Last Stop

Hop on

For a fair number of people, today is their "last day." Last day to overindulge, last day to smoke, last day to drink, bite their nails, leave their novel unfinished. It's the deadline ploy played out in calendar years. It's the ultimate in ultimatums. And it's bullsh%t.

One of the things about going through significant life decisions is that you come to realize just how much you can control, if you choose to act. At the same time you come to realize just how flimsy excuses really are. Work, stress, concern for others, extended responsibilities. Once the decision has been made-- acknowledged, accepted, and acted upon-- everything else falls away. The excuses reveal themselves to be nothing more than distractions, sorry attempts to rationalize a choice one makes not to do something they said they should.  The really sad part is, if you truly want to make a change, to stop, to start, you're the only one to whom it ultimately matters. The excuses are for your exclusive use, mental massage, and don't provide any substantive useful purpose.

So, if 2013 is your year to start exercising, to stop drinking, to stop smoking, to start eating better, sleeping more, spending more time with the family, to write that novel, to pull out that model airplane and finally start putting it together.... then today's the day to do it. Tomorrow is just another day to continue the project. Treat the first of January as what it is: A calendar day. Treat yourself like what you are: Important.

All that aside, I hope 2012 was good to you.

Out, Out! Damn Spot

A "spot on" topping.

My frugal mother used to drive me crazy as a kid. She was frugal to a fault. One of her worst offenses in my eyes was when the cheese would start to gather a spot or two of mold she would simply pull out a knife and dispatch the infected area. In her mind and experience, anything less than foul smelling rot could be safely excised and the body preserved for continued use. Dis-gusting! But she would have made a good tumor surgeon.

Fast forward 40 years. It's Christmas night and we finally have found enough room for pumpkin pie. Three big slices and Kels and I go for the Cool Whip. She flips a dollop on her slice and then the cry goes forth: "Oh, god! Mold!" Damn!! how the hell did that happen? She scrapes the contaminated whipped topping from her pie and sends it to garbage disposal hell.

Disappointed and frustrated I take the only action I can think of to salvage the situation. The container is not grossly infected. I'm sorry but I'm not having pumpkin pie without Cool Whip. It's Christmas night and there is not a facility selling Cool Whip within a hundred miles of this little town and I'm not having pumpkin pie without Cool Whip... and I am having pumpkin pie! So I did what had to be done: While my daughter watched in horror, I did as I have been trained to do: I scraped off the two, or three, tiniest of mold spots and slapped a mountain of Cool Whip on my slice. Delicious!

If you're reading this, it worked out okay. I was sick as hell two days later but I'm sure it was unrelated. The pie was fabulous and both Kels and I will live to eat pumpkin pie again--although I can assure you that, in the future, when pumpkin pie is on the menu I'll be checking the Cool Whip before the pie goes in the oven!

Too bad I didn't just check the outside fridge first where there was a brand new unopened tub of Cool Whip sitting in the freezer.

Rescheduling Christmas

Let's make him a moving target

I'm of the generation that grew up with Lincoln's Birthday, Washington's Birthday, Veteran's Day, and so forth, scheduled as calendar holidays. No President's Day. No moving holidays here and there in order to achieve a 3 day weekend. No, if Washington's birthday was on a Wednesday then there would be no mail on that Wednesday. Period. Just as God intended.

We'll I'm over it. In fact I'm so over it that I am formally proposing that Christmas be tossed on the convenience heap. Having Christmas fall on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday does nothing for the collective social psyche. This past Wednesday, December 26th, no Christmas celebrant wanted to be at work. No one wanted to be sitting in a doctor's office (unless they really needed a Vicodin refill). No one wanted to be doing anything other than relaxing, cleaning up the house, and/or returning gifts. Everything was open but no one was interested.

So, in as much as Jesus probably was not born on December 25th anyway, (and even if he was, what the heck,we've asked our founding fathers to make concessions) let's get Christmas out of the way. Let's move Christmas to the third Friday in December. We can all work a half day on that Thursday and then have the 3 day weekend.  Three days to play and no glum faces on Monday.

Just think, retailers can ramp up Black Saturday sales. They can even start opening on Christmas night at 10 PM! Now that's getting in the spirit of the season!

