I'm not much of a navigator on the pages of Facebook. It's a good way to keep up with a large swipe of family and friends and so I check in now and again. The comments, however, are too much like notes passed in class for my liking and often leave me wondering, "What the h?"
That said, a recent entry made reference to an old friend's Dad who has long since passed. He was a man I knew for several years. He was my dentist. His daughter was my longtime girlfriend and, in spite of that, he seemed to like me. Usually. I spent hours in his home and even travelled with the family a time or two. He was a private and quiet man, at times almost withdrawn, but that seems to be the lot of many professionals who must have one to one encounters with people all day long. I've seen him funny, I've seen him mad, I've seen him dumbfounded as the father of seven and husband of one. Thinking about Dr. Wilhelm today, however, the three things that I recall as defining the man are industry, economy, and charity. He was a product of a lost generation, fashioned from an ethic which no longer seems to hold any stature.
First, he believed in hard work. Not just the necessity of hard work but in the value of the endeavor. He was of a generation which believed it was important to work hard. You didn't have to love it. You didn't necessarily have to find it fulfilling. One simply had to do it-- and do it well. Second, he believed in economy. He was frugal; and if you ask his family they would probably argue he was so to a fault. But his was a generation which did not take success and means for granted. His generation did not know the meaning of entitlement. What they did understand was what it meant to want and need and to go without. Economy, as restrictive as it could be, was intended to ensure freedom from want. Third he understood the meaning of charity and the obligation one has to extend care and kindness to others. Like hard work, it didn't mean you had to like it, it was simply what one did. If you had the means to lend a hand then that is what you did. You did it because you could, and because you should, even when it was inconvenient.
In my time it seems celebrity, recreation, and consumption have become the yardsticks by which success is measured. There are still a few people out there like Dr. Wilhelm, but it seems like very few. Most people today want to be seen as successful based on the job they hold, not the work they do; what they own, not what they provide; what they've accomplished for themselves, not what they've done for others.
Perhaps that old generation acted as they did out of fear or some selfish self-preserving motive. I like to think better. I found it heartening to see a name, recall a man, and have brought back into focus just what should be important in one's life. He was a very private man who was public and important in ways both timeless and worth emulation. Now that's success.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Massage Therapy
My son seems to go in jags. For two months he barely says "goodnight" en route to bed then the next 3 weeks he wants me in there every night 'til he falls asleep. "I just want you to rub my back."
Tonight was one of those nights when he wanted me to lay there on the floor next to his bed, rubbing his belly until he fell asleep. There's not a lot to do laying there and tonight I got to thinking: what if my Dad had rubbed my back every once in a while? Would I be a better man? Would I be richer, happier, fatter or thinner? Would I be a painter, a potter, a preacher, a poet, a pauper?
In my generation Dads didn't give bedtime back rubs, hugs, or read bedtime stories. There were many times when Moms didn't either. Going to bed, staying quiet and falling asleep were simply on a child's list of duties like setting the table, picking up one's room, or putting your toys away. Failure to do so carried penalties similar to any other childhood violation; severity proportional to the parents' need for quiet and inversely proportional to their patience at day's end.
My Dad did come into my bedroom to check on me once after I had gone to bed. I remember it well: I was 15, sharing a room with my brother, and smoking a cigarette. The door opened, the cigarette fell to the hardwood, and my Dad said, "Who's smoking a cigaette?" I sheepishly admitted to the crime, feeling about as sophisticated as a 4 year old caught swiping cookies off a counter. "Don't start that damn habit." End of lecture. No story. No hug. No back rub. Just that efficient statement and on his way.
Perhaps growing up in an era when parents were advisors and disciplinary agents rather than friends and chauffeurs provided a certain stress in one's early years. Stress can be a positive force in one's life, a powerful engine of progress and productivity. Nowadays the only parent related stress Johnny encounters is whether their Mom or Dad will be able to get them to soccer in time after first dropping Suzy at swimming, Marsha at cheer, and Billy at tae kwan do.
Time will tell whether we lavish too much attention and concern on our children these days and just what effect may result. For now, I'll take my chances. If he wants a back rub, he gets a back rub.
Tonight was one of those nights when he wanted me to lay there on the floor next to his bed, rubbing his belly until he fell asleep. There's not a lot to do laying there and tonight I got to thinking: what if my Dad had rubbed my back every once in a while? Would I be a better man? Would I be richer, happier, fatter or thinner? Would I be a painter, a potter, a preacher, a poet, a pauper?
In my generation Dads didn't give bedtime back rubs, hugs, or read bedtime stories. There were many times when Moms didn't either. Going to bed, staying quiet and falling asleep were simply on a child's list of duties like setting the table, picking up one's room, or putting your toys away. Failure to do so carried penalties similar to any other childhood violation; severity proportional to the parents' need for quiet and inversely proportional to their patience at day's end.
My Dad did come into my bedroom to check on me once after I had gone to bed. I remember it well: I was 15, sharing a room with my brother, and smoking a cigarette. The door opened, the cigarette fell to the hardwood, and my Dad said, "Who's smoking a cigaette?" I sheepishly admitted to the crime, feeling about as sophisticated as a 4 year old caught swiping cookies off a counter. "Don't start that damn habit." End of lecture. No story. No hug. No back rub. Just that efficient statement and on his way.
Perhaps growing up in an era when parents were advisors and disciplinary agents rather than friends and chauffeurs provided a certain stress in one's early years. Stress can be a positive force in one's life, a powerful engine of progress and productivity. Nowadays the only parent related stress Johnny encounters is whether their Mom or Dad will be able to get them to soccer in time after first dropping Suzy at swimming, Marsha at cheer, and Billy at tae kwan do.
Time will tell whether we lavish too much attention and concern on our children these days and just what effect may result. For now, I'll take my chances. If he wants a back rub, he gets a back rub.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
A Senior Moment
I spent Friday afternoon and Saturday morning visiting at a Senior Living Development. Not a Sun City Del Webb spread with sidewalks, lawns, and a golf course. This was nice but more of your college graduate dorm type campus.
My hostess was a woman in her eighties who is an amazing and prolific artist whose work I had seen only once before and so had determined to visit. It was a 5 hour hike down
I-75 but well worth the effort. Bless her heart, she not only schooled me in technical aspects of her medium, she also arranged for housing and had me join her for dinner in their residential dining room.
Now, in my work, I'm around elderly people off and on all day every work day of every week. But this qualified as an immersion experience. And at that I have just two things to relay to any of you who plan to get older: First, I highly recommend at least a one night stay in a senior community to get the full effect of a living experience which may be in your future. Second, it's never too early to start thinking about where you want to be on your 81st birthday. I can tell you this much for certain, getting old is expensive!
The weird part was this: The longer I remained in that environment the more pre-occupied I became with the effects of aging. By the time I climbed in my bed in the generously provided guest quarters I was starting to freak out and think about things like, "I hope Alzheimer's isn't contagious." "I hope the decline with age isn't in any way accelerated by exposure." It took me an hour to fall asleep and I was awake by 3:30AM. I did the math: A four hour "nap." Oh my God, no! Inability to sleep. That's one of the things that happens when you get old!
By 9:30 my oatmeal and coffee was down the hatch and I was en route home. I stopped on my way out of town, re-fueled, and grabbed another coffee. That's when it happened. I drove out of the gas station with the hose still attached to the tank of the truck and ripped the hose out of the pump. Holy Sh*t! I have never done anything like that before. I laughed at the moment as I replaced the disarticulated hose back on the pump. (The attendant was, by now, out the door. She said "thank you" and waved as I placed the dead limb back on the rack [ Thank you? Does this happen all the time?].) But as I drove toward home the smile quickly turned to an expression of sickening worry. The thought of it dogged and haunted me for over 200 miles: It's happening. I've never forgotten the hose before. The cap, maybe. But never the hose!
Safely home I can charge the episode to being distracted by an engaging visit, limited sleep, and an incoming call which arrived moments before I climbed back in the truck. I think so. I hope so. But I'm going to try to remember to keep my eyes open and my wits about me for a bit. It's too early to be certain I'm in remission.
My hostess was a woman in her eighties who is an amazing and prolific artist whose work I had seen only once before and so had determined to visit. It was a 5 hour hike down
I-75 but well worth the effort. Bless her heart, she not only schooled me in technical aspects of her medium, she also arranged for housing and had me join her for dinner in their residential dining room.
Now, in my work, I'm around elderly people off and on all day every work day of every week. But this qualified as an immersion experience. And at that I have just two things to relay to any of you who plan to get older: First, I highly recommend at least a one night stay in a senior community to get the full effect of a living experience which may be in your future. Second, it's never too early to start thinking about where you want to be on your 81st birthday. I can tell you this much for certain, getting old is expensive!
The weird part was this: The longer I remained in that environment the more pre-occupied I became with the effects of aging. By the time I climbed in my bed in the generously provided guest quarters I was starting to freak out and think about things like, "I hope Alzheimer's isn't contagious." "I hope the decline with age isn't in any way accelerated by exposure." It took me an hour to fall asleep and I was awake by 3:30AM. I did the math: A four hour "nap." Oh my God, no! Inability to sleep. That's one of the things that happens when you get old!
