Happy New Year! Rosh Hashanah 2011 arrived on September 28th and we welcome 5772. (Where has the time gone??) '72 was a good year and I'm glad to have it back.
Having been raised a good Lutheran boy, I moved to Los Angeles in 1966 without a clue in the world as to Jewish culture and tradition. I remember being amazed at learning my soon to be best friend was Jewish. After spending the first 9 years of my life in a Lutheran ghetto in Portland, Oregon, I thought Judaism was an Old Testament historical reference, not a vibrant, relevant, and rather large slice of contemporary humanity.
That fact become all too clear the first time I showed up for class on Rosh Hashanah 1966, 5727. Have you ever shown up for a function on the wrong day-- parking lot empty, only a janitor pushing a floor duster? That was almost the scene at Warner Avenue School that September day. Most of the teachers were there. It was only the students that were missing! Talk about a fish out of water. Try as I might, my Mom would not let me stay home two weeks later for Yom Kippur. Same scenario.
In comparison, the Easter holidays always fell during the week of spring break so there was no reciprocity, if you will. Same thing at Christmas. I never got my turn to stay home. By the time I hit 5th grade I was ready to convert!
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Bombs Away!
Fall. I know why it's called that. It's called that because of all the stuff that falls out of the trees this time of year, the most spectacular of which are the leaves.
There is another volume of debris which falls off the trees this time of year. Living in a home surrounded by large old oak trees that fact is not lost on me. You know those pretty little acorns, those nuts with their tidy little caps that decorate many a Thanksgiving centerpiece? Here's the news: You don't have to pick them. Our drive and walkways are pretty well peppered by now. Quite a hazard to a 4 year-old riding his bike on a driveway blanketed with the marble size obstacles. Great for twisting weary old ankles as well. Yes, I sweep. The lawn crew blows. Next day, same thing. I wish I could extract petroleum from the things.
This house is a one story ranch with a low peaked roof. The roof over my bed has foam insulation which, while efficient, does not strike me as offering the degree of sound dampening I would like. When those acorns hit our roof at night the impact is like that of a rock being thrown. In fact, I'm inclined to think the damn squirrels are having drunken parties and laughing their tails off as they hurl their little bombs at our sleeping quarters. After impact you can hear the projectiles tumbling across the shingles to roof's edge where, hopefully, they'll make it over the gutter and fall to the ground below.
All this came to mind the other night when we had a bit of wind. I awoke and lay there counting the seconds between impacts, trying to get back to sleep. Sheep are much quieter.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Time is Money
The other morning someone tuned into the CNBC business channel on the TV in our lounge at the hospital. That's an okay choice for me in that at least they aren't waxing cynical about one political party or the other and they pay damn little attention to the presidential election politics being thrust upon us so early. In short, I can usually ignore it and stick to a newspaper or magazine.
Usually; but not today. Today they had a viewer interactive question that queried: which do you prefer, being disconnected while in flight or, time is money, stay connected? Their words, "time is money." If I remember correctly the split was about 60/40 with time is money, stay connected being the leader.
Years ago my Dad would occasionally travel with a group of men to meetings via train. I remember his telling us how they would have a room they could open up, sit at a table, and work while en route. I also remember him telling us how they would play cards, relax in the lounge car with beer or cocktails, and arrive the next day fresh and ready to go to meetings.
With all the advances in travel and communication we have eliminated all opportunity to be disconnected; to take time or to stop, to pay attention to the nonbusiness world around us. There is talk, serious talk, of bringing out a supersonic business jet. Text, talk, and internet, we are constantly connected and en route as quickly as possible. Sad part is we don't make this effort to create more leisure time in spite of any claims to the contrary. It's done out of a desire to do more, to get more, and to make certain someone else doesn't beat us to the punch.
As connected as we are I fear we are losing all connection to place. We're distracted by a constant stream of electronic communication to the exclusion of all awareness of our surroundings. When traveling, you see people who seem hardly able to find a reason to look up from their device, whether on the ground or at 40,000 feet. People don't recognize where they are or who they're with, only the need to respond to the last communication. And in that task most don't even utilize the wealth of language, just abbreviations.
To travel by train from Chicago to New York required an overnight. Same thing LA to San Francisco. The available conveyances ranged from utilitarian to the spectacular and each afforded a wealth of contact with people and an inescapable awareness of place. It was that awareness of others and one's surroundings that made for a real human experience, an experience in which you had to look up, see who was sitting in that lounge or at that dining car table. And out the window you saw the industry, the towns, and the countryside that made this land. At the end of your journey you knew where you had come from and with whom. You had traveled as part of a social landscape while out the windows you had surveyed another. As such, I think it made for better citizens.
As well connected as we are today-- as fast and seamlessly we go from city to city, state to state, country to country, the whole while without ever having to hangup the phone-- we're no better off. I'd argue we may not even be as well-off as that businessman relaxing with his evening paper and a cocktail as his train pulls out of Chicago bound for New York-- circa 1949. Time isn't money, it's time; life's most precious commodity.
Usually; but not today. Today they had a viewer interactive question that queried: which do you prefer, being disconnected while in flight or, time is money, stay connected? Their words, "time is money." If I remember correctly the split was about 60/40 with time is money, stay connected being the leader.
Years ago my Dad would occasionally travel with a group of men to meetings via train. I remember his telling us how they would have a room they could open up, sit at a table, and work while en route. I also remember him telling us how they would play cards, relax in the lounge car with beer or cocktails, and arrive the next day fresh and ready to go to meetings.
With all the advances in travel and communication we have eliminated all opportunity to be disconnected; to take time or to stop, to pay attention to the nonbusiness world around us. There is talk, serious talk, of bringing out a supersonic business jet. Text, talk, and internet, we are constantly connected and en route as quickly as possible. Sad part is we don't make this effort to create more leisure time in spite of any claims to the contrary. It's done out of a desire to do more, to get more, and to make certain someone else doesn't beat us to the punch.
As connected as we are I fear we are losing all connection to place. We're distracted by a constant stream of electronic communication to the exclusion of all awareness of our surroundings. When traveling, you see people who seem hardly able to find a reason to look up from their device, whether on the ground or at 40,000 feet. People don't recognize where they are or who they're with, only the need to respond to the last communication. And in that task most don't even utilize the wealth of language, just abbreviations.
To travel by train from Chicago to New York required an overnight. Same thing LA to San Francisco. The available conveyances ranged from utilitarian to the spectacular and each afforded a wealth of contact with people and an inescapable awareness of place. It was that awareness of others and one's surroundings that made for a real human experience, an experience in which you had to look up, see who was sitting in that lounge or at that dining car table. And out the window you saw the industry, the towns, and the countryside that made this land. At the end of your journey you knew where you had come from and with whom. You had traveled as part of a social landscape while out the windows you had surveyed another. As such, I think it made for better citizens.
As well connected as we are today-- as fast and seamlessly we go from city to city, state to state, country to country, the whole while without ever having to hangup the phone-- we're no better off. I'd argue we may not even be as well-off as that businessman relaxing with his evening paper and a cocktail as his train pulls out of Chicago bound for New York-- circa 1949. Time isn't money, it's time; life's most precious commodity.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Back to School
We went south to Ann Arbor this past weekend. Did not get to the Big House, as they call the stadium there at U of M, but did get to see my daughter's new digs. She and two roommates have this apartment that is fully furnished and has, get this, three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a washer and dryer. I should have been so lucky. But it's a beautiful apartment immediately adjacent to the campus and safe as can be. All of that and it's clean, too. I'll be curious to see how clean it remains by, say, February.
Anyway, we met, took the tour, and then we all went out for breakfast. After that we dropped her off and visited in the parking area with her, her one roommate, and her boyfriend. It was a beautiful sunny early fall day and an odd moment. Looking around there was a steady stream of students stepping into the light of day, all of whom appeared to be heading out to study. It would have been nice to have stayed and visited for a while but we had things to do, she had things to do, and I felt like I was trespassing.
Visiting a university brings back a lot of memories and good ones at that. But I realized fairly quickly: this is not my country, these are not my people. From my perspective, the university is a place and culture for those fortunate people enrolled. It's their time and their place and can only be shared by those who share that common experience. I didn't feel old, just out of place. Like showing up to a function in black tie and only then discovering the invitation stated casual dress. Nonetheless, I had a good time at the party.
Anyway, we met, took the tour, and then we all went out for breakfast. After that we dropped her off and visited in the parking area with her, her one roommate, and her boyfriend. It was a beautiful sunny early fall day and an odd moment. Looking around there was a steady stream of students stepping into the light of day, all of whom appeared to be heading out to study. It would have been nice to have stayed and visited for a while but we had things to do, she had things to do, and I felt like I was trespassing.
Visiting a university brings back a lot of memories and good ones at that. But I realized fairly quickly: this is not my country, these are not my people. From my perspective, the university is a place and culture for those fortunate people enrolled. It's their time and their place and can only be shared by those who share that common experience. I didn't feel old, just out of place. Like showing up to a function in black tie and only then discovering the invitation stated casual dress. Nonetheless, I had a good time at the party.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Dadaholic?
