I am a very fortunate man of 83, deeply indebted to American medicine, still in possession of the marbles I need.

Even though two weeks ago I took a bad fall in a hotel room in Nevada, wrecking my left shoulder and becoming a one-armed man in need of assistance

to pull on my socks and zip up my jeans. And the beauty of this is gratitude, profound gratitude

for the lunch at Doc's restaurant in Manhattan, 1992,

with Jenny Lynn Nelson, who was still with me 34 years later.

Gratitude is very appropriate at the age of 83.

I've been to see an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital for special surgery,

and he plans to replace this shoulder next week

and promises that with therapy, it'll work better than the old one.

But mainly I am grateful for this woman I live with.

I'm very aware of it every day as she hovers over me. I was aware of it last Wednesday evening

as she guided me up the steps of Carnegie Hall to a concert of symphonies by Mozart and

Shostakovich by the Cleveland Orchestra.

Jenny's parents, Ray and Oral, were serious pianists,

and they brought up their four children to love classical music and to play violin.

And with cruel tyranny and vulgarity in power in Washington, D.C. and in Minnesota,

it feels like a moral duty to attend to great art.

Though I must admit that I'm no fan of Shostakovich and parts of this symphony, his 11th,

feel like a composition for 50 power saws and 14 pneumatic hammers, but I yield to my wife's better judgment.

A man walks up the steps with his left arm in a sling on a cane in his right hand,

and he feels the empathy of strangers.

New York is a city of pedestrians, and we pedestrians look out for each other.

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