By 9:30 my oatmeal and coffee was down the hatch and I was en route home. I stopped on my way out of town, re-fueled, and grabbed another coffee. That's when it happened. I drove out of the gas station with the hose still attached to the tank of the truck and ripped the hose out of the pump. Holy Sh*t! I have never done anything like that before. I laughed at the moment as I replaced the disarticulated hose back on the pump. (The attendant was, by now, out the door. She said "thank you" and waved as I placed the dead limb back on the rack [ Thank you? Does this happen all the time?].) But as I drove toward home the smile quickly turned to an expression of sickening worry. The thought of it dogged and haunted me for over 200 miles: It's happening. I've never forgotten the hose before. The cap, maybe. But never the hose!
Safely home I can charge the episode to being distracted by an engaging visit, limited sleep, and an incoming call which arrived moments before I climbed back in the truck. I think so. I hope so. But I'm going to try to remember to keep my eyes open and my wits about me for a bit. It's too early to be certain I'm in remission.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Change
August 26th. According to the calendar we have almost 4 more weeks of summer remaining. In a place like MIchigan that matters. When summer's gone and the cold weather arrives it's not just a phase, it's a trial for many of us. For many it brings months of confinement and inactivity. Cabin fever.
Walking up to the hospital a couple of days ago I got my first whiff of it. Stepping outside in the early morning it was almost immediate; just a few steps and I had to pause, take a breath, feel the air, and take note: The change is definitely on its way. The breeze was strong and the air cool and slightly moist. Balmy. I could hear the leaves being pushed about and the air was scented with earth and fields. This is the time of year when those with allergies start to sniffle and sneeze and the supply of allergy medicine flies off the shelves of the pharmacy. As much as they hate to wish for it, the first frost will bring their relief.
At this time of year, with almost a month of calendar summer remaining, all of this is just a preamble, a reminder to pay attention, to enjoy the warmth and daylight that remains. Get busy out there while you still can. Before you know it, the days will be short and dark and the temperature cold and inhospitable. House arrest impends and soon you will be left with only your memories of this beautiful time of year when the sun is warm and the world so full of energy. I'm talking about the weather here but the advice, nature's advice, extends far beyond the bounds of meteorology.
Walking up to the hospital a couple of days ago I got my first whiff of it. Stepping outside in the early morning it was almost immediate; just a few steps and I had to pause, take a breath, feel the air, and take note: The change is definitely on its way. The breeze was strong and the air cool and slightly moist. Balmy. I could hear the leaves being pushed about and the air was scented with earth and fields. This is the time of year when those with allergies start to sniffle and sneeze and the supply of allergy medicine flies off the shelves of the pharmacy. As much as they hate to wish for it, the first frost will bring their relief.
At this time of year, with almost a month of calendar summer remaining, all of this is just a preamble, a reminder to pay attention, to enjoy the warmth and daylight that remains. Get busy out there while you still can. Before you know it, the days will be short and dark and the temperature cold and inhospitable. House arrest impends and soon you will be left with only your memories of this beautiful time of year when the sun is warm and the world so full of energy. I'm talking about the weather here but the advice, nature's advice, extends far beyond the bounds of meteorology.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
That Certain Pair of Shoes
Maybe not every guy who reads this will agree but I think I'll find support among the women in the audience: There are certain pairs of shoes in life one just never seems to get over. Then again, even for guys I would think it must be true to some extent. I mean, remember your first pair of Keds, Converse, or Jack Purcell's?
In my life there are a couple of standouts. One is the Adidas Kansas. It looked like the Olympiad model, white, narrow toe, three black stripes (called the "Olympia" in its reincarnation, shown above). The Olympiad was the first real "athletic" shoe and it quickly slammed the door on all the canvas competition. It was the shoe that launched the leather sports shoe in the U.S.. The Kansas was a similar shoe in shape and color. The primary difference was the Kansas was made of kangaroo, or some such exotic, and the price was almost twice as high if memory serves me. But, oh, what a difference. You wore Superstars if you liked basketball, Robert Haillet's for gym (endorsed by no less an authority than Emerson Jr. High's Mr. Steve Miller) but you wore Kansas for cool. (Nothing really changes, does it?) I got mine at Smith's Sporting Goods in the Village. Alas, Smith's is gone, the Village is unrecognizable, and the Kansas model just a memory. I do have a call in to Adidas but, as yet, no response and no hope.
For some strange reason I stumbled upon and fell in love with another shoe a few years later. It was a Sperry Top-Sider, but not the usual brown moccasin type boat shoe. No, this shoe was green, had laces, and a big thick white sole. How I ever came across these babies I can't recall but, man, I loved 'em. I think they appealed to a diverse cross-section of Southern California culture, from burn-out surfer type to San Diego sailor-dentist. Unfortunately, to the detriment of longevity, I would drag along in mine and, after a year or so, wore the outside of the heel down to nothing. I had to retire them lest I slid sideways and broke my ankle. I had one pair resoled but it just wasn't the same. And then they were gone.
I've looked here and there and always to no avail. A couple of weeks ago I was at Nordstrom and asked one of the older salesmen if he recalled the shoe. He smiled wistfully (seriously) and shook his head. "I haven't seen those in years." Sadness.
Well, I have news for that fellow at Nordstrom: My Sperry Captain's Oxford in Smoked Elk arrived today. Boatshoes.com. Free shipping. No sales tax. Suddenly I have something to love about Florida. Although, at recent recheck, I think I got the last pair. But Amazon's got 'em! Go ahead. Dive in. You might just fall in love.
Sign of the Times
My wife and I went into one of the local drug stores the other day. Immediately as you entered the store there was a table set to the side and decorated with a large sign and box placed there to solicit donations of basic school supplies for one of our large public elementary schools. I was sick when I saw this and realized, in that instant, our priorities are terribly misaligned. When a community has to go begging to support the care of its most valuable resource, all is not well.
I was fortunate growing up where and when I did. I went to two different elementary schools in two different states in two vastly different socioeconomic neighborhoods. Nonetheless, both were schools where a child felt safe and well cared for. Both were schools with buses at the ready to transport us on field trips to explore our community and its resources. Both were schools with clean rooms, hot lunches, abundant art and recreational supplies, and active PTA's. And, certainly not the least in significance, both schools existed at a time when our country and economy was growing. Cars, wash machines, Levis, Jantzen knits, Schwinn bikes, Timex watches, and Converse tennis shoes were all still made in the U.S.A. America was large and productive; a positive force among nations and the envy of most. That was then, some 45 years ago.
Now it seems as if we have very little that remains of that great wealth and vitality. Now we are struggling to succeed with damage control as our economy slows, people are without work, and the Federal budget is enough to have disgusted any working citizen from that previous era. Many of our legislators are clamoring for more and more cuts in order to restore a balanced budget. As a consequence, many of the hallmarks of a great society, education, healthcare, care for the aged, are beginning to fall behind, left in the dust of the stampede for fiscal reform.
Seeing a box set out in a retail space soliciting donations for a public school points to a multitude of problems. If we can't afford to support our public schools as safe places where our children learn, grow, create, and recreate, then we need to both reassess our priorities as well as reassess our methods of caring for these valuable resources.
It may be that the dollars simply are no longer available. I have my doubts as to the legitimacy of that argument but I'll let it pass for the moment. What we can restore is the community's investment in that resource. For starters, if you have a child in public school you should have two jobs: First, you should recognize you have the responsibility to support and encourage your child in succeeding at school. It is the most important activity for a child between 5 and 18. The child reaches to succeed in the endeavors the parent embraces. You don't have to be smart, but your kid does and they need you to validate the importance of an education. Second, I think the time has come for parents and concerned citizens to show up at the school and pitch-in. Landscape, custodial work, classroom assistance, supervision, tutoring; these are all activities that must become shared by the students, their families, and the community. It would be nice if we had the dollars to have buildings and grounds that are beautifully kept but, for the present, we are told we do not. So we must do it as a community caring for our resources. This country has a long heritage in neighbors helping neighbors. It's time to resurrect and extend this ethic to the benefit of our public schools.
One last item: If you have a child in public school you should have an obligation to show up and work for the care and keeping of that school and its students. If you have a child in private, parochial, charter or home school you can stay home of you like. But your tax dollars should go nowhere other than the public school. Tax breaks and financial credits to put children anywhere other than the public school, the common school, should probably disappear as we enter this era of austerity. The great resource that is the public school deserves our every dollar and every resource in an effort to restore the institution to its proper place as the cornerstone of the development of our youth. When schools go begging, children starve and the community as a whole is dying.
We live in a community with many challenges. In some measure it seems we have been handed more than our fair share. But we also have an opportunity to lead in these difficult times. There is no use in standing back, throwing up our hands, and lamenting the loss of funding. I'm certain there are numerous public, union, and liability issues which would have to be engaged and disarmed in exploring this path to nurturing community ownership of the schools but that, too, is our heritage: Determined efforts to accomplish great things in the face of difficult circumstances. In a time of failing investments, public education is an investment that cannot be left to fail
I was fortunate growing up where and when I did. I went to two different elementary schools in two different states in two vastly different socioeconomic neighborhoods. Nonetheless, both were schools where a child felt safe and well cared for. Both were schools with buses at the ready to transport us on field trips to explore our community and its resources. Both were schools with clean rooms, hot lunches, abundant art and recreational supplies, and active PTA's. And, certainly not the least in significance, both schools existed at a time when our country and economy was growing. Cars, wash machines, Levis, Jantzen knits, Schwinn bikes, Timex watches, and Converse tennis shoes were all still made in the U.S.A. America was large and productive; a positive force among nations and the envy of most. That was then, some 45 years ago.