This past Saturday we met the grandparents for breakfast. We like to go to our little (like 4 tables, sit with those guys, little) airport cafe. Ev loves the planes and Tam's Dad can talk flying all day. The nice thing was, at the end of breakfast, Ev went home with Grandpa and Grandma.
Our little guy talks about his grandparents every day. He has been wanting to spend the night at their place for some time now and, frankly, what young boy wouldn't? They live in the country with a pond stocked with fish seemingly trained to bite the hook on a 4 year old's line. They have enough space to allow him to hit real golf balls as opposed to those soft foamy ones he hits towards ours and the neighbor's windows here at home. And there are deer and the chickens, rabbits, and girl next door. It's a near perfect world if you're a 4 year old boy.
And here at home? If you don't know it's hard to imagine just what it's like to have a whole day free to do nothing and everything without interruption. But then a strange thing happened again last night as has the last few nights we had Evan at his grandparents: As I get ready to go to bed I miss him and wish he were home. I start to think we should have picked him up at 7 and tucked him in here by 8. I start to think about not having him home for breakfast on a weekend morning. I start thinking about all the stuff that won't be happening tomorrow because he's not here, stuff that usually makes it damn near impossible to do the stuff I want to do-- like sleep in, write, work on some artwork, have coffee without watching cartoons-- and I miss him and all that disruption. He's becoming my little addiction.
I guess recognition is the first step toward treating an addiction. I'm willing to acknowledge this one, but I'm really not ready to treat it. I guess, for now, I choose to use when it comes to Ev.
Our little guy talks about his grandparents every day. He has been wanting to spend the night at their place for some time now and, frankly, what young boy wouldn't? They live in the country with a pond stocked with fish seemingly trained to bite the hook on a 4 year old's line. They have enough space to allow him to hit real golf balls as opposed to those soft foamy ones he hits towards ours and the neighbor's windows here at home. And there are deer and the chickens, rabbits, and girl next door. It's a near perfect world if you're a 4 year old boy.
And here at home? If you don't know it's hard to imagine just what it's like to have a whole day free to do nothing and everything without interruption. But then a strange thing happened again last night as has the last few nights we had Evan at his grandparents: As I get ready to go to bed I miss him and wish he were home. I start to think we should have picked him up at 7 and tucked him in here by 8. I start to think about not having him home for breakfast on a weekend morning. I start thinking about all the stuff that won't be happening tomorrow because he's not here, stuff that usually makes it damn near impossible to do the stuff I want to do-- like sleep in, write, work on some artwork, have coffee without watching cartoons-- and I miss him and all that disruption. He's becoming my little addiction.
I guess recognition is the first step toward treating an addiction. I'm willing to acknowledge this one, but I'm really not ready to treat it. I guess, for now, I choose to use when it comes to Ev.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Lucky Me
I'm one lucky guy. Not in the sense of ever winning anything. Drawings, raffles, door prizes-- not me. I'm lucky in the most important ways: I have a wife who is a great partner, a son who is a joy 97.83% of the time, a daughter who, at 19, appears to be steering a steady course in life, and a family at large that is always close at heart and wonderful to be part of. And then I have friends, some of whom I've known for 45 years.
Last night I had a really special friend over for dinner. My very first real girlfriend, a woman I have known for 37 years, did a lot of growing up with, and have remained close to all these years. She and her little sister came to visit me and Tam and Ev. It's not the first time we've visited in all those years. It's not the first time we've had dinner together in all those years. It's not the first time we've had dinner with our spouses. It's happened a few times over the years but it's the first time she came to visit at my home.
I suppose it's not all that big a deal given the number of times we've been able to visit over those 37 years. But I have to say, I felt lucky to enter her life 37 years ago and I feel lucky to know her today. I guess I appreciate having that connection intact, a connection which extends back to a time when there was so much to learn in spite of being so smart; so far to go in spite of being so very grown up. It was a time when I held the world on a string and the road ahead seemed so clear.
As it turns out the road wasn't so clear, I wasn't so smart, and I had a long way to go to grow up. But I'm grateful for where that road took me and happy to remain close to this important part of it. Happy and lucky, that's me.
Last night I had a really special friend over for dinner. My very first real girlfriend, a woman I have known for 37 years, did a lot of growing up with, and have remained close to all these years. She and her little sister came to visit me and Tam and Ev. It's not the first time we've visited in all those years. It's not the first time we've had dinner together in all those years. It's not the first time we've had dinner with our spouses. It's happened a few times over the years but it's the first time she came to visit at my home.
I suppose it's not all that big a deal given the number of times we've been able to visit over those 37 years. But I have to say, I felt lucky to enter her life 37 years ago and I feel lucky to know her today. I guess I appreciate having that connection intact, a connection which extends back to a time when there was so much to learn in spite of being so smart; so far to go in spite of being so very grown up. It was a time when I held the world on a string and the road ahead seemed so clear.
As it turns out the road wasn't so clear, I wasn't so smart, and I had a long way to go to grow up. But I'm grateful for where that road took me and happy to remain close to this important part of it. Happy and lucky, that's me.
Think About It
It may seem premature, but with only 90 shopping days left 'til Christmas, 5 days less for Hanukkah, it's not too early for this discussion. So, with that qualifier in place, I'll press on.
I'm from a family of eight. Probably as much as a matter of economy as for any fun value, we had a tradition of exchanging names for Christmas gifts. That is, our parents would place all eight names in a bowl and we would each draw out a name. That would be your secret recipient of a Christmas present. It was great fun and pure parental genius. There was the all important element of surprise as well as offering significant economy as opposed to each child buying for all siblings.
We have carried on this tradition through the years. As we've all gotten a bit older and no longer want dolls that wet and cap guns, we've started to ask each family member to write on a common subject which reflects on our heritage, our family, shared memories and individual insights. My brother Pete wrote the other day to introduce this year's topic and I've decided to extend the invitation to anyone who happens upon this note.
This year we are each going to reflect on the 4 or 5 lessons we have learned in life; things, after all the years, we feel are true. The object is to reflect on your life to date. What have you learned? Sifting through all the ups and downs and back and forth, what can you tell me? What can you tell your child or grandchild? What can you tell yourself?
It's a great assignment; one which asks you to look back and think about what comes into view. Weigh it, digest it and see what good you can make of it. Feel free to borrow the idea. Do your own work. You may just find this is an early Christmas present from us to you.
Friday, September 23, 2011
It Used To Be Fun
I don't mean to be obsessed with age related subjects. Looking back I realize this is becoming somewhat of a recurring theme and I apologize if it's annoying or tiring. It is my blog, however, and I see a lot of aging people in my day to day routine. That, and, I'm aging myself. (Which, given the alternative is, so far, good.)
So, if you're still with me, check this out: I saw an older man today, early seventies. He is active and vigorous. He still operates heavy machinery and owns his own business doing excavating and such other work that requires a bulldozer and/or excavator. I took care of him just a few months back after tumbling off a trailer and breaking his wrist. The injury required an operation but, as you might expect, he's of the type who is back to work in about 6 weeks; maybe it was four.
He returned today because his shoulder had been bothering him for a few weeks. It was getting better and it hadn't slowed him down a bit. He tells me that and I had to ask: "So why am I seeing you here today?" His answer? "My wife made me." He said that, although he felt he was doing okay and the shoulder was steadily improving, his wife wanted him to come in get it checked out. Why? Because it hurt to get his overalls off a few weeks ago and she had to help him get undressed.
Dang! That used to be the fun part, your woman wanting to get your clothes off. I don't know which part of his experience is worse: having a sore shoulder or a wife who complains about having to take your clothes off! Either way it's hell getting old. I gave him a note for his wife saying his shoulder looked okay but she should continue to take his clothes off.
So, if you're still with me, check this out: I saw an older man today, early seventies. He is active and vigorous. He still operates heavy machinery and owns his own business doing excavating and such other work that requires a bulldozer and/or excavator. I took care of him just a few months back after tumbling off a trailer and breaking his wrist. The injury required an operation but, as you might expect, he's of the type who is back to work in about 6 weeks; maybe it was four.
He returned today because his shoulder had been bothering him for a few weeks. It was getting better and it hadn't slowed him down a bit. He tells me that and I had to ask: "So why am I seeing you here today?" His answer? "My wife made me." He said that, although he felt he was doing okay and the shoulder was steadily improving, his wife wanted him to come in get it checked out. Why? Because it hurt to get his overalls off a few weeks ago and she had to help him get undressed.
Dang! That used to be the fun part, your woman wanting to get your clothes off. I don't know which part of his experience is worse: having a sore shoulder or a wife who complains about having to take your clothes off! Either way it's hell getting old. I gave him a note for his wife saying his shoulder looked okay but she should continue to take his clothes off.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Moving On
It's a cloudy day here in my home town. I should say, an appropriately cloudy day as this is the final curtain on summer.
