Commentary

Ten years ago, on The Sun’s 175th anniversary, we took stock of the paper’s editorial board positions on some of the biggest issues facing the country over those many years, largely focusing on what we thought earlier writers had gotten wrong: They were pro Confederacy, anti New Deal, and, it appears, they never saw U.S. involvement in World War II coming. The piece was a fairly lighthearted look at some very serious subjects. Forgive us if we’re slightly more sober now, as we reflect on turning 185, which the paper will do May 17th. The past decade has been a trying one, for both the news industry and the populace.

Fifteen years ago, a quiet man in a green work uniform — something you might see a custodian or mechanic wear — stepped forward when his name was called, pulled a pair of drum sticks from his back pocket and took a seat behind a glittery drum set at the Guitar Center in Towson. He was a middle-aged man, the oldest contestant to appear for a Saturday drum-off in the music store. The man suddenly burst into a riff that was shocking in its excellence, building to a dizzying crescendo.

Last weekend, a confluence of very public and intensely personal circumstances met when the 148th running of the Kentucky Derby coincided with the 14th-anniversary of my husband’s death — while I was at my boyfriend’s house (yes, 78-year-old widows do have boyfriends). I am a sucker for pageantry, and through the years, my husband Bill indulged my odd proclivity by mixing gin and tonics and watching the race with me. My Derby fascination, however, began long before I met him. As a Polish-Catholic kid in New England, I began watching it in my teens on my parents’ black and white TV, probably to catch a glimpse into an elegant world of julips in silver cups and women in tasteful sheaths and white gloves.

As millions of kids in the U.S. return to fields and courts for spring sports, black eyes and bloody noses are returning too. This time the injuries aren’t just among the athletes. These are dangerous times for referees and umpires who call penalties and outs. In Laurel, Mississippi, this spring an umpire of a 12-year-olds’ softball game was ambushed by a parent in the parking lot and hit in the face after the game. The accused assailant — wearing a “Mother of the Year” T-shirt — was arrested and charged with simple assault, a misdemeanor, and fined $422.25.

If you focus on the Supreme Court’s expansion of equal rights since the 1950s, you could see Samuel Alito’s stunning, leaked draft opinion as a shocking, anomalous reversal, a decision at odds with the trajectory of the court. But in doing so, you would also have to ignore the fact that for much of the court’s history, it has been used as an instrument of oppression.

When I was young, I couldn’t wait for the grass to grow so I could take my lawn mower out and cut some of my neighbors’ yards. The days it snowed were great opportunities for me to get out my shovel, walk around the neighborhood and seek out members in the community who wanted their snow removed. A few of my friends, on occasion, and I would easily make $25 to $30 a day after school. What I realized was that it wasn’t just the money that really benefited me; it also was the relationships I developed with my neighbors, many of whom were either middle-aged or elderly.