Now it seems as if we have very little that remains of that great wealth and vitality. Now we are struggling to succeed with damage control as our economy slows, people are without work, and the Federal budget is enough to have disgusted any working citizen from that previous era. Many of our legislators are clamoring for more and more cuts in order to restore a balanced budget. As a consequence, many of the hallmarks of a great society, education, healthcare, care for the aged, are beginning to fall behind, left in the dust of the stampede for fiscal reform.
Seeing a box set out in a retail space soliciting donations for a public school points to a multitude of problems. If we can't afford to support our public schools as safe places where our children learn, grow, create, and recreate, then we need to both reassess our priorities as well as reassess our methods of caring for these valuable resources.
It may be that the dollars simply are no longer available. I have my doubts as to the legitimacy of that argument but I'll let it pass for the moment. What we can restore is the community's investment in that resource. For starters, if you have a child in public school you should have two jobs: First, you should recognize you have the responsibility to support and encourage your child in succeeding at school. It is the most important activity for a child between 5 and 18. The child reaches to succeed in the endeavors the parent embraces. You don't have to be smart, but your kid does and they need you to validate the importance of an education. Second, I think the time has come for parents and concerned citizens to show up at the school and pitch-in. Landscape, custodial work, classroom assistance, supervision, tutoring; these are all activities that must become shared by the students, their families, and the community. It would be nice if we had the dollars to have buildings and grounds that are beautifully kept but, for the present, we are told we do not. So we must do it as a community caring for our resources. This country has a long heritage in neighbors helping neighbors. It's time to resurrect and extend this ethic to the benefit of our public schools.
One last item: If you have a child in public school you should have an obligation to show up and work for the care and keeping of that school and its students. If you have a child in private, parochial, charter or home school you can stay home of you like. But your tax dollars should go nowhere other than the public school. Tax breaks and financial credits to put children anywhere other than the public school, the common school, should probably disappear as we enter this era of austerity. The great resource that is the public school deserves our every dollar and every resource in an effort to restore the institution to its proper place as the cornerstone of the development of our youth. When schools go begging, children starve and the community as a whole is dying.
We live in a community with many challenges. In some measure it seems we have been handed more than our fair share. But we also have an opportunity to lead in these difficult times. There is no use in standing back, throwing up our hands, and lamenting the loss of funding. I'm certain there are numerous public, union, and liability issues which would have to be engaged and disarmed in exploring this path to nurturing community ownership of the schools but that, too, is our heritage: Determined efforts to accomplish great things in the face of difficult circumstances. In a time of failing investments, public education is an investment that cannot be left to fail
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Lucky Day
A short while ago I was lamenting a lost opportunity when the bike I remembered from my childhood slipped through my fingers. I illustrated the story with an image I selected from Google Images. It was a photo of a nifty red Schwinn much like the one I remembered and much like the one that got away.
So, story over. Exit the program and return to Google Images to gaze once again at the image I'd lifted of the red bike; the kind of red bike with which I'd never be reunited. It was then that I noticed the source: Craig's List. Ann Arbor Craig's List, to be exact.
Ann Arbor is about 70 miles from where I live. Unbelievable. After finding the full listing on Craig's List I contacted the seller and learned, why yes, the bike was still for sale. It was like something out of Gone With the Wind. I swear, I literally ran through the house yelling, "A door closes, a window opens! A door closes, a window opens!!"
As I sit writing this I can look into the next room and see an utterly sweet, red, 1957 Schwinn Tornado. Yes, that red Schwinn Tornado, the one in the picture. It is a child's model bike and I realize this is the one. The bike that got away a few weeks ago was an adult model, not the one I would have been riding at age 6 or 7. This Schwinn Tornado is the right size and style to have been my first bike way back when. This is the one!
As can only happen in these amazing and unlikely scenarios, the story gets better still. When my daughter went to pick the bike up, the owner informed her how this had been his first bike from new. His children had learned to ride on this bike and his grandchildren had learned to ride on this bike. He was concerned and wanted to know what was to become of this heirloom. He was happy to learn that another child would be using this as his first "big bike."
I'm thrilled. Next on the agenda will be a trip to the House of Wheels for a tune-up. Then we'll line-up the refurbishment. It's already had a nifty hand brushed re-paint and, fortunately, the original striping still shows through. Those telltale markings should well serve as a template for a top-notch restoration paint job. This is going to be one delicious ride when finished. Or rather, I should say, one swell bike!
I still need that big Schwinn, though. Evan is never gonna let me get on his little Tornado.
So, story over. Exit the program and return to Google Images to gaze once again at the image I'd lifted of the red bike; the kind of red bike with which I'd never be reunited. It was then that I noticed the source: Craig's List. Ann Arbor Craig's List, to be exact.
Ann Arbor is about 70 miles from where I live. Unbelievable. After finding the full listing on Craig's List I contacted the seller and learned, why yes, the bike was still for sale. It was like something out of Gone With the Wind. I swear, I literally ran through the house yelling, "A door closes, a window opens! A door closes, a window opens!!"
As I sit writing this I can look into the next room and see an utterly sweet, red, 1957 Schwinn Tornado. Yes, that red Schwinn Tornado, the one in the picture. It is a child's model bike and I realize this is the one. The bike that got away a few weeks ago was an adult model, not the one I would have been riding at age 6 or 7. This Schwinn Tornado is the right size and style to have been my first bike way back when. This is the one!
As can only happen in these amazing and unlikely scenarios, the story gets better still. When my daughter went to pick the bike up, the owner informed her how this had been his first bike from new. His children had learned to ride on this bike and his grandchildren had learned to ride on this bike. He was concerned and wanted to know what was to become of this heirloom. He was happy to learn that another child would be using this as his first "big bike."
I'm thrilled. Next on the agenda will be a trip to the House of Wheels for a tune-up. Then we'll line-up the refurbishment. It's already had a nifty hand brushed re-paint and, fortunately, the original striping still shows through. Those telltale markings should well serve as a template for a top-notch restoration paint job. This is going to be one delicious ride when finished. Or rather, I should say, one swell bike!
I still need that big Schwinn, though. Evan is never gonna let me get on his little Tornado.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Little Sneak
I think there may well exist some evidence that I have acted like a sneak and a "bender of the truth" in years past. I have always presumed my wicked ways were learned and not genetic but, alas, it turns out the latter may be the case.
The other night Evan had a bit of an issue with our menu selection. The food was somewhat spicy and so, taking pity on his pre-school palate, Tam made him a scrambled egg. Deal was he had to eat his dinner if he wanted to have desert.
As I was sitting on the couch within eyesight of the kitchen, Tam took a couple of items out to the garage. As she passed his seat at the table she reminded Evan that he needed to clean up his plate if he wanted desert. Anyone care to guess what happened next?
As the door out to the garage closed behind her I heard Evan's little feet hit the floor followed by the pitter-pat of a mad dash to the garbage. The can snapped open, the bowl went tap, tap, tap, and, as Tam stepped back in from the garage, Ev went running to her empty bowl in hand. "See I ate my egg all gone. Now can I have my desert?"
If I think about it there are really two things wrong with his behavior, First, I'm a little disappointed he is not yet smart enough to realize he could have gotten off on a technicality. Specifically, he should have said. "See, my egg is all gone." That would have been a technical truth and would have started him on an early path toward success in America politics. Second he lied. (Come to think of it, also a qualifier for a career American politics.)
We don't beat our child. We don't lock him in dark closets. And he is certainly not deprived of food and treats on the whole. Life, for Evan, is good. So why lie about it?
After the episode we had the discussion with Ev about truth and lies. For now there's nothing left to do or say except this: For a young kid who lives such a fabulous life there can be only one conclusion when examining his clever little attempt at deception: It must be genetic, linked to the y chromosome. (That and he's got a long way to go before he gets it right.)
The other night Evan had a bit of an issue with our menu selection. The food was somewhat spicy and so, taking pity on his pre-school palate, Tam made him a scrambled egg. Deal was he had to eat his dinner if he wanted to have desert.
As I was sitting on the couch within eyesight of the kitchen, Tam took a couple of items out to the garage. As she passed his seat at the table she reminded Evan that he needed to clean up his plate if he wanted desert. Anyone care to guess what happened next?
As the door out to the garage closed behind her I heard Evan's little feet hit the floor followed by the pitter-pat of a mad dash to the garbage. The can snapped open, the bowl went tap, tap, tap, and, as Tam stepped back in from the garage, Ev went running to her empty bowl in hand. "See I ate my egg all gone. Now can I have my desert?"
If I think about it there are really two things wrong with his behavior, First, I'm a little disappointed he is not yet smart enough to realize he could have gotten off on a technicality. Specifically, he should have said. "See, my egg is all gone." That would have been a technical truth and would have started him on an early path toward success in America politics. Second he lied. (Come to think of it, also a qualifier for a career American politics.)
We don't beat our child. We don't lock him in dark closets. And he is certainly not deprived of food and treats on the whole. Life, for Evan, is good. So why lie about it?
After the episode we had the discussion with Ev about truth and lies. For now there's nothing left to do or say except this: For a young kid who lives such a fabulous life there can be only one conclusion when examining his clever little attempt at deception: It must be genetic, linked to the y chromosome. (That and he's got a long way to go before he gets it right.)