For those of you who live in moderate climates you can't possibly have an appreciation of just what this means. Many Michiganders live to celebrate those 3 months of the year when the furnace can be shut down, usually. Give or take a week or two. They live for those three months when leaving the house without a coat at least in hand carries no risk of fatality secondary to exposure. They live for those three months when the trees are well dressed in leaves and the lawns are green.
In all likelihood we will continue to have some nice warm days for a few more weeks. In fact, for my money, we are about to turn into the most beautiful time of the year. The problem for many residents, however, is that, as much as they may enjoy fall with its bright colors and crisp air, they can't look away from the coming cold.
The lesson here is simple: Don't let worry about the future consume the present. It must be part of attaining a mid-life perspective that I tend to look for the good in everything, even Michigan weather after September 21st. Anything else is a waste of time and the forfeiture of opportunity.
For those of you who live in moderate climates you can't possibly have an appreciation of just what this means. Many Michiganders live to celebrate those 3 months of the year when the furnace can be shut down, usually. Give or take a week or two. They live for those three months when leaving the house without a coat at least in hand carries no risk of fatality secondary to exposure. They live for those three months when the trees are well dressed in leaves and the lawns are green.
In all likelihood we will continue to have some nice warm days for a few more weeks. In fact, for my money, we are about to turn into the most beautiful time of the year. The problem for many residents, however, is that, as much as they may enjoy fall with its bright colors and crisp air, they can't look away from the coming cold.
The lesson here is simple: Don't let worry about the future consume the present. It must be part of attaining a mid-life perspective that I tend to look for the good in everything, even Michigan weather after September 21st. Anything else is a waste of time and the forfeiture of opportunity.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Not Your Father's Playground
I took Evan up to the playground one evening this weekend. It's in the schoolyard of our local elementary school. Unlike my alma mater, Warner Avenue School, rather than a sea of blacktop this one has mulch and grass covering all surfaces but the basketball courts. But no tetherball. What's up with that?
Evan is at the age where he loves the slides and climbing towers. I don't know what the latter are called anymore, in my day we called 'em jungle gyms. The remarkable thing the other evening was the change in playground equipment. Does anyone remember the big old metal slides? They were really substantial. Tall and made of solid steel. The sliding surface was polished to a chrome luster by years of kid jeans sliding down at high speed. And hot as Hades if they lay exposed to the sun for an hour or two. They were playground machines, as substantial as American industry back then.
I'm not sure what happened to either American industry or those slides but I can report on what's replaced the big steel playground equipment: It's playground, what, toys? Playskool? I don't know who makes this stuff but the slides are about 5 feet long and made of plastic. Everything on the playground is coated with plastic or thick paint in primary colors. One quick pass along the short length of these new slides and you are charged with about 80 watts of static electricity. I tried to help Ev off the end of the slide and the jolt sent me flying. I'm thinking the schoolyard bully has got himself a whole new weapon here. That, or there should be a way to power the entire campus with the friction of elementary age bottoms sliding on this equipment.
I'm sure there were all kinds of safety issues with the big ol' steel slides and jungle gyms but I think we're missing out. Those big pieces of equipment were a part of the juvenile landscape; playthings for the industrious children of a strong and growing society. Not toys. Steel gray. Not primary colors. And how 'bout some tetherball while we're at it.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Ghosts
My cousin Kevin is a photographer. Recently he launched a beautiful new website. Photographers always seem to have the coolest websites and this is no exception.
One of the galleries he features is entitled "Ghosts of Walla Walla" and his commentary and photographs relate to the small city where he grew up in eastern Washington. Walla Walla is a city where my father grew up along with Kevin's mom and the remainder of the 11 Schmidt kids. It is also a city that is ripe with happy family memories for many of us owing to annual reunions which took place over many years. I don't know Walla Walla as home but I well remember those many visits that were always a treat for us young kids.
What strikes me most about Kevin's commentary, however, is the realization of just how much he cares about that town, that history, and all that rests in that space. That, and how lucky he is to have that sense of connection to place in life . So many people move through life, point A to point B to point C and beyond, never giving a thought to where it was they were before. It's not their fault necessarily. Perhaps they've just never been provided with a reason to remember. Maybe nothing's ever been that good, that dear.
It's a wonderful life to be blessed with ghosts, especially if you know where to find them.
One of the galleries he features is entitled "Ghosts of Walla Walla" and his commentary and photographs relate to the small city where he grew up in eastern Washington. Walla Walla is a city where my father grew up along with Kevin's mom and the remainder of the 11 Schmidt kids. It is also a city that is ripe with happy family memories for many of us owing to annual reunions which took place over many years. I don't know Walla Walla as home but I well remember those many visits that were always a treat for us young kids.
What strikes me most about Kevin's commentary, however, is the realization of just how much he cares about that town, that history, and all that rests in that space. That, and how lucky he is to have that sense of connection to place in life . So many people move through life, point A to point B to point C and beyond, never giving a thought to where it was they were before. It's not their fault necessarily. Perhaps they've just never been provided with a reason to remember. Maybe nothing's ever been that good, that dear.
It's a wonderful life to be blessed with ghosts, especially if you know where to find them.
Let's EAT!!!!!
We ate lunch at the Ponderosa this afternoon. It was a first for us as a family. We found ourselves there at Evan’s request. If you don’t know (and frankly, if you don’t have young children or an AARP card, you shouldn’t) Ponderosa is a steak house buffet. Emphasis on buffet.
Ev and I had grabbed dinner there a few weeks ago when Mom was busy on a bike ride. It’s a great place to take young children because they have everything a kid could ever want: mac ‘n cheese, meatballs, spaghetti, pizza, a desert station with soft serve ice cream, and Jello. The restaurant actually features a pretty good salad bar selection as well so I’m all set. Today he was in the mood for meatballs and red and blue jello and so there we went, Mom, Dad, and Evan.
As I’ve already indicated, buffet type restaurants really appeal to two audiences: Families with young children (young enough to be indiscriminate of quality) do well because of price and selection. Buffet restaurants also appeal to the senior set for much the same reasons. A jumbo buffet for 6 bucks on a fixed income makes a lot of sense.
I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that there is one more demographic occupying the booths and tables at the local buffet: The obese. I don’t want to be mean, insensitive, or discriminatory but I was distressed by what I saw. When I see people, men, women and children, with significantly inflated body mass indices, set over multiple plates piled high with wings, meatloaf, deep fried fish, potatoes and gravy, pasta, rolls, and multiple desserts, I think someone needs to call the cops. I’m sorry, but if obesity is a national tragedy and a crisis in the making, then perhaps it’s time to outlaw buffets. At least establish age parameters like we use to regulate access to alcoholic beverages. The sign should read:
Buffet service is limited to patrons 12 and under or 65 and over.
NO SHARING!
We Care We Card
In the meantime, we'll start stocking a few boxes of Jello in the pantry. We're staying home. I can't stand to watch.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Thomas Tanks
What's up with Thomas? Thomas the Tank Engine is one of those children's programs that drifts in and out of my sons interest. He was way interested for a period during years 2 and 3. Now, after a break of a year or so, we tuned in again this morning. All I can ask is, What the h*ll!?!!
What happened to those cute model trains and that massive layout on which they filmed the old episodes? Where once we had these cool mechanical characters we now have computer animation. No more stationary figurines with voice over. Now we have goofy animations that look like claymation meets computer game. It's like watching dead men re-animated. And the charming little children's choir? Sure. But now we've made room for hip hop Thomas. Seriously.
I'm not a curmudgeon. More often than not I am happy to go along with change. But this? Why can't they leave charming children's shows alone, complete with archaic constructions and simplistic designs? Some things deserve to remain old fashioned. Thank goodness they can't update Mr. Rogers. Hmmm, with computer animation...
What happened to those cute model trains and that massive layout on which they filmed the old episodes? Where once we had these cool mechanical characters we now have computer animation. No more stationary figurines with voice over. Now we have goofy animations that look like claymation meets computer game. It's like watching dead men re-animated. And the charming little children's choir? Sure. But now we've made room for hip hop Thomas. Seriously.
I'm not a curmudgeon. More often than not I am happy to go along with change. But this? Why can't they leave charming children's shows alone, complete with archaic constructions and simplistic designs? Some things deserve to remain old fashioned. Thank goodness they can't update Mr. Rogers. Hmmm, with computer animation...
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Tis the Season
Kels is home from school for the weekend for the first time this term. She brings with her a stuffy nose. It's turning toward fall in Michigan so it could be allergy or a Big Ten bug. Either way, it's the start of blow your nose season.
When I was a kid my Mom would always drag out our trusty old "steamer," aka vaporizer. It was an old industrial appearing device with its black melmac base, heavy glass reservoir, and multiple sticky perforations for delivery of a therapeutic vapor. Mom would load it up with water and tincture of benzoin. She would park it bedside as you drifted off to sleep with the aromatic vapors providing a comforting fog. I don't know if it actually had a therapeutic benefit but its presence was a comfort in childhood.