Noelco

For the record, a couple of things without giving out too much information: It's boxers not briefs. And I've always been a pretty well committed razor vs. shaver kind of guy. That said, I finally got a shaver.

Ever since I was a pre-shaving kid I wanted one of those Norelco shavers with the three heads that go round and round. I was especially taken with their Christmastime ads. At the holidays the ad would feature a snowscape with the shaver being used as a sled or early model snowmobile, cruising quickly and effortlessly up and down the moguls demonstrating with what safety and ease a face could be negotiated. Shaver as toy. Who wouldn't want one?

Well Christmas Eve it finally happened. There it was. My own Norelco shaver. It's snowy outside and I'm not going to take it out in the yard. But I'm happy as hell.

Yep. It was just that easy.

Merry Christmas

It's a day and a time of the year when so many people feel joy and hope and happiness. And yet, so many find this to be a time filled with sadness and hopelessness and disappointment.

To all those who have unmet wants and needs, fears and loneliness, here's wishing you healing. 

To all those who find this a day filled with joy, happiness, and fulfillment, here's wishing you the capacity to share and spread that joy throughout the year that lies ahead.

Finally, let this be a day in which we find, build, and share 

Peace.

Cue the Snow

It's 4 o'clock in mid-Michigan. There is a dusting of snow still remaining from the smattering we received two days ago, but I can still see the green of the grass and the streets are bare. No sleds zipping down the hills. No snowballs flying. We are beginning to have concerns with respect to our having a white Christmas. It's been cold and gray all day but no action.

And then, 4:15PM: cue snow. Snow flakes start falling in earnest, just like in the movies. And just like that, everyone feels better. The crowds are happier. Kids are smiling. We can't wait to be home, to light the fire, to relax and watch the snow fall.

8:02PM. A little late night supper of mac 'n cheese for Ev. And Kels. And then it's off to bed for Ev on this most difficult of nights to find a good night's sleep.

Hopefully we will get a good night's sleep. It promises to be an early morning tomorrow. And white.

The Cookie Cliff

Over the course of the past week at work I have heard more than one discussion about sugar cookies. Sugar cookies, I'm just now realizing, are one of the preeminent treats of the holiday season. Of all the discussions and debates about cookies, candies, pies, and cakes, it seems, this year at least, that sugar cookies reign supreme in the mind of many. Fat ones, thin ones, soft ones, crisp. Frosted, sprinkled, plain. I don't have my Mom's recipe so I have, once again, turned to the 1932 Meier & Frank Cookbook. They're great although, in my foggy recollection, my sister Nan's were better.

We've traded samples and tried to resurrect long-lost recipes. We've described and dissected, argued and defended. It has been unending and remarkable how this appears to be the year of the sugar cookie. The debates have been contentious but never heated. The exchanges have been contrary but polite, openminded and concessionary. In the end, we've all-- bakers of sugar cookies-- been open to new ideas and examples of the classic sugar cookie.

All in all, our behavior should stand as a lesson to the members of congress who can't seem to agree on anything except to disagree. In all fairness though, we've never set the goal of coming up with just one common sugar cookie, to be accepted by all. No cookie cliff looms in the days ahead. But I'm pretty sure, based on what I've seen and the attitudes involved, we could do it if we had to. I certainly wouldn't want the members of our current congress working in my kitchen.

Things Past, Present, and Future

I hope my son remembers last night for the next 16 years. There 's a nasty little virus making the rounds at the public schools in these parts: The rotten little bug we used to call "flu,"  crying and puking your guts out for hours on end.

I don't know if Ev got the bug or if he just got some bad chicken at Chinese last night. Either way, 10:30 last night he came wandering into the kitchen crying and smelling like, well, puke. So, two things I hope he remembers about last night:

First, because I'm a better floor sleeper, Evan's Dad spent the night on the floor next to his bed, getting up with him every hour. One good Dad award, please.

Second, and even more importantly, I hope he remembers what it's like to spend the night heaving and dry-heaving all night long. It's a useful reference experience when it comes to high school or college parties where it might seem like a good idea to drink way too much. His night certainly brought back some rough memories for me.

Date Night

Yesterday I got to spend part of my night with a roomful of women. My daughter and her roommate, both home from college for the Christmas break, came over and settled in for their guilty pleasure of watching Jersey Shore. They had been robbed of the privilege over the past few weeks owing to final exam obligations, so it was time to make up for lost episodes as well as take in last night's final episode.