Monday, August 22, 2011
Skid Marks
You'll have to indulge me as I continue the saga of my son learning to ride his two-wheeler. He's made substantial progress as we continue our daily training program here in Michigan. We are about to launch into road trips but have established that he first needs to be able to stop as well as he makes the thing go.
Needless to say, my concrete driveway is beginning to look like blacktop as he races about and comes to a sliding stop. Watching him throw himself into the process of skidding reminded me of a chapter from a few years back. (This is the part where the music starts and the image dissolves into a spin.)
My friend Danny and I used to love racing about UCLA on our stingrays. (His, big S, mine little; but we've had this discussion.) It was probably this time of year in 1968. The start of school was a few weeks away and the UCLA Bruins football team were well into their practice schedule. So Danny and I decided we needed to ride by the guys, all lined up after practice and sitting along a wall in their pads and cleats. It was cool just to be riding by in the presence greatness. Then one of them calls out, "Show us a skid!" That we, a couple of ten year olds on bikes, should be asked to entertain the team was way too cool, beyond belief, and utterly irresistible.
Anything for the Bruins! For the next several minutes, until the coach called them in, we flew past and laid out our best skids. Straight lines, sideways, and the occasional crash. With each one they egged us on for more. This may be pure fantasy but I think the coaches even paused a moment to watch a skid or two. Pretty sure.
We never got big applause or anything more than a couple of hollers and a few laughs. But it was a great moment that afternoon and it left me certain I had done my part to advance the football program that fall at UCLA.
Perhaps it's too early, or just too much to hope for, that my son should one day skid so well. But I can dream.
Needless to say, my concrete driveway is beginning to look like blacktop as he races about and comes to a sliding stop. Watching him throw himself into the process of skidding reminded me of a chapter from a few years back. (This is the part where the music starts and the image dissolves into a spin.)
My friend Danny and I used to love racing about UCLA on our stingrays. (His, big S, mine little; but we've had this discussion.) It was probably this time of year in 1968. The start of school was a few weeks away and the UCLA Bruins football team were well into their practice schedule. So Danny and I decided we needed to ride by the guys, all lined up after practice and sitting along a wall in their pads and cleats. It was cool just to be riding by in the presence greatness. Then one of them calls out, "Show us a skid!" That we, a couple of ten year olds on bikes, should be asked to entertain the team was way too cool, beyond belief, and utterly irresistible.
Anything for the Bruins! For the next several minutes, until the coach called them in, we flew past and laid out our best skids. Straight lines, sideways, and the occasional crash. With each one they egged us on for more. This may be pure fantasy but I think the coaches even paused a moment to watch a skid or two. Pretty sure.
We never got big applause or anything more than a couple of hollers and a few laughs. But it was a great moment that afternoon and it left me certain I had done my part to advance the football program that fall at UCLA.
Perhaps it's too early, or just too much to hope for, that my son should one day skid so well. But I can dream.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Mennonite Steam Cream
This was a big weekend here in Mid-Michigan. In a region where so much of life, the economy, and the community revolve around agriculture, the annual Mid Michigan Old Gas Tractor Association meet and show is big. Front page news in the local paper. A couple of local businesses closed for the weekend and there was a parade of heavy metal being pulled along the highway through town for the day or two preceding. BIG TIME.
As a fan of most all that is mechanical, and as the father of a 4 year old boy, there was little chance we would miss a visit to the MMOGTA, as it's known. The site is in the middle of nowhere, at the intersection of corn and beans. Easy to find though. You just follow the caravan of pickup trucks with vanity plates that say things like, "My other car is a John Deere" or, "If you ate today, thank a farmer."
The grounds are amazing with thousands of tractors and buildings filled with ancient machines. One building is occupied by about 15 large stationery machines, gas, kerosine, and diesel. We walked through pretty quickly, though, as they were all running and the noise was almost deafening. Not everything on the grounds is gas. There are always a dozen or so steam tractors, these giant pre-historic mechanized monsters from the early part of the twentieth century. It's incredible to think what was required to transform farming into the enterprise it became, capable of feeding all of us and quite a few others. I was also surprised at the number of Mennonites who were involved with and/or enamored with the big steam machines. I have always confused their sect with the Amish who shun all things mechanical.
For my two cents worth, best of show was found at the corner of one of the display buildings. There, literally in the shade of a small tree, was a beautiful small (meaning it probably only weighed 600lbs or so) steam engine attended to by a young Mennonite man. The machine was attached to a miniature wagon by a series of belts and wheels and pulleys. And there on that wagon, that steam engine was performing its work.
The sign on the portable wooden trailer adjacent to the apparatus read: "Homemade Ice Cream. Single scoop, $2.00, Double scoop, $3.00. Chocolate and Vanilla." It was attended by a lovely young Mennonite woman in her cap and homemade dress and my thought was: There cannot be a more perfect ice cream enterprise in the world. Judging by the humongous single scoop of vanilla we all shared I'll stand by that statement.
As a fan of most all that is mechanical, and as the father of a 4 year old boy, there was little chance we would miss a visit to the MMOGTA, as it's known. The site is in the middle of nowhere, at the intersection of corn and beans. Easy to find though. You just follow the caravan of pickup trucks with vanity plates that say things like, "My other car is a John Deere" or, "If you ate today, thank a farmer."
The grounds are amazing with thousands of tractors and buildings filled with ancient machines. One building is occupied by about 15 large stationery machines, gas, kerosine, and diesel. We walked through pretty quickly, though, as they were all running and the noise was almost deafening. Not everything on the grounds is gas. There are always a dozen or so steam tractors, these giant pre-historic mechanized monsters from the early part of the twentieth century. It's incredible to think what was required to transform farming into the enterprise it became, capable of feeding all of us and quite a few others. I was also surprised at the number of Mennonites who were involved with and/or enamored with the big steam machines. I have always confused their sect with the Amish who shun all things mechanical.
For my two cents worth, best of show was found at the corner of one of the display buildings. There, literally in the shade of a small tree, was a beautiful small (meaning it probably only weighed 600lbs or so) steam engine attended to by a young Mennonite man. The machine was attached to a miniature wagon by a series of belts and wheels and pulleys. And there on that wagon, that steam engine was performing its work.
The sign on the portable wooden trailer adjacent to the apparatus read: "Homemade Ice Cream. Single scoop, $2.00, Double scoop, $3.00. Chocolate and Vanilla." It was attended by a lovely young Mennonite woman in her cap and homemade dress and my thought was: There cannot be a more perfect ice cream enterprise in the world. Judging by the humongous single scoop of vanilla we all shared I'll stand by that statement.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Cookie Channel
Today was one of those Michigan summer days that turns from beauty to beast as the clock ticks past noon. We spent the morning out and about but by 1 o’clock you could hear the thunder in the distance and there was not one patch of blue overhead. So, as the weather closed in with a fury we all took refuge in the kitchen and decided to bake cookies. My batch? Oatmeal raisin using my own big flat chewy crisp recipe version. Crun-chewy, as they say.
Oddly, every time I bake these I follow my recipe but always have a question as to the baking time. I got that figured out today, lower temp, longer time. But what I was reminded of again today was the magic of the cookie sheet.
We have a few long resident cookie sheets. The queen of the fleet, however, is a vast, well blackened aluminum sheet from the 40’s or 50’s, a Wear-Ever No.799, made in U.S.A. It belonged to my grandmother. I remember as a child how my Mom had treasured this, her Mother's baking sheet, with its exceptional baking qualities.
Today as I fitzed a bit with temp and cooking times I was once again amazed at the quality of the bake one consistently gets from that antique sheet. There remains a little anger in the ol’ girl—ignore her and you get potato chips rather than cookies. But mind your p’s and q’s and you get sheet after sheet of oatmeal perfection.
Sitting here after doing the clean up I realize the difference between our contemporary sheets, aluminum just the same, and my Grandma’s: My Mom and Grandma are in that sheet. I'm channeling my maternal ancestors when I use that Wear-Ever 799! Gotta be.
Lordy, I hope they weren’t listening when my knuckle kissed the hot edge of that sheet. Hmmmm, or maybe……
Friday, August 19, 2011
Fool's Gold
A peculiar and early memory I have of clinical training is of sitting around in a hospital doctor's lounge and hearing one of the surgeons talk about the wisdom of buying gold. He encouraged me to do the same. For all I know gold was probably trading at $90 an ounce back then. Not that the price mattered to me. I was a third year medical student. It could have been $5, $500 or $5000; I was in no position to buy anything other than gas for my car.
Unfortunately I haven't heeded his advice at any point since then either. And so it is that I find myself, almost 30 years later, sitting in the hospital doctor's lounge listening to a surgeon talk about the wisdom of buying gold. Now I've never been much of a planner beyond where to go next. But I do have investments to fund my children's education. Or, rather, had. I'm afraid to look after the last few days. And I have the obligatory 401K and an ancient SEPIRA or some such thing. But I never bought that gold.
Today a group of us were sitting and waiting for our cases to get started all the while the TV was on in that lounge and all eyes seemed to be trained on the fall of the market and the rise of gold. Maybe it's just sour grapes and, in all likelihood, things will probably never change, but suddenly I had to ask, "Who cares about gold?"