There was another weapon in her arsenal in the war on seasonal congestion: Mom's real infantryman was Mentholatum. Mentholatum was the front line in relief when it came to colds and congestion.
There are Vick's families and there are Mentholatum families. We Schmidt's are of the hardy Mentholatum breed. I think either Vick's wasn't on the market back in my Mom's day or she just didn't think it had enough horsepower. For whatever reason, I grew up on Mentholatum ointment and you'll find one of the green jars in my bedside dresser to this day. Don't look. Take my word on that one, it's there.
When Kelsey got home today, stuffy and feeling like crap I had to offer: "Do you want some Mentholatum?" "No," she answered. "I always have a jar in my backpack." See? They don't take dummies at the University of Michigan.
When I was a kid my Mom would always drag out our trusty old "steamer," aka vaporizer. It was an old industrial appearing device with its black melmac base, heavy glass reservoir, and multiple sticky perforations for delivery of a therapeutic vapor. Mom would load it up with water and tincture of benzoin. She would park it bedside as you drifted off to sleep with the aromatic vapors providing a comforting fog. I don't know if it actually had a therapeutic benefit but its presence was a comfort in childhood.
There was another weapon in her arsenal in the war on seasonal congestion: Mom's real infantryman was Mentholatum. Mentholatum was the front line in relief when it came to colds and congestion.
There are Vick's families and there are Mentholatum families. We Schmidt's are of the hardy Mentholatum breed. I think either Vick's wasn't on the market back in my Mom's day or she just didn't think it had enough horsepower. For whatever reason, I grew up on Mentholatum ointment and you'll find one of the green jars in my bedside dresser to this day. Don't look. Take my word on that one, it's there.
When Kelsey got home today, stuffy and feeling like crap I had to offer: "Do you want some Mentholatum?" "No," she answered. "I always have a jar in my backpack." See? They don't take dummies at the University of Michigan.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Grab Your Afghan
I an attempt to reign in the mushroom cloud of expense associated with providing health services to the aging, Medicare has established all sorts of hoops, chasms and cliffs to navigate in order to get reimbursed for services. Among them is readmission within 30 days. Currently we are moving to a standard which provides there will be no payment if a Medicare patient is readmitted, for any reason, to a hospital within 30 days of discharge.
On the surface that seems reasonable. If you get someone better they should stay better. A thirty day warranty seems conservative enough. Right?
Not always. I replaced a man's hip last week. He's in his 70's. He lives at home with his wife. He has no other disabilities. He had his surgery and 2 days later was up and at it, ready to go home. He would qualify for an intermediate level of care but both he and his wife wanted him home. So, off he went with a smile.
One week later he and his wife are in my office. He looks pale, he hurts, his wife is ready to pull her hair out. While he goes to X-ray she pulls me aside, "I can't take this. He yells at me. He just sits in his recliner. He's using a urinal instead of the bathroom. He won't even try to do anything for himself. I can't take this. Can we put him back in the hospital?" (I'm sure for some readers that may sound like their man even when he's not sick!)
Back he went. His internist, a super compassionate kind of doc, re-admitted him, and rightly so. He was a little dehydrated and just plain wiped out. In short, he made the wrong decision going home. Unfortunately, I don't know if Medicare will pay for that. It won't be paid for in the near future.
People can't get in the hospital anymore just because they're worn out, tired, or, sometimes, even if they're sick. And, once in, they don't necessarily get to stay. Some of these changes are certainly for the better and others definitely not. This much is for certain: Your doctor's judgement, compassion, and desire to do the right thing has little weight in contemporary medical decision making.
These days, cost trumps compassion. It may be time to get your afghan, rocker, and urinal lined up. Such may be the future of home care.
On the surface that seems reasonable. If you get someone better they should stay better. A thirty day warranty seems conservative enough. Right?
Not always. I replaced a man's hip last week. He's in his 70's. He lives at home with his wife. He has no other disabilities. He had his surgery and 2 days later was up and at it, ready to go home. He would qualify for an intermediate level of care but both he and his wife wanted him home. So, off he went with a smile.
One week later he and his wife are in my office. He looks pale, he hurts, his wife is ready to pull her hair out. While he goes to X-ray she pulls me aside, "I can't take this. He yells at me. He just sits in his recliner. He's using a urinal instead of the bathroom. He won't even try to do anything for himself. I can't take this. Can we put him back in the hospital?" (I'm sure for some readers that may sound like their man even when he's not sick!)
Back he went. His internist, a super compassionate kind of doc, re-admitted him, and rightly so. He was a little dehydrated and just plain wiped out. In short, he made the wrong decision going home. Unfortunately, I don't know if Medicare will pay for that. It won't be paid for in the near future.
People can't get in the hospital anymore just because they're worn out, tired, or, sometimes, even if they're sick. And, once in, they don't necessarily get to stay. Some of these changes are certainly for the better and others definitely not. This much is for certain: Your doctor's judgement, compassion, and desire to do the right thing has little weight in contemporary medical decision making.
These days, cost trumps compassion. It may be time to get your afghan, rocker, and urinal lined up. Such may be the future of home care.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
It's Time
I won't belabor this: It's September 15th and our furnace is on. True. I went to the grocery store this evening to pick up a few things and came home to a toasty warm abode. I wasn't uncomfortably cool in the house. My Willamette hoody was perfect. But Tam is small and has no body fat to insulate. Temps much below 70 tend to put her in a bad place. So, Cool Off, Heat On.
When you first turn a forced-air furnace on they always smell the same. Oil or gas. I don't know what that smell is but I know it from childhood. It is the smell of back to school. It is the smell of shorter days. It is the smell of Trick or Treat. And tonight, it is the smell of our cozy mid-century ranch house. Flame on. Cuddle up.
When you first turn a forced-air furnace on they always smell the same. Oil or gas. I don't know what that smell is but I know it from childhood. It is the smell of back to school. It is the smell of shorter days. It is the smell of Trick or Treat. And tonight, it is the smell of our cozy mid-century ranch house. Flame on. Cuddle up.
Breaking News
I love to hate that expression, Breaking News. When news vendors splash those two words in bold on the screen they are usually offering neither news or anything of critical import. It's expedient, however, and certainly beats a bolded subtitle that states: Please Don't Touch That Dial. Our Ratings Depend On You! The latter is far too servile for the mega media outlets that rule the airwaves. And too honest, at that. After all, not everyone believes the primary reason for televised news is to sell stuff. There are those who still believe the several televised news formats are to provide, well, news. Cute to think, huh?
I'm usurping that tag line. I'm planting my flag while at the same time I'm probably jumping someone else's claim. In fact I know I am because there is a web site breakingnews.com. But mine is better. That's it!: betterbreakingnews.com. For now, in this venue, (Not) Breaking News will have to suffice. It's here that I will give my unsolicited, please consult your personal medical professional; the opinions expressed are those of the author and not endorsed by any medical society, hospital, or Mid Michigan Orthopedics; please check with your doctor before trying,taking or stopping; the information contained herein is intended as an opinion for entertainment value only; this column does not constitute the establishment of a doctor-patient relationship; not all advice is intended or right for all individuals; always use caution when following unsolicited advice from blabbering professionals, orthopedic insights.
So, in the words of the immortal Paul Harvey: Stand by for News!
I'm usurping that tag line. I'm planting my flag while at the same time I'm probably jumping someone else's claim. In fact I know I am because there is a web site breakingnews.com. But mine is better. That's it!: betterbreakingnews.com. For now, in this venue, (Not) Breaking News will have to suffice. It's here that I will give my unsolicited, please consult your personal medical professional; the opinions expressed are those of the author and not endorsed by any medical society, hospital, or Mid Michigan Orthopedics; please check with your doctor before trying,taking or stopping; the information contained herein is intended as an opinion for entertainment value only; this column does not constitute the establishment of a doctor-patient relationship; not all advice is intended or right for all individuals; always use caution when following unsolicited advice from blabbering professionals, orthopedic insights.
So, in the words of the immortal Paul Harvey: Stand by for News!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Stairs
A friend of mine entered a post the other day poking fun at aging. Hers included a visual of a boardwalk extending into a pond. A reader commented on the perils of navigating that dock while using a walker.
In my line of work I have the opportunity to give considerable thought to what's easy and what's difficult to navigate with age. I moved into this house about 7 years ago. I was still in my 40's but I had already committed myself to buying a home without any stairs required in the course of daily living. Believe me, once you see a person over the age of 25 try to negotiate stairs with crutches you become a believer in the ranch-style house.
Stairs are an interesting obstacle throughout the course of most American life. As an infant scooting around the house on all fours, stairs are that precipice which seduces the little critter to possible disaster. Both the challenge of ascent and the independence of descent afford the oportunity to meet with catastophic consequences.