Talk about contrasts. The roomful of women on the tube were amazing, to say the least. With their relentless self-centered, selfish pursuit of a tacky, superficial, meaningless life, it was more than I could watch. And they appeared in such stark contrast to the two women on my side of the screen, curled up in their chairs, eating Chex Mix, and simply escaping from what had been a relentless academic pounding over the previous 3 months.

The one group of women and their associated friends were completely unappealing. They remind me far too much of people I get to see far too frequently: Looking for happiness like a ship sailing from New York to London-- without motor, sail, or rudder. Dead-end self-indulgence with a desperate belief that what they're doing is fun or somehow important. I find myself always with the same question: What will come of these lives?

The two women on my side of the screen leave me in far better spirits. In spite of the self-indulgent selfish behavior their studies require, I can hear the humming of their engines. In spite of the white caps and waves I know they have their hands on the rudders. In spite of their belief that what they're watching is fun, I know the recognize the difference between substance and illusion.

I don't know what will become of the lives of the two women on my side of the screen. But I'm not worried.

The Comfort of Arms

Everybody needs one.

Gun control. I've been hearing an awful lot about it around here. The conversations I've been hearing locally have included comments that doctors should be allowed to openly carry in hospitals and clinics. Teachers should be allowed to openly carry in schools. I've heard claims that gun sales are way up-- spoken in a manner that endorsed the obvious wisdom of that action in light of the recent tragedy in Connecticut. I've heard statistics that fewer people die when an armed citizen is on the scene of a shooting. Everybody seems to have concealed weapons on their minds and on their hips. Needless to say, I haven't been hearing a whole lot of support for gun control. These people don't own a handgun. Most own several.

These conversations drive me crazy. They are fueled by nothing less than irrational fear. Fear that borders on panic. It's much the same kind of fear that gripped parts of this country in the 50's.

Every once in a while Ev and I will sit down and watch You Tube videos of things like planes, trains, tractors, trucks. You know, typical 5 year old boy eye candy. Tuesday evening we found a video about the B-58 Hustler, a supersonic bomber of the late 1950's and early 60's. It was built to carry nuclear bombs at supersonic speeds and deposit them precisely where needed: in the backyards of pinko commies who were probably just minutes away from doing the same to us. That airplane was a product of a time, a mindset, an irrational fear, that communist attack was imminent and only bigger, better, faster, and more jets, rockets, and bombs could keep us safe.

It seems we are revisiting the Cold War psychology. I guess I can't factually argue that the build up of offensive weapons didn't prevent nuclear disaster, maybe it did. I prefer to think it was more reactive hysteria.  Either way, I do hope that we have learned that the mass build up of weapons systems doesn't bring peace or peace of mind. The build up of weapons systems just brings more weapons, more worry, more potential for things to go horribly wrong.

I certainly hope Joe Biden can find the guts to step forward with a plan with real teeth; something on the order of the Australian plan. If we can't find the public and political voice to speak out and act at this dark juncture in American history, than we are the worst type of cowards: Armed, paranoid, and dangerous. In which case, I may just have to move my family to a well fortified property in Idaho and patrol the place from the air. In a bomber.

The High Cost of Neglect

Monday I finished out a long week on call in which an awful lot of people broke things. It's amazing how, after the storm passes I am realizing just how much the horrible events in Connecticut cast a shadow over everything else I had to do over the weekend. It all really came to light on Friday morning when I met a youngish patient with a broken leg. An emotionally crippled, substance addicted young adult with few boundaries who acted as if there was no one and nothing else in the world but him. As the weekend progressed and he continued without pause about his unmet needs, and the failure of the medical world to comfort him, it really became overwhelming. All delivered at full volume. (I was going to say all in a monosyllabic dialog but that wouldn't be accurate. He did say "fuckin'' quite a bit, too.) It was all I could do not to scream back at him.  Addicts are fascinating and exhausting in their ability to manipulate and rationalize and, with the pall of Newtown hanging overhead, he wore me down.