If you think about it, gold is valued for two reasons: as a decoration, an ornament, and as an historically valued commodity. That right there should be enough to set the whole financial world on its ear. In a word, gold is worthless. Of all the things we need as humans gold doesn't even make the list. You can't eat it or drink it, you can't use it as a fuel, it has limited usefulness as an industrial metal. I think gold has probably about 1/100th the utility of soybeans. Even less of fresh water. Corn, rice, wheat, and even land all have far more value than number 79 on the periodic table of the elements.
So, as sheepish as I may feel about never heeding that old docs advice in 1982, when the bomb drops I'll have the last laugh sitting here with my bag of soybeans and bottle of fresh water. And if the wine in the cellar survives...don't even think about it. Your gold will have no value amidst the rubble.
Unfortunately I haven't heeded his advice at any point since then either. And so it is that I find myself, almost 30 years later, sitting in the hospital doctor's lounge listening to a surgeon talk about the wisdom of buying gold. Now I've never been much of a planner beyond where to go next. But I do have investments to fund my children's education. Or, rather, had. I'm afraid to look after the last few days. And I have the obligatory 401K and an ancient SEPIRA or some such thing. But I never bought that gold.
Today a group of us were sitting and waiting for our cases to get started all the while the TV was on in that lounge and all eyes seemed to be trained on the fall of the market and the rise of gold. Maybe it's just sour grapes and, in all likelihood, things will probably never change, but suddenly I had to ask, "Who cares about gold?"
If you think about it, gold is valued for two reasons: as a decoration, an ornament, and as an historically valued commodity. That right there should be enough to set the whole financial world on its ear. In a word, gold is worthless. Of all the things we need as humans gold doesn't even make the list. You can't eat it or drink it, you can't use it as a fuel, it has limited usefulness as an industrial metal. I think gold has probably about 1/100th the utility of soybeans. Even less of fresh water. Corn, rice, wheat, and even land all have far more value than number 79 on the periodic table of the elements.
So, as sheepish as I may feel about never heeding that old docs advice in 1982, when the bomb drops I'll have the last laugh sitting here with my bag of soybeans and bottle of fresh water. And if the wine in the cellar survives...don't even think about it. Your gold will have no value amidst the rubble.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Facts of Life
The other night I had to have that conversation with my daughter. She's 19, doing well at a Big Ten university, been living away from home for over a year. But then she makes a comment and I realize it's time and the ball is in my court-- we need to have a talk.
So often in this media infused society where youth and sex and wealth and good looks are neatly packaged and distributed to the doorstep of every man, woman, teen, and child, one assumes every 19 year old already knows everything there is to know. She has a boyfriend and they spend weekends together for crissakes. She should know everything by now.
Apparently, not so. Last night she was getting a little self absorbed about her need to look after her ocular health. Among the reasons cited? Her Mom has eye disease. S'that so? Ya, she's had to wear glasses for the past year or two in order to read. What?!
Eye disease? That, dear young daughter of mine, is AGING. Presbyopia, look it up. For similar reasons I talk louder now than I did 10 years ago; and I have trouble hearing you when you address me with the speed of machine gun; and I don't stay up until 2AM on the weekends.
I hate to get explicit with her, she's still just a child in so many ways. But, I have no choice: AGING IS A NORMAL PROCESS NOT A DISEASE!
Oh, by the way, you've already been infected.
So often in this media infused society where youth and sex and wealth and good looks are neatly packaged and distributed to the doorstep of every man, woman, teen, and child, one assumes every 19 year old already knows everything there is to know. She has a boyfriend and they spend weekends together for crissakes. She should know everything by now.
Apparently, not so. Last night she was getting a little self absorbed about her need to look after her ocular health. Among the reasons cited? Her Mom has eye disease. S'that so? Ya, she's had to wear glasses for the past year or two in order to read. What?!
Eye disease? That, dear young daughter of mine, is AGING. Presbyopia, look it up. For similar reasons I talk louder now than I did 10 years ago; and I have trouble hearing you when you address me with the speed of machine gun; and I don't stay up until 2AM on the weekends.
I hate to get explicit with her, she's still just a child in so many ways. But, I have no choice: AGING IS A NORMAL PROCESS NOT A DISEASE!
Oh, by the way, you've already been infected.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Paybacks
It's been 45 years. I was about seven years old when I got my first real bike. Mine. Not a hand-me-down. A bike that had been purchased just for me.
To say it wasn't a hand-me-down isn't quite an accurate statement: My parents got the bike at the City of Portland Police auction in which unclaimed and recovered property was sold each year. But it was all mine. A well worn but sturdy made-in-Chicago Schwinn red and white coaster bike with fenders. And I was thrilled. Thrilled until the neighbor boy came over.
Andy was older than me by about 5 years. He was tall, muscular, autistic, and capable of falling into angry and violent rages. When Andy saw my new bike the first words out of his mouth were, "That's my bike!" I tried to explain how the bike was mine, purchased by my parents for my exclusive use and paid in full. No use. Andy became insistent and started to rock and twist his hands in a prodromal behavior which was both familiar and terrifying. I retreated to the house, crying, fearing for my life, leaving my new bike to Andy's disposal and removal to his house across the street. Long story short: The bike was his. Stolen. Unclaimed. Resold to me, the kid across the street. The story concluded with Andy's parents buying him a new bike and I was able to safely reclaim my treasured red Schwinn.
Fast forward to this past weekend: Our local bike shop had an antique and home-built bike show. The bikes were amazing. Home built bicycles that looked impossible to ride and others you wanted desperately to try. Sting Rays, 10-speeds, tandems, Schwinn, Raleigh, Motobecane, beautiful big steel cruisers including my own beautiful Hiawatha. But there, over on the sidelines, there was a red and white made-in-Chicago Schwinn with fenders in at least as good a shape as I ever remembered my old bike in Portland. My bike! Best of all? Owned by the owner of the bike shop and for sale.
My big Hiawatha sits in the living room of our house most of the year. My wife is not the type who enjoys transportation relics in her home. They stand collecting dust in hard to reach places, waiting to be knocked over by a 4 year-old or his clumsy dad. Nonetheless, I decided I would go to the bike shop today, claim that beautiful Schwinn, and ride home with another wheeled sculpture for our living room.
As I walked in the back door of the shop there was Rick, the owner, with an amazing black beauty complete with jumbo front headlight and black fenders. "Wow, great bike." "You like that? That's my new Schwinn." I looked again. It was a Hiawatha, not a Schwinn. "No, I traded a guy my red and white Schwinn for this one." Shit!
Now I know how Andy felt.
To say it wasn't a hand-me-down isn't quite an accurate statement: My parents got the bike at the City of Portland Police auction in which unclaimed and recovered property was sold each year. But it was all mine. A well worn but sturdy made-in-Chicago Schwinn red and white coaster bike with fenders. And I was thrilled. Thrilled until the neighbor boy came over.
Andy was older than me by about 5 years. He was tall, muscular, autistic, and capable of falling into angry and violent rages. When Andy saw my new bike the first words out of his mouth were, "That's my bike!" I tried to explain how the bike was mine, purchased by my parents for my exclusive use and paid in full. No use. Andy became insistent and started to rock and twist his hands in a prodromal behavior which was both familiar and terrifying. I retreated to the house, crying, fearing for my life, leaving my new bike to Andy's disposal and removal to his house across the street. Long story short: The bike was his. Stolen. Unclaimed. Resold to me, the kid across the street. The story concluded with Andy's parents buying him a new bike and I was able to safely reclaim my treasured red Schwinn.
Fast forward to this past weekend: Our local bike shop had an antique and home-built bike show. The bikes were amazing. Home built bicycles that looked impossible to ride and others you wanted desperately to try. Sting Rays, 10-speeds, tandems, Schwinn, Raleigh, Motobecane, beautiful big steel cruisers including my own beautiful Hiawatha. But there, over on the sidelines, there was a red and white made-in-Chicago Schwinn with fenders in at least as good a shape as I ever remembered my old bike in Portland. My bike! Best of all? Owned by the owner of the bike shop and for sale.
My big Hiawatha sits in the living room of our house most of the year. My wife is not the type who enjoys transportation relics in her home. They stand collecting dust in hard to reach places, waiting to be knocked over by a 4 year-old or his clumsy dad. Nonetheless, I decided I would go to the bike shop today, claim that beautiful Schwinn, and ride home with another wheeled sculpture for our living room.
As I walked in the back door of the shop there was Rick, the owner, with an amazing black beauty complete with jumbo front headlight and black fenders. "Wow, great bike." "You like that? That's my new Schwinn." I looked again. It was a Hiawatha, not a Schwinn. "No, I traded a guy my red and white Schwinn for this one." Shit!
Now I know how Andy felt.
Healthcare Reform?
On a serious note, yesterday I had an elderly couple in my practice. He, in his late 70's, had fallen off a ladder while trying to paint his house about 10 days ago. He broke his shoulder and injured his ankle. This, on top of the fact he's slender, an insulin dependent diabetic, has a bad heart, and his wife is confused with deteriorating mental status. His mind is not much better. But they drive and they live independently. Talking with them for about 10 or 15 minutes it seemed obvious that a.) he needs care for his medical conditions and b.) they are probably not entirely safe to be living independently. So, what do they do?
His health insurance, Medicare and VA, has recently been changed so he can no longer see a local doctor for his medical care. She has to drive him an hour to be seen at the VA hospital where, she tells me, they wait 4 hours to be seen by a doctor for 1 minute prior to having someone come in, draw his blood, and send them on their way. When you talk with them you realize they don't know anything that is going on with his medical care, his swollen ankles, his heart stents, his diabetes, and they're lost and scared.