Entering your teens another layer of challenges are presented by the staircase: Stairs have to be ever so quietly negotiated if one is to return home after hours or sneak out undetected. Should you have been raised in a home with both front and back stairs, so much the easier. But still, hang on, don't knock anything off its roost on that staircase, and hope they don't squeak to expose your covert operations.
Advancing age offers the next stage in difficult navagation in the stairways of life. As mentioned, the ups and downs become treacherous what with crutches, cane, and walker. I once had a friend (Marla, where are you?) who elected to have both bunions whacked off on the same day. She later told me how she would travel her stairs each day going up and down via tush. Difficult at best. And if your bathroom is at only one end or the other of that staircase...good luck.
Finally there is that time in life where, once again as with your infancy, stairs become a life threatening obstacle. I've met more than a few patients after they've slipped, misstepped or just downright tumbled down the stairs. The consequences are broken hips, ankles, arms and wrists. It can be worse.
A staircase is really one of those grand ornaments in a home. The homes I grew up in and around all had staircases and some were quite spectacular. Stairs are wonderful to race down at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day to see what Santa left. Stairs are great to come running down to greet your Prince Charming standing below, waiting for his date. Stairs are great for lining up the whole family for that perfect multigenerational family portrait-- just don't let Grandma fall.
For me, now and in the future, I'll take mine dwellings on a single level. You can snap my portrait sitting in a chair, center stage, walker off set.
Happy landings
In my line of work I have the opportunity to give considerable thought to what's easy and what's difficult to navigate with age. I moved into this house about 7 years ago. I was still in my 40's but I had already committed myself to buying a home without any stairs required in the course of daily living. Believe me, once you see a person over the age of 25 try to negotiate stairs with crutches you become a believer in the ranch-style house.
Stairs are an interesting obstacle throughout the course of most American life. As an infant scooting around the house on all fours, stairs are that precipice which seduces the little critter to possible disaster. Both the challenge of ascent and the independence of descent afford the oportunity to meet with catastophic consequences.
Entering your teens another layer of challenges are presented by the staircase: Stairs have to be ever so quietly negotiated if one is to return home after hours or sneak out undetected. Should you have been raised in a home with both front and back stairs, so much the easier. But still, hang on, don't knock anything off its roost on that staircase, and hope they don't squeak to expose your covert operations.
Advancing age offers the next stage in difficult navagation in the stairways of life. As mentioned, the ups and downs become treacherous what with crutches, cane, and walker. I once had a friend (Marla, where are you?) who elected to have both bunions whacked off on the same day. She later told me how she would travel her stairs each day going up and down via tush. Difficult at best. And if your bathroom is at only one end or the other of that staircase...good luck.
Finally there is that time in life where, once again as with your infancy, stairs become a life threatening obstacle. I've met more than a few patients after they've slipped, misstepped or just downright tumbled down the stairs. The consequences are broken hips, ankles, arms and wrists. It can be worse.
A staircase is really one of those grand ornaments in a home. The homes I grew up in and around all had staircases and some were quite spectacular. Stairs are wonderful to race down at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day to see what Santa left. Stairs are great to come running down to greet your Prince Charming standing below, waiting for his date. Stairs are great for lining up the whole family for that perfect multigenerational family portrait-- just don't let Grandma fall.
For me, now and in the future, I'll take mine dwellings on a single level. You can snap my portrait sitting in a chair, center stage, walker off set.
Happy landings
Monday, September 12, 2011
Haben Sie ein hobby?
My German may be a bit schmutzed up there. It's an old line from a first year German reader at good old Willamette U. Translation: Do you have a hobby?
The other evening Ev and I were out riding bikes at the airport when he spied a man working on something outside his hangar. In as much as Evan was the leader of our expedition he insisted we go check it out. What we found was a man who looked to be in his late forties working on a large red radio controlled (RC) airplane. That is one of those airplanes that, although only 1/20th or so the size of a real airplane, flies and performs at altitude just like the real deal, no strings attached.
Once Evan had broken the ice (one real asset to having a 4 year-old at hand-- most people love 'em) the man and I started to talk about his airplane and radio controlled flight. It turns out he also had a real airplane in the hangar behind him but he found more joy in flying the model, something he had been doing for 20 plus years. He also relayed the fact that the number of people flying RC airplanes is falling off substantially. It seems most people today, especially kids and teens, prefer recreational software to the hobbyist's hardware.
I'm not surprised by this. I remember flipping through the Chicago Yellow Pages a few years back. The listings for hobby shops took up all of 2, maybe 3, pages. Escorts took about 10, doctors about 30 and lawyers about 45. Rough estimate but I think the proportions are correct.
The sad thing is, even though the internet and one's computer can offer oodles of entertainment options, I fear many of the popular choices don't offer anything in the way of real engagement. Too many of the activities people spend their time on these days are distractions, recreational masturbation, if you will.
If the opportunity arises I tell patients and young people they should find a hobby. I think it's as important as physical exercise and perhaps even more so. A hobby engages your mind, requires you to do work, mental and often physical as well, and leaves you satisfied with progress-- even when you can't find all the pieces, make the thing go, or put it all together. Most of the happy old people I see have hobbies: painting, scrap booking, restoring old cars or tractors, quilting, photography. The unhappy ones sit with their memories and long for the past. Loneliness plus boredom equals depression, a catastrophic equation at any age.
Think about finding an answer to the question above. If you haven't one already, finding one will do you good.
The other evening Ev and I were out riding bikes at the airport when he spied a man working on something outside his hangar. In as much as Evan was the leader of our expedition he insisted we go check it out. What we found was a man who looked to be in his late forties working on a large red radio controlled (RC) airplane. That is one of those airplanes that, although only 1/20th or so the size of a real airplane, flies and performs at altitude just like the real deal, no strings attached.
Once Evan had broken the ice (one real asset to having a 4 year-old at hand-- most people love 'em) the man and I started to talk about his airplane and radio controlled flight. It turns out he also had a real airplane in the hangar behind him but he found more joy in flying the model, something he had been doing for 20 plus years. He also relayed the fact that the number of people flying RC airplanes is falling off substantially. It seems most people today, especially kids and teens, prefer recreational software to the hobbyist's hardware.
I'm not surprised by this. I remember flipping through the Chicago Yellow Pages a few years back. The listings for hobby shops took up all of 2, maybe 3, pages. Escorts took about 10, doctors about 30 and lawyers about 45. Rough estimate but I think the proportions are correct.
The sad thing is, even though the internet and one's computer can offer oodles of entertainment options, I fear many of the popular choices don't offer anything in the way of real engagement. Too many of the activities people spend their time on these days are distractions, recreational masturbation, if you will.
If the opportunity arises I tell patients and young people they should find a hobby. I think it's as important as physical exercise and perhaps even more so. A hobby engages your mind, requires you to do work, mental and often physical as well, and leaves you satisfied with progress-- even when you can't find all the pieces, make the thing go, or put it all together. Most of the happy old people I see have hobbies: painting, scrap booking, restoring old cars or tractors, quilting, photography. The unhappy ones sit with their memories and long for the past. Loneliness plus boredom equals depression, a catastrophic equation at any age.
Think about finding an answer to the question above. If you haven't one already, finding one will do you good.
Disaster Drill
There I was in the operating room. There patient was ready to go, spinal anesthesia and drowsy. As we continuesd to get ready, my partner got impatient, grabbed a knife and made a long incision...on the wrong leg! He was beside himself and tried to arouse her. In a panic he tried to let her know of his error and that he would sew up the wound and make it right. I tried to convince him to let her be, we would talk with her after the case when she was awake and alert. I felt absolutely sick. And then I woke up.
I have never had a wrong site surgery, as they're called. I've had only one close call and that was 20 years ago. As odd as it may seem, as impossible as it may seem, they do happen. In our practice we have been requiring the patient to mark their surgical site for almost twenty years, long before it became standard protocol throughout the industry.
But that's not the point. What's amazing in all this is the effect of a bad dream. When I dream about medical misadventures, ex-wives, harm coming to my child or myself, an argument with my wife, any number of really rotten events, I wake up in a miserable state of mind. It's awful. And it can be a long time resolving.
I'm sure I'm not alone in this. I'm sure most everyone suffers the same effects of these negative dreams. It leaves me to think about the power of negative energy. I know positive thinking is valuable. And I know laughter is good medicine. But, holy cats, the impact of these virtual bad experiences is amazingly powerful. I expect such negative experiences and their negative energy have every bit as much influence and effect when they occur in real life, even if one is alert and better equipped to deflect the immediate consequences.
For me this all serves as a reminder: Always use caution, care, and patience when caring for patients or dealing with others. And, perhaps every bit as important as that, recognize the power of the negative, of fear, of recklessness and be vigilant to avoid those encounters. The powerful effect of negative experience has ancient biological value in that the things that can get you are more important to recognize than the things that can't. In that light, use them for the lessons they can impart.