Walking away, however, I realize he is probably just one of a whole group of kids I see with far too great a frequency. These are the children who appear to have been conceived during random acts of passion, unwanted by unprepared parents. More and more I am getting the impression there is a very, very large population of children and adults who have been raised with no value assigned them beyond a welfare benefit. And, more and more, it appears that once the the monetary benefit has expired the child has no use to the parent. As cold hearted as that sounds I am beginning to fully believe it. These kids are given no love, no respect, no opportunity. They are dragged around like bumpers on the side of a tugboat. They are emotional cripples, bankrupt of self esteem, and left to latch on to any human being willing to show interest, even if that comes with a price tag of substance abuse, violence, and sexual abuse. Unfortunately, that may happen at any age.

I know that not every child born in poverty is unwanted and unloved. Not nearly. I hope that most are both wanted and loved. It's just that I see so many who suffer the worst type of abuse: a parent who offers no love, no emotional connection outside of anger, no investment or interest in the child's intellect or curiosity. I see the adults and kids who have been brought into the world and raised with such severe neglect and emotional deprivation and I am sad and fearful. Sad for the child and sad for my children who will have to live with these products of chronic neglect. And fearful of the impact on our society of this growing population of angry vulnerable adults with no self image an nothing to lose.

Black Friday

Turn It Off

If ever there come times when I say I wish I'd never had a child, it's on dark and depressing days such as this past Friday. The death of school children in Connecticut on Friday leaves me depressed and drained. It leaves me with just an overwhelming feeling of sadness.

I don't usually watch TV news but, once again, found myself in the lounge at the hospital with a TV on and a small group of docs glued to the story. I couldn't watch after about the first minute. But the story kept on. The emotion, the speculation, the drama. Every time I would enter the room, the same story. The shooter, the shooter, the shooter. And at that point I started to think the worst: Who's next? Where is the next tortured soul who sees this report and sees an opportunity, a means, an event to emulate? I can't help but think the media's exploitation of our addiction to viewing the actions of the tortured souls of this world fills sick minds with even more grotesque ideas. The grief. The horror. The fear. All at the calling of a single man. Like patrons at a peep show we seem unable to stop watching. And the performers know it.

If history repeats itself, in the days and weeks ahead the man behind this horror will be publicly dissected and displayed. His childhood, his family, his troubled or seemingly not-so-troubled past as the case may be. He will receive the very same coverage given a president, a hero, the same as any great public figure-- and far more than the average person who dedicates his life to the betterment of others. His face will be on the cover of magazines and on television screens for days to come. For the insanity of murdering young children and their caretakers he will be awarded celebrity.

For me, it's too much even to know it, let alone watch it unfold. The sadness. The young lives forever stripped of innocence. The parents and families twisting with fear and uncertainty. It's too much to watch. Watching won't make me better, smarter, safer, or more careful. Watching will only make me sadder and more pessimistic about our troubled society.

I came home on Friday and gave Ev a hug and didn't want to let go….ever. I don't know when the pall will lift. I'm sure it will leave me here in my home in Michigan far more quickly than it will any household in Newtown, Connecticut. But I'm done watching. I'm done with the story. My heart goes out to the parents and families of those lost and to the surviving children who have the rest of their lives to remember that awful day. The only other thing I need to know is just how lucky I am to have my family alive and safe, and that a parent can never take that for granted.

The Real Deal

Tam took Evan over to a friend's house this weekend so the boys could bake some Christmas cookies. What a great idea. A couple of 5 year olds rolling out cookies and frosting them-- in someone else's kitchen!

Anyway, it gave me the idea to do the same. Being the traditional kind-a-guy that I am I decided to whip up a batch of those all-time classics: gingerbread men. This cookie cutter and gingerbread man are the type my Mom, and her mom before her, made every year.

The problem was I didn't have a recipe for gingerbread cookie dough. A quick on-line search brought up a few recipes but it was hard to tell if they were the real deal. Old-time gingerbread boys, easy gingerbread boys, no-fuss gingerbread boys. What the heck?!

As convenient as on-line e-books and resources may be, it's at times like this that I am happy to still have my wall of cookbooks. I don't know if I've got it right-- I won't know until the finished product has rested a day or so. And then a bit of frosting and a few decorative candies. But I think my odds are pretty good that the recipe I selected is the real deal: The text reads, "This is the dough that the gingerbread dolls of our childhood were made from." That's Mabel Claire writing in,  Meier & Frank's Cookbook and Kitchen Guide for the Busy Woman. Copyright 1932.

