was for me, not for Michael. I grasped for the chance to be selfish, to be kind to myself. This to me represented Extra Time. Time to finish my books and whatever followed that. I felt a glow inside.

Extra Time.

I won’t waste it.


Two notes in closing: Rabbi Tzali answered my inquiry about Rainbows, posted here–

1) This is the Chasidic Chabod Jewish prayer for Rainbows, and its meaning, in Hebrew and in English:

“After the flood, God promised Noah that He would never again bring a flood that would destroy the world.     A Rainbow is a reminder of this Covenant that God made with Noah, his descendants, and all living creatures.                                                                                                    Therefore, upon seeing a Rainbow in the sky, we recite the following blessing:

Baruch ata Ado-nai Elo-heinu melech ha’olam zocher ha’brit v’ne’eman bivrito v’kayam b’ma’amaro.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who remembers the Covenant, and is faithful to His covenant, and keeps His promise.”


2) This is what I found out about being instructed in the prayer book, to not look too long at Rainbows:

“The Sages state that we should not stare at a rainbow because it is tantamount to staring at God Himself (Talmud Hagigah 16a). (This is based on Ezekiel’s description of his vision of God, in which he compares it to “the appearance of the Rainbow that will be in the cloud on a rainy day” (1:28).)

The rainbow is thus an especially strong manifestation of God in the world. Although the background might be that the world is not wholly worthy, it is as if God Himself comes down to watch over us, stating in effect that He will never again give up on mankind.”


If anyone wants or needs to talk to a fine man and Rabbi for whatever reason, this is how to reach my treasured Rabbinical friend: rabbitzali@gmail.com

He didn’t ask for this attention. Not his style.

Thus endeth my story.


Comment by bruce matteson

May 19, 2023 @ 10:46 am

Your regret and remorse is testament to the quality human you have become and really, always have been. We all screw up. The difference is that an asshole wouldn’t care.

Comment by Brad Dechter

May 19, 2023 @ 1:45 pm

Bob, When you mentioned Rainbows, living in California, I initially thought you were writing about LGBTQ stuff. Little did I realize you were writing about forgiveness and a stroke. Needless to say, I am thrilled you are okay and all is well!
I think you can forgive yourself for something you did so long ago. We all did things we regret- but we should not live a life of shame/guilt for our earlier stupidity. It’s part of maturing and growing up and becoming/evolving. Glad now you have let go of it. Now let go of some of that other baggage you may be carrying also!

Comment by Charlie Newman

May 19, 2023 @ 7:57 pm

“When you have done something unforgivable, I’ll tell you exactly what to do. You forgive yourself.”
‘House of Games’, David Mamet.

Nicely done, Bob…

Comment by Jim Payne

May 20, 2023 @ 6:49 am

It’s a masterpiece of your life, a rainbow of many shades across many miles. In the mirror of Mike you have looked into yourself and found the peace only forgiveness of yourself can bring. From seeing and accepting the tumult of your life you have found a deep sense of who you are leading to how much Nancy means to you. You are ready to go on living.

Comment by Beth

May 22, 2023 @ 8:39 am

Your growth as a human being never cease to bring me peace and joy. Did you, by chance, get to visit Georgia O’Keefe ranch while you were there? It was a highlight of our trip to New Mexico.

Who out there in our world has not made the same mistake as a youth? You could not have known the transformation effects receiving that slingshot and that callous moment would have on you decades later. And time ripples again as I read about it, remembering my own remorse at a senseless act of violence.

Once again, your words allow another to reflect and grow anew.

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