While I can't always make sense of my dreams, I tend to think of nightmares as disaster drills. As much as these events get in my head and sometimes don't want to let go, I try to step out and see what lesson was being offered. Although not always as obvious as my recent experience, there usually seems to be an insight to be gained-- if only you can get past that creepy miserable sick feeling!
I have never had a wrong site surgery, as they're called. I've had only one close call and that was 20 years ago. As odd as it may seem, as impossible as it may seem, they do happen. In our practice we have been requiring the patient to mark their surgical site for almost twenty years, long before it became standard protocol throughout the industry.
But that's not the point. What's amazing in all this is the effect of a bad dream. When I dream about medical misadventures, ex-wives, harm coming to my child or myself, an argument with my wife, any number of really rotten events, I wake up in a miserable state of mind. It's awful. And it can be a long time resolving.
I'm sure I'm not alone in this. I'm sure most everyone suffers the same effects of these negative dreams. It leaves me to think about the power of negative energy. I know positive thinking is valuable. And I know laughter is good medicine. But, holy cats, the impact of these virtual bad experiences is amazingly powerful. I expect such negative experiences and their negative energy have every bit as much influence and effect when they occur in real life, even if one is alert and better equipped to deflect the immediate consequences.
For me this all serves as a reminder: Always use caution, care, and patience when caring for patients or dealing with others. And, perhaps every bit as important as that, recognize the power of the negative, of fear, of recklessness and be vigilant to avoid those encounters. The powerful effect of negative experience has ancient biological value in that the things that can get you are more important to recognize than the things that can't. In that light, use them for the lessons they can impart.
While I can't always make sense of my dreams, I tend to think of nightmares as disaster drills. As much as these events get in my head and sometimes don't want to let go, I try to step out and see what lesson was being offered. Although not always as obvious as my recent experience, there usually seems to be an insight to be gained-- if only you can get past that creepy miserable sick feeling!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
September Eleventh
September 11, 2011. There is much being made of this date and the fact it is the 10 year anniversary of attacks against the United States in which passenger airliners were commandeered and used as missiles. We have spent the last 10 years and more than a trillion dollars trying to "get the guys who did this."
From my perspective it's been a good old fashioned red blooded American response to attack: Time to take some names and kick some ass. Unfortunately, what we have not been so very effective at recognizing and addressing is the fact that we are trying to eliminate a very angry culture, one that is as certain of American evil as our founding fathers were of British tyranny. It's a large, angry, geographically dispersed cultural group with no fear of death, not an army of soldiers sitting in cold wet socks, hunkered down in fields or rice paddies with guns and backpacks.
We, like the culture that holds such hatred for the United States, remain unable to accept the fact that war and killing have no record of bringing resolution to disputes. Somebody always gets beat-up and, we hope, eventually goes home. But no one ever wins, no one ever lives in lasting peace. For me, that is the lasting tragedy of this event at its ten year anniversary: I don't feel we are any closer to peace, there is no feeling of greater comfort, no greater feeling of safety. I don't feel any better about personal wellbeing or the wellbeing of humankind.
Putting the philosophical aside, I remain saddened by the losses that occurred that gorgeous late summer morning and remember all too well. I loved the World Trade Center and its Windows on the World. I will always remember my first time there with my brother Dan, his pride in the great buildings and in his city stretched out below. And having the world's best Ramos Fizz with brunch. All of that and this: I remember what it was like to live in this country before that happened. I miss that the most and, unfortunately, have no evidence to suggest we will ever again experience that freedom from concern or that degree of optimism for our children's future.
From my perspective it's been a good old fashioned red blooded American response to attack: Time to take some names and kick some ass. Unfortunately, what we have not been so very effective at recognizing and addressing is the fact that we are trying to eliminate a very angry culture, one that is as certain of American evil as our founding fathers were of British tyranny. It's a large, angry, geographically dispersed cultural group with no fear of death, not an army of soldiers sitting in cold wet socks, hunkered down in fields or rice paddies with guns and backpacks.
We, like the culture that holds such hatred for the United States, remain unable to accept the fact that war and killing have no record of bringing resolution to disputes. Somebody always gets beat-up and, we hope, eventually goes home. But no one ever wins, no one ever lives in lasting peace. For me, that is the lasting tragedy of this event at its ten year anniversary: I don't feel we are any closer to peace, there is no feeling of greater comfort, no greater feeling of safety. I don't feel any better about personal wellbeing or the wellbeing of humankind.
Putting the philosophical aside, I remain saddened by the losses that occurred that gorgeous late summer morning and remember all too well. I loved the World Trade Center and its Windows on the World. I will always remember my first time there with my brother Dan, his pride in the great buildings and in his city stretched out below. And having the world's best Ramos Fizz with brunch. All of that and this: I remember what it was like to live in this country before that happened. I miss that the most and, unfortunately, have no evidence to suggest we will ever again experience that freedom from concern or that degree of optimism for our children's future.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Quality Forever
My friend Dan sent me a link to Men's Health Magazine which featured an article entitled "America's Eight Greatest Guy Foods." I have to admit to never reading Men's Health Magazine. That's not a slam, it's just that I barely even get my nose in the journals I should be reading. At the same time I'm not a huge fan of "the best," "the greatest," or even "top ten" ratings. In my experience they are usually commercially linked to the entities included and I usually think they're wrong to boot.
Not so this latest article. Just because he's wrong about at least 5 of the 8 entries doesn't disqualify the author's opinion when it comes to hamburgers. As he describes in his piece, when you sit down to a juicy hickory cheese burger at the Apple Pan, all other hamburger experiences fall to the wayside. Actually, it happens even before you sit down.
Walking up to the Apple Pan is like approaching a Disney landscape: the perfectly proportioned, unassuming white sided house with the double wooden screen doors. It looks like something out of the 1940's and that's because it is. When you step in you take a glance, figure your place in the lineup, and wait for your seat to open on one of the 26 red top stools that have supported some of the finest, and happiest, tushies in the City of Angels since 1947.
As with any great restaurant memory, much of it is owed the circumstances surrounding the experience; the friends you met, the staff you liked, the comfort of the surroundings. When it comes to the Apple Pan I can check all those boxes in addition to the one adjoining the comment "best hamburger." I haven't been eating meat for the past year or so but I reserve a spot in my cheating heart for these. No steer lays down his life for any higher purpose.
Make mine a hick-cheese, well-done fries, and a Coke. Oh, ya, and a slice of chocolate cream pie.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Belly Problem Solved
Over the recent holiday weekend I found myself parked in front of the tube, sipping coffee, and looking at the morning shows. GMA and then Rachel Ray. Years ago when I was single and drank too much I thought Rachel Ray was cute. That's over. Now she drives me crazy, just another member of the Food Network mafia. All smiles and "yummies."
Monday's show included Mario Batali, himself a member of that same mafia but a member I still like. In the course of his visit he had occasion to see and comment on some old photos of himself as a child and as a young man. He pushed out his belly and commented on how he still has that same physique.
A few weeks ago, as I was brushing Evan's teeth, he asked me, "Dad, why is your belly so big?" After removing the toothbrush from his epiglotis I answered, "Because I eat too much." Now I'm going to spare the mobile upload here but I really don't think I qualify as having a "big" belly. Bigger than at 23? Yes. Too big to go topless at the pool? No. Too white? Yes. But not too big.
A couple weeks later little Dennis the Menace was standing in my bathroom while I was brushing my teeth. He offered this observation: "Dad. You know why you're belly's so big? It's because you don't dance enough." I don't know where the hell that came from but it makes sense to me. Mario, take note.
Monday's show included Mario Batali, himself a member of that same mafia but a member I still like. In the course of his visit he had occasion to see and comment on some old photos of himself as a child and as a young man. He pushed out his belly and commented on how he still has that same physique.
A few weeks ago, as I was brushing Evan's teeth, he asked me, "Dad, why is your belly so big?" After removing the toothbrush from his epiglotis I answered, "Because I eat too much." Now I'm going to spare the mobile upload here but I really don't think I qualify as having a "big" belly. Bigger than at 23? Yes. Too big to go topless at the pool? No. Too white? Yes. But not too big.
A couple weeks later little Dennis the Menace was standing in my bathroom while I was brushing my teeth. He offered this observation: "Dad. You know why you're belly's so big? It's because you don't dance enough." I don't know where the hell that came from but it makes sense to me. Mario, take note.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Fall Sports Report
This weekend marked the return of college football. Michigan played at home, the game was called for violent weather after 3 quarters, and Michigan's new coach Brady Hoke recorded his debut with a checkmark in the win column. I know about such things not because I'm one of those beer and football kinda guys. No. My wife is one of those beer and football kinda guys. Wolverine and Mic Ultra to be exact. In fact, I have a large flatscreen TV and cable because my wife wanted to be able to watch football on something other than my 13 inch TV-VCR combo with the rabbit ears. Good thing, too, because those rabbit ears don't work anymore, not that I ever used them.