The Little Red Car That Couldn't

This past week I ended up with Friday off. I have a Friday scheduled off about every third week but somehow usually manage to torpedo the day by adding on clinic or surgery, usually owing to the need to get work done. But this last Friday was different. I had canceled out on a conference and so ended up with nothing to do.

A Friday with nothing to do. Gee. What better time to go buy myself a year end gift. Something not too big, but red, and goes fast. So I headed over to GR Auto Gallery to check out an old Porsche I'd been watching online. It was one of the classic 911's from the late 80's-- convertible, whale-tail, the whole enchilada. I figure, getting a 20+ year old red sports car is an investment, not a man-toy of the testosterone infused second childhood variety. So off I went. The place is fun to walk through if you like old cars. They've got everything from Rolls Royce to race cars. And there it was, "my" little red Porsche.

It was the weirdest experience. The moment I opened its little red door, it didn't feel right. Peering into the "backseat" that I had thought Ev might enjoy, at least while he's still in the single digits, I realized he would feel like he's riding around in the depths of a paper grocery bag-- a dark hole. And you can just leave that safety seat in the driveway. Then, sitting behind the wheel I remembered the problem I have with the 911-- I just don't fit the pedal set-up. I feel like I'm sitting sideways. After exiting the car, I closed the door and it closed like a toy, with a light-weight rattly catch rather than a solid clunk. Not a lot of protection that.

I stood around for a few minutes trying to de-convince myself of the obvious but, fortunately, to no avail. Tam and I rode home in our big fat Denali and, I have too say, I was way more comfortable sitting behind the wheel. The tilting, telescoping, heated, airbag equipped wheel.

My sports car days are definitely not over, but my risk taking days are in serious decline. My old cars days are probably gone for good. Along with a decrease in drinking and driving, there's a well engineered reason we see so many fewer deaths and serious injuries from car crashes: There's just not enough one can say about anti-lock brakes and airbags, even in small cars that go way too fast. That, and there's really not enough that can be said about the protection offered by a properly fitted car seat-- especially one with a view.

Dissing Charity

In case you missed this radio story, or haven't read it elsewhere, here is a link to a great story. It is a story that, in part, illustrates just how cynical we have become as a wealthy society feeling so overburdened by widespread neediness and entitlements that we are often left feeling that, anymore, no one is deserving of charity. More and more we feel no one makes an effort to help themself. No one is really a victim of anything more than their own poor choices and lack of self-control and discipline.

In this story the reporter relates how an NYPD cop bought a pair of boots for a homeless man and how, subsequently, the man has been the subject of an media investigation as to just how deserving he was.

Poverty and homelessness are complex issues that few, if any, fully comprehend. The seeds are probably planted in childhood, fertilized by society at large, and harvested by pushers and johns. Poverty and homelessness can be the results of illness, the result of circumstances, bad luck, bad choices, but rarely occur by choice. It is a condition I find overwhelming to think about and, I'll admit, it's one where I've also encountered my own dose of cynicism.

But Scott Simon in his essay really comes to a proper conclusion: It's not about who, how, or why. It's the what: The shoeless man, the child ill-clothed for the cold, the family sleeping in a car. Sometimes it's important to remember that criticism and cynicism do little in the way of problem solving. Sometimes someone really does just need a pair of shoes.

"The" vs. "My"

Paws off, please

I grew up in a "the" house. When it came to public areas--  kitchen, downstairs bathroom, dining room, den, etc., they were all democratic "the" rooms. The kitchen. The bathroom. The dining room. My wife, on the other hand, grew up in a "my" house. Thus, I hear, "My kitchen's a mess." Even when it is the place where I prepare well over 50% of the meals and often do the dishes, somehow, I'm making a mess in that room she refers to as "my kitchen."

Not that I care all that much. It's funny though, the one holdover I have from my childhood home has to do with division and ownership in the kitchen. It's not a "the" or "my" issue but, rather, a separation of items based on purpose. In short: You can call it "my" kitchen if you like but don't confuse a hand towel with a dish towel. It's the church-and-state issue of the household and it drives me nuts.