The man's broken shoulder will heal uneventfully although he will wait 8 to 12 weeks and he may require some physical therapy. The rest of his story makes no sense from the perspective of providing care.
This is not an isolated case by any stretch. I have taken care of a widow who couldn't afford a $5.00 brace because of medical costs and the bankruptcy she endured with her late husband's medical expenses. She and her husband had been well to do but now, after medical expenses stripped her of all financial resources, her budget had no room for a $5.00 discretionary expense. I have taken care of a blind woman in her eighties who had to incur a $20,000-plus personal expense nursing home bill because she could not return home with a broken leg and needed care for 60 days. Not covered. She was fortunate to have the resources to cover the cost.
Everyone knows the cost of healthcare is overburdening our economy. Everyone knows the senior population is responsible for a large part of this expense. Nobody agrees on what to do.
I'm not going to float my plan for reform just yet. But each of us needs to recognize that the over 65 population is the fastest growing in the U.S. Creating a means of providing compassionate care for this population has got to become a priority. In the face of obscene national debt there is a strong current of thrift and budget "reform." You would do well to always keep this in mind: Under the present system, the legislators making the decisions about your future care will never have to worry about the care they themselves one day receive. They retire to a higher standard than most of us can ever imagine.
His health insurance, Medicare and VA, has recently been changed so he can no longer see a local doctor for his medical care. She has to drive him an hour to be seen at the VA hospital where, she tells me, they wait 4 hours to be seen by a doctor for 1 minute prior to having someone come in, draw his blood, and send them on their way. When you talk with them you realize they don't know anything that is going on with his medical care, his swollen ankles, his heart stents, his diabetes, and they're lost and scared.
The man's broken shoulder will heal uneventfully although he will wait 8 to 12 weeks and he may require some physical therapy. The rest of his story makes no sense from the perspective of providing care.
This is not an isolated case by any stretch. I have taken care of a widow who couldn't afford a $5.00 brace because of medical costs and the bankruptcy she endured with her late husband's medical expenses. She and her husband had been well to do but now, after medical expenses stripped her of all financial resources, her budget had no room for a $5.00 discretionary expense. I have taken care of a blind woman in her eighties who had to incur a $20,000-plus personal expense nursing home bill because she could not return home with a broken leg and needed care for 60 days. Not covered. She was fortunate to have the resources to cover the cost.
Everyone knows the cost of healthcare is overburdening our economy. Everyone knows the senior population is responsible for a large part of this expense. Nobody agrees on what to do.
I'm not going to float my plan for reform just yet. But each of us needs to recognize that the over 65 population is the fastest growing in the U.S. Creating a means of providing compassionate care for this population has got to become a priority. In the face of obscene national debt there is a strong current of thrift and budget "reform." You would do well to always keep this in mind: Under the present system, the legislators making the decisions about your future care will never have to worry about the care they themselves one day receive. They retire to a higher standard than most of us can ever imagine.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Pack Your Chute (and a Necklace of Garlic)
Sometimes my wife thinks I'm becoming a grumpy old man. Apparently there are too many days when I come home from the office and can't stop talking about some of the people I see. Before I go any further let me say: Most of the people I see are just really nice regular people with legitimate complaints. The problem is, in this community, in this economy, in this era of American life, there is a rapidly growing number of people who are just plain bored, intellectually compromised, morally bankrupt and/or void of any sense of ethics or communal responsibility. They seem to be just plain uninterested and unable. Not disabled. Unable. It's simultaneously sad and maddening and leaves me wondering just how we got here, whether we have the potential to change course, or whether we should just walk away and move to Canada or New Zealand or I don't know where. Parkview? On days like that I rant.
It's not just here in small town Michigan. Case in point: In a recent report Houston Police arrested a 19 year-old after attacking a woman: growling, hissing, and biting her. By way of explanation he claimed he's a vampire. Seriously. And here too: I have a patient who has had her canines sharpened to needle like points because she wants to look like a vampire. Any guy thinking about a French kiss or oral sex had better have at least 2 units of packed cells and a surgeon on standby. With all the crap going on in this country and the world at large, this is where we're at? Crazy or just bored beyond reality?
With the current economic quagmire, the legislature, the President, and the presidential hopefuls are all weighing in and the talk is jobs. Jobs? What jobs would those be and for whom? I know of a couple vampires looking.
As for me, I think it may be time to grab a bunch of garlic, pack my chute, and jump. Or maybe just tune in and sign on with the late great Johnny Cash on the subject of crazy.
http://youtu.be/Tk2VECNx5LQ
It's not just here in small town Michigan. Case in point: In a recent report Houston Police arrested a 19 year-old after attacking a woman: growling, hissing, and biting her. By way of explanation he claimed he's a vampire. Seriously. And here too: I have a patient who has had her canines sharpened to needle like points because she wants to look like a vampire. Any guy thinking about a French kiss or oral sex had better have at least 2 units of packed cells and a surgeon on standby. With all the crap going on in this country and the world at large, this is where we're at? Crazy or just bored beyond reality?
With the current economic quagmire, the legislature, the President, and the presidential hopefuls are all weighing in and the talk is jobs. Jobs? What jobs would those be and for whom? I know of a couple vampires looking.
As for me, I think it may be time to grab a bunch of garlic, pack my chute, and jump. Or maybe just tune in and sign on with the late great Johnny Cash on the subject of crazy.
http://youtu.be/Tk2VECNx5LQ
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Murse or Fanny Pack
I got new glasses today. It's bad enough my eyes going geri-dim in my fifties-- worse still not having optical insurance. And, as I've mentioned previously, God forbid my glasses have tell-tale lines in the lenses. No, I need progressives. Ultralight and scratch resistant at that. Sure, tag on the protection plan.
After getting home from the local LensCrafters I have to say, these babies are fabulous. One for work and one pair for play, it's like I can almost see through things, my corrected vision is so good. And, forgive me, but I myself am a vision to behold in my new specs.
Big weekend: I also upgraded to the iPhone 4. I know the 5 is alleged to be just weeks away but, hey, my other iPhone was second generation. They wanted to keep it for the tech collection at the Apple Store. I'm happy. I still just use it primarily to answer and make calls but I'm ready for whatever techno space hurls my way or asks me to produce.
The problem now is what to do with all my stuff. The trip I just took to the grocery store was cumbersome. Both front pockets of my pants were bulging: The million dollar glasses in their hard-as-a-turtle-shell protective case, wallet, shopping list (okay..but it gets crunched up), the car keys, and my new phone in its non-skid protective case. A guy needs cargo pants to accommodate such a collection of paraphernalia and I am not going there.
So, what to do? Murse or fanny pack? Who's to say a guy can't have fun with accessories. Perhaps it's the start of a whole new chapter; a fashion frontier waiting for the winning ways of my fine tuned sense of style.
This?
After getting home from the local LensCrafters I have to say, these babies are fabulous. One for work and one pair for play, it's like I can almost see through things, my corrected vision is so good. And, forgive me, but I myself am a vision to behold in my new specs.
Big weekend: I also upgraded to the iPhone 4. I know the 5 is alleged to be just weeks away but, hey, my other iPhone was second generation. They wanted to keep it for the tech collection at the Apple Store. I'm happy. I still just use it primarily to answer and make calls but I'm ready for whatever techno space hurls my way or asks me to produce.
The problem now is what to do with all my stuff. The trip I just took to the grocery store was cumbersome. Both front pockets of my pants were bulging: The million dollar glasses in their hard-as-a-turtle-shell protective case, wallet, shopping list (okay..but it gets crunched up), the car keys, and my new phone in its non-skid protective case. A guy needs cargo pants to accommodate such a collection of paraphernalia and I am not going there.
So, what to do? Murse or fanny pack? Who's to say a guy can't have fun with accessories. Perhaps it's the start of a whole new chapter; a fashion frontier waiting for the winning ways of my fine tuned sense of style.
This?
Or this?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Discounts: The Deepest Cut of All
From a very early age I've been aware of discounts. Discounts, coupons, and sales were the tripod of my Mother's thrift. She'd clip coupons and make sure she got the discount at checkout; she'd ask if a business offered a clergy discount; she'd back and forth across town picking sale items from one store after another. It would drive me crazy and I felt labeled travelling alongside as she'd follow the path of thrift. Lo and behold she'd have good company in this decade.
Age discounts are another thing. My friend Danny's Father would take us to Disneyland each year over the spring break. It would be one full day of E ticket rides and junk food all at the generosity of Dr. Freeman. Trick was, before we queued up at the ticket booth window he'd stop us, line us up in order of height, and then assign ages to finagle a couple of ticket books at children's prices. I didn't like having to play down my age but, hey, it was Disneyland and Main Street Station and the Disneyland Railroad was just beyond that booth and through the tunnel. Why yes, I'm 8.
After that there was the 12 - 25 Club on United Airlines. I could get super deals, $16 LA to San Francisco, not that I used it more than once or twice.
AARP was a boon to my Mother's sense of thrift and accomplishment. My parents loved entering a new age of thrift and opportunity but I remember thinking at the time, "Why would you want to join a club that identifies you as old?"
