Playwright Arthur Miller died several days ago; and, since then, I’ve been reading what others more famous than I had to say about his work. The general consensus is that what Miller wrote mattered; it mattered not only as good theater but also as a cultural reflection of the last half of the twentieth century in America.

“Death of a Salesman,” written in 1949, is probably Miller’s most recognized and most often produced play. College drama departments, community theaters, and professional acting groups all attempt it, because the characters still resonate after all these years. And, regardless of the quality of the production, both actors and audience get something from it every time.

When I was in college I belonged to the Curtain Guild, a school-sponsored drama club. The group decided to stage “Death of a Salesman” in a workshop. We knew that only other club members would come to see the production, but you would have thought we were headed for Broadway. Arthur Miller made you want to approach his words that way.

He made you think too. “The Crucible,” set at the time of the 1692 Salem Witch Trials, was really a statement about the McCarthy era and the effects of hysteria. The underlying theme of “All My Sons” is about dishonesty and greed in wartime; it recycles itself whenever our country is in combat.

Some remember Arthur Miller for being Marilyn Monroe’s husband for five years. Hopefully, those same people have also read his work. Because, in spite of the notoriety that surrounded his relationship with Monroe even after their divorce, his words have influenced us far more than his marriage ever did.

This morning I rediscovered a book I’d bought about twenty years ago. Titled simply Stretching, it came out at the beginning of the fitness craze. I was younger then, but no more or less fit than I am now; and I remember buying the book in the hope that I would enjoy stretching where I didn’t enjoy actual exercise. It was a salve-for-the-conscience sort of thing.


Years passed. I still dislike exercise, but now I’m at the age where what I don’t use today will not work so well tomorrow. I am on the slippery side of the growing older slope, and salve doesn’t soothe my conscience any longer.

So when rain kept me from walking outdoors this morning, I decided to spend half an hour stretching instead. It seemed like an easier alternative to the stationary bike or the jump rope that both live in our basement. I set the kitchen timer, and began to read. And, yes, I counted the reading time as part of the thirty minutes.

I learned that stretching should be relaxing and that it should feel good. Not like the instructions from a gym teacher to stretch, stretch, stretch until you can reach your toes. Now raise your hands high over your head and do it again. No pain, no gain. Ugh!

According to Stretching’s author Bob Anderson, “Stretching is not stressful. It is peaceful, relaxing, and noncompetitive.” He almost made it sound like a sport I could actually become interested in.

So I tried the beginning stretches, the ones where you loosen up before engaging in sports or other physical activities. By then the timer went off, but I continued to study the section of the book called “Stretches for Those Over 50,” since there was no section called “Stretching for Sitting in Front of Your Computer.”

Actually the entire process felt really good; so good that in one easy lesson, I agreed with Anderson when he said, “Stretching is the link between the sedentary and the active life.” And with my newly found knowledge, I’m offering Brandt’s Corollary: Since I’d never taken stretching seriously before, that’s why I’ve never liked exercise either.

Maybe that’s a stretch, but I’m going to read on tomorrow.

It’s early, but I find myself thinking about Spring’s pending arrival. And I’m beginning to see hopeful signs despite the fact that by the groundhog and calendar methods, the official start to the season isn’t until March 21.

Pitchers and catchers report for spring training this week. College basketball is in the home stretch to the NCAA Championships. There are no football games in sight. I saw my first insect clinging to a window, looking in at me as if to say, “I’m baaaaaack.” And Cadbury Eggs, those chocolate replicas of the real thing, have made their annual appearance. I saw them at Walgreen’s this morning.

When my son Kevin the University Professor was young, he loved Cadbury Eggs and introduced the rest of our family to them. I don’t know if he still enjoys them, but every time I see a display for the gooey things, I can’t help but think of him. And smile.

Award shows are also cropping up in the weekly TV guide. Tomorrow night the Grammies take center stage, while Oscar and Tony are not far behind. My lawn, which has been frozen all winter, is beginning to feel squishy. Here, where I live, the standard harbinger of Spring is the sprightly daffodil; when I lived in Chicago it was the overnight blooming of tables and chairs outside various restaurants to create sidewalk cafes. I bet both are on the horizon.

Then there are those things that signal spring by their absence. Like candidates’ commercials for major elected offices. Like victory speeches, parades, and parties. Like recounts.

I plan to enjoy it all.