In the home in which I grew up my Mom was always adamant about kitchen towels. Crazy perhaps but not without cause, in retrospect. Hand towels hang there so you can wash off the chicken, hamburger, whatever, and dry your hands-- well washed or not. A dish towel, on the other hand (I know. Clever, right?), is used to dry clean just-washed dishes-- not for wiping the chef's might-be clean hands. Imagine my distress the other evening then, when I found my wife and her mom working in the kitchen; Tam with a hand towel scrunched up on the counter adjacent to her work space, her mom with the dish towel draped over her shoulder. I held my tongue and walked away. Right straight to this damn computer, that is!

I know I can be a picky overbearing control freak. I know I have bigger issues to attend to right now. And I'm willing to surrender title to the kitchen. Just, please, if you ever find yourself in her kitchen, unless you're drying the dishes, keep your mitts off my dish towel! My mom and I thank you.

The Treasure Chest

I got the news the other evening that one of my uncles had passed away. He was elderly and was the sole remaining member of my father's generation and family, a brother-in-law. His passing invoked many recollections, however, as he was a colorful member of a colorful family. He was the kind of uncle who looked for a good time and felt it was his duty to introduce you to the same.

In all of this I recall an old acquaintance who always told me how her grandmother had instructed her as a little girl to spend time making rich memories. You can lose wealth, you can lose your freedom, you can lose family. Life can serve up all manner of traps and obstacles. Change is constant. But your memories are yours to keep. They're portable and as colorful as you care to create.

I'm fortunate to have come from a family where the stuff of memories was provided from a very early age. I'm fortunate to have lived a life that is filled with many, many rich and vibrant memories-- some a little more shiny than others, almost all worth keeping.

With my own children I always try to think about the memory bank they are developing. I hope I am doing a good job of providing the stuff and exposure for the creation of great and lasting memories. The great thing about creating great memories is that it's almost never too late to get started, pay attention, and make your memories.

Almost never too late. That's a cautionary statement. Not a reason to delay.

We're Not Alone

My friend Mike recently posted a link to an article that discusses the journey of the Voyager 1 space probe, standing on the threshold of leaving our solar system. Reading about this mission and the journey of this little 35 year-old explorer, now 11 billion miles from earth, is mind boggling. To me, it's not the science or the technology. To me it's the realization that, the further it travels, the smaller we get.

I walked outside with my dog last night. One thing about living in a small town situated pretty much smack dab in the middle of nowhere is the visibility of the night sky. The impact of urban light is minimal and on a night like last you can see the benefits of your relative isolation. It's not like Hawaii, with its almost claustrophobic dome of stars, or standing outside in the middle of western Nebraska where the blanket extends from horizon to horizon. But here, last night, in my backyard, looking up through the oaks now void of literally every last scrap of foliage, the stars were like didamonds. The constellations stood out in the cold night sky like pieces displayed in a jeweler's case on black velvet.

I didn't see a falling star last night and I didn't see anything like a UFO. I sure as heck didn't see Voyager. I'm fairly confident there was no extraterrestrial abduction suffered as I was back in the house and fully clothed in less than 10 minutes real time. But, looking up at that sky, that collection of stars, and peering into that otherwise dark void was to see infinity. It was enough to recognize the infinitesimally small scale of this often troubled planet. It was enough to make me certain the depth of existence is not only certain, but immeasurable. And, finally, it was enough to make me recognize just how fortunate I am to have relative peace and abundant happiness on the small patch of ground I occupy on this planet, parked here in the infinite expanse of the universe. It was, to use the word free of any hyperbole, awesome.

Pink Mints

At Thanksgiving last week someone was talking about these pink mints that old people used to have on hand and just how awful they were. They claimed they tasted like Pepto Bismol and had no useful purpose. I've never had Pepto Bismol so I can't comment on the taste comparison. But on the subject of usefulness, well, I know a thing or two.

I grew up in a house where the bowl of pink mints-- a decorative porcelain number complete with lid-- always sat at the ready just two steps from the breakfast table and adjacent to the phone. That's because I grew up in a house where the Dad smoked, drank, and had ulcers-- kind of the mid-century modern trifecta. After all, what man worth his salt in that era didn't smoke, drink, and have ulcers? In that time before Tums and Prilosec and good eating habits, before the taboos on smoking and drinking irresponsibly, the pink mint (the Canada mint, to be correct) was an early medicinal with multiple indications. For the smoker, it soothed his throat. For the drinker, it masked the odor of alcohol. For the dyspeptic, it helped relieve the heartburn and indigestion.