Lucky me. As it turns out, when you hit 50 the group starts sending you mailing after mailing soliciting your membership. It seems like the things come to my office weekly. It's enough to make me run out and grab the mail from the carrier's hand just to save face and keep that sentinel of advancing age from being handed to me by some smiling staffer in my office. I know AARP offers all variety of useful discounts and opportunities but I'm just not ready to carry the card. Vanity, thy name is reluctant aging male! The last milestone of age I really cared to celebrate was 21.
The event that precipitated this rant occurred last week at the art museum. We went, my wife, son, and I, to see a couple of exhibits before they came down. We'd never been to the Flint Institute of Art and so it was a new and curious experience. We asked and the lady at the desk informed us ticket prices were, under 5 free, adults $7.00, and $5.00 if over 62. "Are you members?" We were not but I explained we are happy to pay the fare, support the museum, and enjoy the show. "Okay. That will be twelve dollars."
Do the math. I'm still not functioning right.
Age discounts are another thing. My friend Danny's Father would take us to Disneyland each year over the spring break. It would be one full day of E ticket rides and junk food all at the generosity of Dr. Freeman. Trick was, before we queued up at the ticket booth window he'd stop us, line us up in order of height, and then assign ages to finagle a couple of ticket books at children's prices. I didn't like having to play down my age but, hey, it was Disneyland and Main Street Station and the Disneyland Railroad was just beyond that booth and through the tunnel. Why yes, I'm 8.
After that there was the 12 - 25 Club on United Airlines. I could get super deals, $16 LA to San Francisco, not that I used it more than once or twice.
AARP was a boon to my Mother's sense of thrift and accomplishment. My parents loved entering a new age of thrift and opportunity but I remember thinking at the time, "Why would you want to join a club that identifies you as old?"
Lucky me. As it turns out, when you hit 50 the group starts sending you mailing after mailing soliciting your membership. It seems like the things come to my office weekly. It's enough to make me run out and grab the mail from the carrier's hand just to save face and keep that sentinel of advancing age from being handed to me by some smiling staffer in my office. I know AARP offers all variety of useful discounts and opportunities but I'm just not ready to carry the card. Vanity, thy name is reluctant aging male! The last milestone of age I really cared to celebrate was 21.
The event that precipitated this rant occurred last week at the art museum. We went, my wife, son, and I, to see a couple of exhibits before they came down. We'd never been to the Flint Institute of Art and so it was a new and curious experience. We asked and the lady at the desk informed us ticket prices were, under 5 free, adults $7.00, and $5.00 if over 62. "Are you members?" We were not but I explained we are happy to pay the fare, support the museum, and enjoy the show. "Okay. That will be twelve dollars."
Do the math. I'm still not functioning right.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A Summer Tapas for Winged Mammals
Bats and mosquitos: It's like the old song, "You can't have one without the other." Especially here in MIchigan on a warm summer night.
We've had the typical mid-summer "dog days," high heat, high humidity. You finish the evening outside, trying to coax a little breeze to cool you off, get the shirt unstuck from your back, to no avail. The sun goes down, you feel like a steamed vegetable, and here they come: The little bastards, at first unseen, start to circle, bob, and jab. Then their little motors come into earshot with their intense high pitched electric whining. You swat and swing and move aside; also to no avail. With no relief in sight and the troops moving in quickly, you head indoors to sip an iced tea and start waiting for the wounds to start popping up.
Looking outside as the twilight lingers on a summer's eve, the counter offense launches their aerial attack. You hate to think of them taking up residence in your attic, basement, or rafters. God forbid you ever have to confront a lone patroller on a staircase or take a swat at one in the bedroom. But, damn, those bats love mosquitos. It's tapas and they'll have to eat thousands to satisfy their hunger. But they love 'em, they're in season, and we've got 'em by the bushel. I hate bats.......... but not as much as mosquitos.
We've had the typical mid-summer "dog days," high heat, high humidity. You finish the evening outside, trying to coax a little breeze to cool you off, get the shirt unstuck from your back, to no avail. The sun goes down, you feel like a steamed vegetable, and here they come: The little bastards, at first unseen, start to circle, bob, and jab. Then their little motors come into earshot with their intense high pitched electric whining. You swat and swing and move aside; also to no avail. With no relief in sight and the troops moving in quickly, you head indoors to sip an iced tea and start waiting for the wounds to start popping up.
Looking outside as the twilight lingers on a summer's eve, the counter offense launches their aerial attack. You hate to think of them taking up residence in your attic, basement, or rafters. God forbid you ever have to confront a lone patroller on a staircase or take a swat at one in the bedroom. But, damn, those bats love mosquitos. It's tapas and they'll have to eat thousands to satisfy their hunger. But they love 'em, they're in season, and we've got 'em by the bushel. I hate bats.......... but not as much as mosquitos.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Milestones
It's funny how, sometimes, as an older dad, I get to thinking about raising a child at my age; how long he'll remain a child, how long he'll remain in need of his dad. Certainly there are times when it seems he will be in need forever. And then, like today, there are times when it seems like he's already on his way out the door.
On a day when my nineteen year old daughter comes home all excited about purchasing supplies for her new apartment as she prepares to start her second year at U of M, my four year old takes off on his two wheeler, sans training wheels, for the first time. I guess it's just another reminder: Pay attention. The ride is short, one way, and single excursion only. But, man, what a ride!
On a day when my nineteen year old daughter comes home all excited about purchasing supplies for her new apartment as she prepares to start her second year at U of M, my four year old takes off on his two wheeler, sans training wheels, for the first time. I guess it's just another reminder: Pay attention. The ride is short, one way, and single excursion only. But, man, what a ride!
Fondue
It's great to have a restful weekend. Seven or eight hours sleep each night. Ride the bikes, get some overdue errands done. But too much of a good thing makes for bad outcomes.
I've been up since 3:20AM. I went to bed at 11:30 and I've been up pretty much since 3:20. And what do I wake to? Thoughts of letters that need to be written, work I have to do this week, and fondue.
You know you are over-rested when you find yourself lying awake in bed at 3:20 in the morning wondering if you have a fondue pot. And what kind of cheese is it one uses to make that really good white wine infused creamy cheesy fondue? Gruyere? And, if I have a fondue pot, do I have those long forks that go with? Are the handles wooden or those brightly colored ceramic numbers that were popular in the late 60's? Or were those just the tips of the forks that had a dab of color? I know the local bakery can supply the whole loaf bread I can use to cut into cubes. Do you leave the crust on or trim away all crust?
As the week gets underway I know I'll get less sleep and stay asleep as a result. But for now, after work I'm going to the market. We're having fondue tonight, pot or no pot. Hmmmm...Chardonnay or Chablis?
I've been up since 3:20AM. I went to bed at 11:30 and I've been up pretty much since 3:20. And what do I wake to? Thoughts of letters that need to be written, work I have to do this week, and fondue.
You know you are over-rested when you find yourself lying awake in bed at 3:20 in the morning wondering if you have a fondue pot. And what kind of cheese is it one uses to make that really good white wine infused creamy cheesy fondue? Gruyere? And, if I have a fondue pot, do I have those long forks that go with? Are the handles wooden or those brightly colored ceramic numbers that were popular in the late 60's? Or were those just the tips of the forks that had a dab of color? I know the local bakery can supply the whole loaf bread I can use to cut into cubes. Do you leave the crust on or trim away all crust?
As the week gets underway I know I'll get less sleep and stay asleep as a result. But for now, after work I'm going to the market. We're having fondue tonight, pot or no pot. Hmmmm...Chardonnay or Chablis?
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Party's Over
The party across the street finally seems to be winding down. I find it somewhat pathetic watching those last few stragglers who just don't get it, that everyone else has left for home. A month ago, sure, the place was packed. But now? What's the problem? Can't find anyone to drag back to the roost or just can't stand the thought of being alone?
Anyway, the party's over, time is moving on, and I hope I don't have to look out across the street tonight and still see a few lonely, can't find the right partner, don't want to go home, bouncing around all lit up in an empty park, fireflies. It's just too sad. Move along.
Anyway, the party's over, time is moving on, and I hope I don't have to look out across the street tonight and still see a few lonely, can't find the right partner, don't want to go home, bouncing around all lit up in an empty park, fireflies. It's just too sad. Move along.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Proud Papa
It's a great moment when you realize your child is, a.) becoming a grown-up and, b.) doing a pretty damn good job of it. Don't get me wrong, my 19 year old daughter is still a "kidult," dependent for dough but not so much for advice and direction.
Nonetheless, she is preparing to begin her second year at the University of Michigan. Her first year was good and, boy, did she end it well! As part of her studies she volunteered to take part in the University's Undergraduate Research Opportunity (UROP). She was enlisted to become involved in a research project headed up by a OB/GYN doc and his crew. The result? She did a poster board presentation at a professional meeting. Got an A. Better yet, my little U of M freshman daughter finished out her 1st year with not one, but 2, papers accepted for publication, on both of which she is listed as an author. The first has been published.
Check her out: http://www.hindawi.com/journals/idog/aip/675360/ That's my baby girl! Bravo!!
Nonetheless, she is preparing to begin her second year at the University of Michigan. Her first year was good and, boy, did she end it well! As part of her studies she volunteered to take part in the University's Undergraduate Research Opportunity (UROP). She was enlisted to become involved in a research project headed up by a OB/GYN doc and his crew. The result? She did a poster board presentation at a professional meeting. Got an A. Better yet, my little U of M freshman daughter finished out her 1st year with not one, but 2, papers accepted for publication, on both of which she is listed as an author. The first has been published.