While Saturday's game was played on a field with an ambient temperature of about 113 degrees, and then went on to be shut down because of massive thunderstorms, cooler weather is on its way. Whether you are a fan-atic, fan, or have just a casual interest, I can tell you this with authority: It doesn't get any better than Michigan football on a crisp autumn afternoon surrounded by a blaze of maize students. You'll have a blanket along, too. When that sun goes behind the stadium walls you'll want to wrap up with your partner and sip some hot cider.
But that's a few weeks down the road. With Labor Day past it's time for fair weather baseball fans to dust off their pom-poms. There is probably no better subject of fair weather adulation than our own Detroit Tigers. They've only been around 110 years and it takes a while to build a fan base. Although they have faired much better, like the Cubs, Tigers' fans have struggled year after year watching the home team fade in the stretch. So far this year, however, the team appears to have the staff and stamina to get into the playoffs. So, for now, everyone's a Tiger fan. Even my football fanatic wife.
While Saturday's game was played on a field with an ambient temperature of about 113 degrees, and then went on to be shut down because of massive thunderstorms, cooler weather is on its way. Whether you are a fan-atic, fan, or have just a casual interest, I can tell you this with authority: It doesn't get any better than Michigan football on a crisp autumn afternoon surrounded by a blaze of maize students. You'll have a blanket along, too. When that sun goes behind the stadium walls you'll want to wrap up with your partner and sip some hot cider.
But that's a few weeks down the road. With Labor Day past it's time for fair weather baseball fans to dust off their pom-poms. There is probably no better subject of fair weather adulation than our own Detroit Tigers. They've only been around 110 years and it takes a while to build a fan base. Although they have faired much better, like the Cubs, Tigers' fans have struggled year after year watching the home team fade in the stretch. So far this year, however, the team appears to have the staff and stamina to get into the playoffs. So, for now, everyone's a Tiger fan. Even my football fanatic wife.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
F-You Fondue
A few weeks ago I mentioned how my mind had turned to fondue. Not literally. My mind was firm as ever. I had just lay awake thinking about fondue.
Today I'm here to tell you I've now made fondue on two occasions and will never again. Fondue is not the dish you set out on the bear-skin rug in front of the fireplace with that sizzling hot swedish babe-- unless she's made it. Fondue is not the dish you serve the in-laws first time over for dinner-- unless they brought the appetizer. Fondue is not for the cook who thinks he knows better than the recipes, better than the cookbook, better than the advice of the wife.
I'll make this short: If you are set in your mind to make fondue, read and follow the recipe with precision and full attention to detail. If not, set aside 30 to 40 minutes for cleanup. Made improperly the stuff becomes a polymer capable of bonding re-entry tiles on a space shuttle. If it's fondue for you then I have just three words: The Melting Pot.
Today I'm here to tell you I've now made fondue on two occasions and will never again. Fondue is not the dish you set out on the bear-skin rug in front of the fireplace with that sizzling hot swedish babe-- unless she's made it. Fondue is not the dish you serve the in-laws first time over for dinner-- unless they brought the appetizer. Fondue is not for the cook who thinks he knows better than the recipes, better than the cookbook, better than the advice of the wife.
I'll make this short: If you are set in your mind to make fondue, read and follow the recipe with precision and full attention to detail. If not, set aside 30 to 40 minutes for cleanup. Made improperly the stuff becomes a polymer capable of bonding re-entry tiles on a space shuttle. If it's fondue for you then I have just three words: The Melting Pot.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Back to School
Well it's Labor Day. Unofficial last day of summer, official last day of summer vacation.
As the school year gets underway, my daughter starts up year 2 as an undergraduate at U of M while my son starts pre-school. If my math is correct, that's enough obligation to keep me working until I'm about 72 given the current economy, lack-luster investments, and impending collapse of Social Security.
People say having kids keeps you young; and that's true if one is referring to continuing to live in youth-like poverty. The good news is that having kids reminds you of your own youth and how lucky you are to have survived the experience and to relive it once again vicariously! Kids give you perspective, keep you honest, and give immeasurable pleasure to the time you have.... of your own, alone!
All through high school and, even now in college, I have implored my daughter to stay on top of her work. Don't get behind. Don't procrastinate. Even now, I worry about her staying on top of things. And it's not just studies and writing assignments. Now we have to keep track of rent payments as well.
As I lay peacefully in bed this early AM, thinking about all this, I suddenly realized the date and the fact that I had failed to mail in a deposit for a major family reunion scheduled for August 2012. Crap!! I've had 4 weeks to send in the paperwork and the check, both of which were due "no later than August 30, 2011." F'in deadlines, anyway.
As I sent off my electronic apology and plea for both pardon and extension, I felt idiotic having failed in this simple task involving a deadline. Be that as it may, there will be no relenting this school year. The nagging resumes September 6th.
As the school year gets underway, my daughter starts up year 2 as an undergraduate at U of M while my son starts pre-school. If my math is correct, that's enough obligation to keep me working until I'm about 72 given the current economy, lack-luster investments, and impending collapse of Social Security.
People say having kids keeps you young; and that's true if one is referring to continuing to live in youth-like poverty. The good news is that having kids reminds you of your own youth and how lucky you are to have survived the experience and to relive it once again vicariously! Kids give you perspective, keep you honest, and give immeasurable pleasure to the time you have.... of your own, alone!
All through high school and, even now in college, I have implored my daughter to stay on top of her work. Don't get behind. Don't procrastinate. Even now, I worry about her staying on top of things. And it's not just studies and writing assignments. Now we have to keep track of rent payments as well.
As I lay peacefully in bed this early AM, thinking about all this, I suddenly realized the date and the fact that I had failed to mail in a deposit for a major family reunion scheduled for August 2012. Crap!! I've had 4 weeks to send in the paperwork and the check, both of which were due "no later than August 30, 2011." F'in deadlines, anyway.
As I sent off my electronic apology and plea for both pardon and extension, I felt idiotic having failed in this simple task involving a deadline. Be that as it may, there will be no relenting this school year. The nagging resumes September 6th.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
The Ol' Swimming Hole
The other night we all went up to the pool for an evening swim. Two of the benefits of summer time in Phoenix are warm evenings and no mosquitos.
The experience took me back a long ways. That is definitely a sign of aging: so many things recall distant events. I don't really mind, however, as most of those events are both long forgotten and pleasant. I think it's a sign of a good and full life, past and present.
In this instance I was recalling evening swims in Los Angeles. We didn't have a pool but the Sacketts next door did. The Sacketts were generous with sharing their aqueous playground. During the summer Danny Freeman and my brother Dan and I were at liberty to come and go as we pleased during the day. We understood to clear out by around 5:30 when Mr. Sackett returned from work and took his daily swim. Otherwise the pool was pretty much ours to enjoy.
A few times each summer the Sacketts would be out of town and we would be allowed to use the pool while they were gone. (This was before personal injury law infected the U.S.) On the occasion when the weather was hot and the evenings were warm we would head over next door and go for a swim. What a fabulous time we had playing Marco Polo after dark, jumping in off the high walls, sitting at the pool's edge, laughing and talking with the pool light providing the only illumination as the reflection of lighted waves bounced and danced across the surrounding walls and landscape.
Living in a somewhat rural setting in Michigan there is some prejudice against "big city" types along with headshaking over all the simple pleasures kids lose out on growing up in the city. Perhaps there is some truth to that but I have no regrets. For us, that pool was the proverbial summertime swimming hole. I'm fairly certain there's not a pond in existence I would trade for those summer days and nights in Sackett's pool. And for now, on these hot summer nights, our after dark rooftop oasis will make a fine substitute for that late night playground on Strathmore Drive.
The experience took me back a long ways. That is definitely a sign of aging: so many things recall distant events. I don't really mind, however, as most of those events are both long forgotten and pleasant. I think it's a sign of a good and full life, past and present.
In this instance I was recalling evening swims in Los Angeles. We didn't have a pool but the Sacketts next door did. The Sacketts were generous with sharing their aqueous playground. During the summer Danny Freeman and my brother Dan and I were at liberty to come and go as we pleased during the day. We understood to clear out by around 5:30 when Mr. Sackett returned from work and took his daily swim. Otherwise the pool was pretty much ours to enjoy.
A few times each summer the Sacketts would be out of town and we would be allowed to use the pool while they were gone. (This was before personal injury law infected the U.S.) On the occasion when the weather was hot and the evenings were warm we would head over next door and go for a swim. What a fabulous time we had playing Marco Polo after dark, jumping in off the high walls, sitting at the pool's edge, laughing and talking with the pool light providing the only illumination as the reflection of lighted waves bounced and danced across the surrounding walls and landscape.