Ev and I visited our local Spring Grove store last Saturday morning in search of a little toy ornament for his tree. It's a classic old 5 and dime with the candy counter behind glass. As we approached the register-- strategically located adjacent to that multi-bin collection of penny candies-- what should I spy but an entire bin filled with Canada mints, $2.49/lb. I couldn't resist introducing Ev to this wonderful confection that was so much a part of my life growing up. After we got home he popped one in his mouth. Shortly after, as he was spitting it out, I was reminded of another reason we always had them on hand: They have almost no appeal to a candy loving kid.

The risk of a sugar seeking child depleting a supply of Canada mints is slim, at best. Unless, of course, he smokes, drinks, or has indigestion.

Over Paying

Like one heck of a lot of people these days, I've been out shopping. And, without risking disclosing too many of the items I've been pursuing, I have been in and out of several retailers of what are commonly thought of as high-end clothing. But I had to stop and walk out of a least a couple, much as I like their classic clothing lines for men and women. The problem was this: After flipping over a dozen or so price tags of 2, 3, 4, and 5 hundred dollars on items made in China, Malaysia, and Vietnam, I couldn't take it.  I'm trying to figure out, of that retail price, just how much does Ralph put in his pocket? How much less would he pocket if that coat had been made in the U.S. or Canada or any other country with conscientious labor and environmental laws and sold at the same price? 50%? 75% less?

I ended up buying one item because I couldn't find anything else like it on line or elsewhere. But that's it. I've found that with at least a few retailers, like Nordstrom, if you enter "made in usa" in the search field you'll be directed to all products they carry that are made in the USA. Likewise, if you Google search a specific product made in USA, like flannel shirts, men's pants, shoes, and so forth, you'll find a rather impressive selection. You'll find items made in Ironwood, Michigan and East Barre, Vermont, Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and Seattle, Washington, and dozens of other small towns and cities all across the U.S. If I can find a local retailer that stocks the item, great. I'll use 'em. If not, I'll shop from home.

Give it some thought next time you see a shirt/sweater/vest/pants/whatever. Look at the tag for the point of manufacture. The men and women who still man the machines in the small shops here in the U.S. deserve your efforts. And who knows? If we generate enough of a buzz perhaps even the likes of Ralph Lauren will see the value in supporting American workers.

Just One Thing

Remember craggy old Curly, played by Jack Palance in 1991's City Slickers? He claimed the secret to life was just one thing. To my recollection I never came away knowing what that one thing was and, frankly, didn't give it much thought beyond the theater exit.

In the last few weeks, however, I've come to give it more thought. During yet another patch of human history spattered with the blood of hundreds of people throughout the Middle East I'm inclined to think I've come to realize at least one thing: The key to peace on earth in so many of these conflicts requires just one thing. People everywhere need to recognize that this is it. This isn't the warm-up act. We won't be passing this way again. No heaven, no hell, no sitting on clouds strumming golden harps, no 40 virgins, no happy reunions. Until people realize that the life they have is not protected by, endorsed by, warranted by, or fully refundable by any being or entity, they are going to continue to kill and die in the name of religious belief. Until people realize the life they have is unique and precious and fully dependent on coexistence with other human beings, there will be no peace, no care-taking, no security.

Maybe that's more than one thing, I lost track. But it all starts with realizing there is no life other than the life you know. It applies to how you grow and develop your mind and body. It applies to how you manage resources. And it applies to how sacred you hold life and living.

John Lennon said it best but, alas, so far it is hard to Imagine.

Worse News

In the interest of full disclosure I have to admit two things. The first item is that the Buick is back and ready to roll. It turns out it probably wasn't a build quality issue. Rather, the camshaft actuator valve was partially obstructed by debris...or something like that. Anyway, new part in place and, viola!, good as new....... which it oughta be since it is still new.

While it was in the shop the dealer had given me this brand new Chevy Camaro to drive. The car is pretty popular with a broad cross-section of males. Interestingly, when Evan saw it he was determined he wanted to go for a ride in the "race car." When I explained it was a loaner and would be going back to the dealer later that day he was absolutely head down, eyes tearing up, disappointed.