Check her out: http://www.hindawi.com/journals/idog/aip/675360/ That's my baby girl! Bravo!!
Stupid Americans
Events in Washington over the past several weeks have left more than our nation’s credit in jeopardy. As much as the discussion in the media has centered on the risk of Standard and Poor’s lowering our credit rating I’m afraid we miss a larger point.
Behavior in our congressional houses has left the United States with a severely impaired credibility rating. At one time we were viewed as the beacon for democratic process: all voices measured and outcomes forged through negotiation and compromise for the betterment of society as a whole. We could get it done. Instead the world has looked on incredulous while our once esteemed legislative institutions have deteriorated into childish parochial assemblies, firmly set on no mission other than the attack and destruction of the opposing party. Once upon a time we could have heated disagreement and debate and, yet, still move policy forward in a manner illuminating the legislative capacity for public good. Now, it would appear, we have a legislature that is unable to even offer civilized debate, a legislature mired in partisan politics, threats and legislative hostage taking, and seemingly disinterested in the public welfare.
We should all look at the goings on of the past several weeks and hang our heads in shame. Is this an episode we can hold up to our children as an example of the beauty and genius of the American system of government? Has this been a “I’m proud to be an American” moment? Despite either party’s stated intention of looking after the health of this nation and her future I find little to recommend recent events as an exemplary moment in the history of this great democracy.
I can only imagine the impact as the rest of the democratic world looks on and shakes their heads, viewing this noisy mess of politics as nothing less than a well covered public display of greed, selfishness, stubborn willfulness and immaturity. Worse yet is the natural assumption that the behavior in Washington is just a snapshot of the citizenry at large: selfish and divided. We are seen acting the part of “stupid Americans” and future economics may well prove them correct.
The economic problems of this country are malignant and metastatic. No one party or approach will single-handedly reverse the progression. To step away and refuse to participate in constructive cooperative problem solving is a disservice to the American public and works only to further jeopardize our tenuous financial health. The world, it’s people, governmnents and resources, will turn away from the mess that has become the U.S. legislative process and the consequences may be dire indeed. It matters little where you stand on the issue of debt, the debt ceiling or taxes. The recent performance in Washington, D.C. has been nothing short of embarrassing; an affront to the good people of this country and an assault on the stature and credibility of the United States. It’s beyond frustrating. It’s disgusting.
Behavior in our congressional houses has left the United States with a severely impaired credibility rating. At one time we were viewed as the beacon for democratic process: all voices measured and outcomes forged through negotiation and compromise for the betterment of society as a whole. We could get it done. Instead the world has looked on incredulous while our once esteemed legislative institutions have deteriorated into childish parochial assemblies, firmly set on no mission other than the attack and destruction of the opposing party. Once upon a time we could have heated disagreement and debate and, yet, still move policy forward in a manner illuminating the legislative capacity for public good. Now, it would appear, we have a legislature that is unable to even offer civilized debate, a legislature mired in partisan politics, threats and legislative hostage taking, and seemingly disinterested in the public welfare.
We should all look at the goings on of the past several weeks and hang our heads in shame. Is this an episode we can hold up to our children as an example of the beauty and genius of the American system of government? Has this been a “I’m proud to be an American” moment? Despite either party’s stated intention of looking after the health of this nation and her future I find little to recommend recent events as an exemplary moment in the history of this great democracy.
I can only imagine the impact as the rest of the democratic world looks on and shakes their heads, viewing this noisy mess of politics as nothing less than a well covered public display of greed, selfishness, stubborn willfulness and immaturity. Worse yet is the natural assumption that the behavior in Washington is just a snapshot of the citizenry at large: selfish and divided. We are seen acting the part of “stupid Americans” and future economics may well prove them correct.
The economic problems of this country are malignant and metastatic. No one party or approach will single-handedly reverse the progression. To step away and refuse to participate in constructive cooperative problem solving is a disservice to the American public and works only to further jeopardize our tenuous financial health. The world, it’s people, governmnents and resources, will turn away from the mess that has become the U.S. legislative process and the consequences may be dire indeed. It matters little where you stand on the issue of debt, the debt ceiling or taxes. The recent performance in Washington, D.C. has been nothing short of embarrassing; an affront to the good people of this country and an assault on the stature and credibility of the United States. It’s beyond frustrating. It’s disgusting.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
My Country
Somehow with all the crap going down in Washington, D.C. I felt I would post this little ditty.
And I say to the country,
Where are the factories?
Where are the mills,
Where is the great muscled American worker?
And I visit Detroit,
and Cleveland
and Pittsburgh,
and Erie
And all I find are skeletons,
abandoned rights of way still lined with blackberry bushes,
rusted metal shells with broken out windows,
service roads long heaved and potholed
Industry is a derelict
we’ve exported our guts
and we are left with the ulcer;
the patient is dead
and the cancer remains
This great machine is so far beyond dormant
irretrievably
shamelessly
vacated without hope
of restoration
Our great industrial homeless embarrassment
that sleeps in our many doorways
we wish to look away
we move to avoid
the sight and stench of our failure
And the human slag are left discarded,
pasty and bloated
huffing about on fast food and vicodin
desperate for solace
video entertainment, disability, conjured afflictions
Who suffers most and what price to pay?
the worker
the family
the country
the soul?
Is it enough to lament or better to blame
or shall we, somehow,
evolve
live on
and find a new image of success and industry?
And I say to the country,
Where are the factories?
Where are the mills,
Where is the great muscled American worker?
And I visit Detroit,
and Cleveland
and Pittsburgh,
and Erie
And all I find are skeletons,
abandoned rights of way still lined with blackberry bushes,
rusted metal shells with broken out windows,
service roads long heaved and potholed
Industry is a derelict
we’ve exported our guts
and we are left with the ulcer;
the patient is dead
and the cancer remains
This great machine is so far beyond dormant
irretrievably
shamelessly
vacated without hope
of restoration
Our great industrial homeless embarrassment
that sleeps in our many doorways
we wish to look away
we move to avoid
the sight and stench of our failure
And the human slag are left discarded,
pasty and bloated
huffing about on fast food and vicodin
desperate for solace
video entertainment, disability, conjured afflictions
Who suffers most and what price to pay?
the worker
the family
the country
the soul?
Is it enough to lament or better to blame
or shall we, somehow,
evolve
live on
and find a new image of success and industry?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Happy Anniversary
Although they have both been gone now for over twenty years, I always remember August 1st as my parents wedding day. In 1984 I remember celebrating their 50th. It was an intensely hot day in Salem, Oregon where they lived. And the ride home from the church, where a service and reception had been held, was provided via an ancient Model A Ford convertible. My parents looked jaunty sitting in the back seat of that car dressed in vintage garb. But they also looked old and fragile as they withered with the direct sun beating down on them, stalled in traffic.
That is not the best memory. It's good in that I think my parents were grateful and relieved to reach that milestone together owing to medical conditions and aging rather than any infirmity of their relationship. I remember, too, I thought it was a great moment for them and my family.
I liked my parents but I don't know that I learned a whole lot about a marital relationship from them, at least not that soaked in while I was living at home. My Dad could be so very sweet and accommodating with my Mom. He loved her dearly. And Mom cared for Dad dearly and loved him as well although expressed somewhat differently; certainly less affectionately in my recollection. Knowing their personalities, however, I am certain beyond a doubt they had shared the whole gamut of experience together, from youthful romance to new love and on to all the trials of raising a large family. All the changes that come with 50 years of work and living and being together.
I think, most of all, as I look back I realize what I learned from my parents was about durability in relationships in that they are not always easy, they are not always fun, they are not always brimming with loving sentiments. At times, I'm sure they are unpleasant. But what they are is malleable and resilient and do not bog down in the thick stuff. They remain in level flight, glued to the rails, in spite of come what may. And, at the end of the day, a durable relationship always finds you glad to be home at the end of that day and, I'd imagine, glad that you stayed 'til the end of a lifetime. That's my guess. That's what I remember most. And that's what I hope I've finally learned. Happy Anniversary.
That is not the best memory. It's good in that I think my parents were grateful and relieved to reach that milestone together owing to medical conditions and aging rather than any infirmity of their relationship. I remember, too, I thought it was a great moment for them and my family.
I liked my parents but I don't know that I learned a whole lot about a marital relationship from them, at least not that soaked in while I was living at home. My Dad could be so very sweet and accommodating with my Mom. He loved her dearly. And Mom cared for Dad dearly and loved him as well although expressed somewhat differently; certainly less affectionately in my recollection. Knowing their personalities, however, I am certain beyond a doubt they had shared the whole gamut of experience together, from youthful romance to new love and on to all the trials of raising a large family. All the changes that come with 50 years of work and living and being together.
I think, most of all, as I look back I realize what I learned from my parents was about durability in relationships in that they are not always easy, they are not always fun, they are not always brimming with loving sentiments. At times, I'm sure they are unpleasant. But what they are is malleable and resilient and do not bog down in the thick stuff. They remain in level flight, glued to the rails, in spite of come what may. And, at the end of the day, a durable relationship always finds you glad to be home at the end of that day and, I'd imagine, glad that you stayed 'til the end of a lifetime. That's my guess. That's what I remember most. And that's what I hope I've finally learned. Happy Anniversary.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)