Living in a somewhat rural setting in Michigan there is some prejudice against "big city" types along with headshaking over all the simple pleasures kids lose out on growing up in the city. Perhaps there is some truth to that but I have no regrets. For us, that pool was the proverbial summertime swimming hole. I'm fairly certain there's not a pond in existence I would trade for those summer days and nights in Sackett's pool. And for now, on these hot summer nights, our after dark rooftop oasis will make a fine substitute for that late night playground on Strathmore Drive.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Jobs Program
In a move timed to coincide with recent Labor Day weekend celebrations, a bipartisan Senate panel is planning to release details of an upcoming jobs proposal called the SPERK Program, a contraction of Spend, Eat, and Work. Aimed at reversing stagnant growth in the U.S. job market, training centers will be set up across the country to offer training to the hundreds of thousands of unemployed. It is expected that the project will be a partnership with key employers who forecast continuing robust demand and include representation from the dominant players in both discount retail and the fast food industry. In a statement released Friday a spokesman for the bipartisan committee remarked, "This is what we do in America better than anywhere else in the world. This is the industry we must nurture and grow!"
Democratic members have fought hard to include a far reaching humanitarian component of the program allowing trainees to eat for free and take leftover training materials home in a move estimated to save millions in food subsidies to the unemployed. Despite strong opposition from the private sector over lost profits, it is expected the "Eat Your Way to Freedom" component of the program will survive intact.
In addition, Federal dollars will be made available to colleges throughout the nation where jobs skills are foremost in the curriculum. Significant growth in opportunities is expected for individuals holding degrees in auto repair, property maintenance, food service, and non professional health related services. Healthcare related fields appear especially ripe for growth as most Americans can no longer afford to see a doctor and most hospitals cannot afford to pay a registered nurse. Funds will be made available for these programs by way of an innovative cost shift diverting Federal dollars from traditional 4 year colleges and universities where studies have shown students do little more than hang out, drink beer, and learn about things that have nothing whatsoever to do with getting a job.
After several days of often heated and mean spirited debate it appears the Republicans will also be able to carry forward their controversial "I'm a Winner" stimulus part of the same program. Popular among both traditional and Tea Party Republicans, the program allows any American with income in excess of $250,000 per year to be free of all income tax to better allow these individuals to do their duty and stimulate our lagging consumer economy. It is expected Federal pressure will be placed on the states to follow suit and, in an unprecedented move, also encourage eliminating all sales tax obligations for any household with combined income in excess of $250,000 or any household, regardless of income, that can demonstrate consistent spending beyond their means over the past 12 months prior to the measure passing. It is strongly felt by both parties that, just because you can't meet your financial obligations, you shouldn't go unrewarded for the good you do as a consumer.
The president should receive the proposal this next week. Wall Street is expected to anxiously await action on the measure. Meanwhile, Republican presidential candidates are meeting with advisors to decide who will comment first and just what should be said.
Democratic members have fought hard to include a far reaching humanitarian component of the program allowing trainees to eat for free and take leftover training materials home in a move estimated to save millions in food subsidies to the unemployed. Despite strong opposition from the private sector over lost profits, it is expected the "Eat Your Way to Freedom" component of the program will survive intact.
In addition, Federal dollars will be made available to colleges throughout the nation where jobs skills are foremost in the curriculum. Significant growth in opportunities is expected for individuals holding degrees in auto repair, property maintenance, food service, and non professional health related services. Healthcare related fields appear especially ripe for growth as most Americans can no longer afford to see a doctor and most hospitals cannot afford to pay a registered nurse. Funds will be made available for these programs by way of an innovative cost shift diverting Federal dollars from traditional 4 year colleges and universities where studies have shown students do little more than hang out, drink beer, and learn about things that have nothing whatsoever to do with getting a job.
After several days of often heated and mean spirited debate it appears the Republicans will also be able to carry forward their controversial "I'm a Winner" stimulus part of the same program. Popular among both traditional and Tea Party Republicans, the program allows any American with income in excess of $250,000 per year to be free of all income tax to better allow these individuals to do their duty and stimulate our lagging consumer economy. It is expected Federal pressure will be placed on the states to follow suit and, in an unprecedented move, also encourage eliminating all sales tax obligations for any household with combined income in excess of $250,000 or any household, regardless of income, that can demonstrate consistent spending beyond their means over the past 12 months prior to the measure passing. It is strongly felt by both parties that, just because you can't meet your financial obligations, you shouldn't go unrewarded for the good you do as a consumer.
The president should receive the proposal this next week. Wall Street is expected to anxiously await action on the measure. Meanwhile, Republican presidential candidates are meeting with advisors to decide who will comment first and just what should be said.
It's about jobs!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Last Call for White
Arriving faster than a speeding bullet, it's Labor Day weekend. For those of us who still recall and attempt to adhere to archaic protocols, this would be last call for those white loafers, slacks, and matching white belt; white pumps and matching white purse.
In his 60's my dad had white double knit slacks which he liked to pair with matched white patent belt and shoes. Quite the dandy in summer attire. It had this kind of Fat Elvis reference although, if my dad was a fan, he was a closet fan.
My mother was a stickler for protocol. Publicly I found it bothersome while privately I thought it was amazing and cool all the rules she knew and kept in mind: how to set a table, how to use a soup spoon, to which side a man walks when accompanying a woman down the street, who stands and who sits when shaking hands. Our mother equipped us with the manners to meet, greet, and eat anywhere.
It's an odd thought in this era in which an unfamiliarity with manners, rudeness, and being sloppy appear to hold sway. I like to think the fall of social protocols and neatness has more to do with ignorance than anything else but I'm not sure. (Of course, as I write this I'm sitting here in boxers and tee-shirt with my bed head unattended. But, mother don't worry, I won't go to out breakfast like this. ) Perhaps the fall of manners and protocols has more to do with social revolution. Either way, as much as I think many of the old conventions deserve to fall by the wayside, I think their wholesale clearance is a loss. Whenever people visit a town, hotel, restaurant, you name it, and they are treated well, and they are treated politely, and the people are dressed well-- the comments are uniformly positive. People like to be treated politely and they most often like seeing nicely dressed people. Bottom line: People who care about their appearance and concern themselves with manners aren't necessarily crazy, they're showing concern for others.
Anyway, a little preachy for a holiday weekend. Throw on some white and have a good weekend. But, come Tuesday, if my mom catches you in white loafers.....
In his 60's my dad had white double knit slacks which he liked to pair with matched white patent belt and shoes. Quite the dandy in summer attire. It had this kind of Fat Elvis reference although, if my dad was a fan, he was a closet fan.
My mother was a stickler for protocol. Publicly I found it bothersome while privately I thought it was amazing and cool all the rules she knew and kept in mind: how to set a table, how to use a soup spoon, to which side a man walks when accompanying a woman down the street, who stands and who sits when shaking hands. Our mother equipped us with the manners to meet, greet, and eat anywhere.
It's an odd thought in this era in which an unfamiliarity with manners, rudeness, and being sloppy appear to hold sway. I like to think the fall of social protocols and neatness has more to do with ignorance than anything else but I'm not sure. (Of course, as I write this I'm sitting here in boxers and tee-shirt with my bed head unattended. But, mother don't worry, I won't go to out breakfast like this. ) Perhaps the fall of manners and protocols has more to do with social revolution. Either way, as much as I think many of the old conventions deserve to fall by the wayside, I think their wholesale clearance is a loss. Whenever people visit a town, hotel, restaurant, you name it, and they are treated well, and they are treated politely, and the people are dressed well-- the comments are uniformly positive. People like to be treated politely and they most often like seeing nicely dressed people. Bottom line: People who care about their appearance and concern themselves with manners aren't necessarily crazy, they're showing concern for others.
Anyway, a little preachy for a holiday weekend. Throw on some white and have a good weekend. But, come Tuesday, if my mom catches you in white loafers.....
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Four Points
Don't fly with me. I'm the guy who has to pace and otherwise remain fully stressed until on the plane with bag tucked neatly under the seat in front of me. The behavior usually starts about 2 hours before the 2 hour drive to the airport. It resolves when we’re all aboard and our sundry carry-ons’ stowed.
Our flight the other day left out of Detroit at 9AM. Great fare. Problem is Detroit is a one and a half hour drive and could be considerably longer at that time of the morning. The options are: get up at 4:30 and try to leave by 5:30 for a smooth sail; get up at 5:30 and leave at 6:30 and hope you don't hit traffic; drive down the night before and stay at a airport hotel.
Travelling with our little guy we elected option 3, the airport hotel. So much for cheap tickets. Although the hotel wasn't terribly expensive it does add a few dollars per person to the cost of travel. The worst of it is the fact that you don't realize how little rest you may get the night before your trip.
We stayed at a Four Points. Turns out the four points are four bullet points, reasons you should have stayed home and gotten up early:
• noisy as hell AC unit that transmits directly through the mattress into your head;
• uncomfortable little bed designed for two very, very small people;
• broken toilet seat which offers amusement park type thrills without warning;
• a shower tub which doubles as a foot bath because the shower drains slower than molasses in January. (And I know a bit about molasses in January living where I do.)
As it turned out we survived the night and made the flight on time. We were even early enough get reassigned to 3 seats together—no small feat some days. Next time, however, we’ll take the night flight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)