Through the course of the day I put a grand total of 7 miles on the car and never drove it over 48 miles an hour. We did keep it long enough to pick Ev up from school en route to returning the car to the dealer. He was thrilled but it didn't take him long to appreciate the fact the car was designed for two adults sitting in the front seats. The back seat is simply a deep dark pocket with little to offer a passenger-- especially the 42 inch variety.

The Camaro reminded me of a Corvette we had a couple of years back. That car was a super performer but, at the end of the day, it just wasn't really what we wanted to be running back and forth to the grocery store and the office. Two years, and only about 9,000 miles later, we bid the rocket adieu.

So, here's the other revelation. And this is the really bad news to a mid-fifties male: When I finally dropped off the Camaro and Evan, Tam, and I got back into the Buick, we were all happy to be "home." Sad but true realization: As nice as the firm form fitting leather seats are in the Camaro's nice interior, I prefer the slow, stodgy, car-with-the-undersized-trunk, to the hot rod "race car." It's more comfortable and useful. How sad, but true. And you can see out of it better, too, front or back seat.

Note to Kelsey: As much as I prefer the Buick to the hot rod, it's probably still going to be migrating your way in July. I miss my truck.

The Good News

Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!

This is one of those good news/bad news tales. Fortunately it's the other way around-- bad news/good news. My old Buick puked last night. It was getting up there in age, though. I mean, I've had it for 9 months. It's got like, wow, almost 9,000 miles on it. So I knew it was gonna happen sooner or later. I was exiting the parking lot of the local Staples store when the car stalled. I re-started and headed out into traffic only to find the car huffing and chuffing. Lo and behold the cutest little tiny engine-shaped dash light came on. So far, the bad news.

First, by way of disclaimer, no one has looked at the car yet so I don't know what's wrong. (Who knows? Perhaps, in a catatonic state of sellers remorse after getting rid of my big truck, I pumped diesel into to the car's tank the other morning. Unlikely but I'll be patient and wait to find out.)

Now for the good news: As fortune would have it on that full moon night, the GM dealer was still open and just 50 yards ahead. There are a lot of complaints one could lodge with respect to lifestyle and quality of life issues living in a town the size of mine. But here's one for the "plus" column. Having purchased more than a couple of vehicles through this dealer they do know me. Even so, walking through the showroom door 10 minutes before closing I was very happy to find the finance guy there to greet me with a great big hello and a handshake. Less than10 minutes later, he's got a dealer plate on a brand new car off the lot and I'm tooling home in a Camaro.

I don't know what's wrong with the "big" Buick that can't-fit-a-set-of-golf-clubs-into-the-trunk-at-any-angle but I expect to find out today. The really nice thing in this was being reminded of the many great pleasures living in this small town. Like a large multi-make car dealer that is happy to hand the owner of a broken vehicle the set of keys to a brand new car for the ride home with nothing more than a wave and a handshake.

The other good news? It's year end clearance time.

The Doctor Shortage

I spent about 15 minutes talking with a colleague last night. He's a family doc, a member of that holiest of holies among healthcare reformers and government types, the primary care physician. And not just any primary care physician: He works in an underserved semi-rural area where it's very hard to get doctors to come and just as hard to keep them there. And he's leaving.

There has been much ado about the looming shortage of physicians which has been estimated at close to 100,000 in the next 10 years. I can't be certain of just how solid that estimate is, however, as I think there are factors that have been left out of the equation. Factors such as mandatory use of electronic medical records-- not one, but one of the many that are out there, each a bit different from another, each requiring months, if not years, to become fluent, each designed to maximize billing potential while often times seriously compromising the actual presentation of information about the patient. Factors like a rising tide of patients with no insurance or poor insurance, patients who many times expect to be "fixed" rather than participating or taking responsibility for their health. Factors like scorecards that publicly measure a physician's patient satisfaction scores. Factors like being employed as a doc and, instead of finding freedom from the headaches of private practice walk into the nightmare of corporate hierarchy, "productivity" goals and measures, and the highest of customer service expectations while being provided with the leanest of resources. I won't even go into the omnipresent threat of malpractice litigation.

It's not all bad. Many of these measures may help drive improvements in patient care. Unfortunately, they will also drive many very fine physicians out of practice.

I don't worry about Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Atlanta or any number of other substantial urban centers. I worry about the towns of 8, 10, 15, and 25,000 who have little to offer a highly trained professional other than a community filled with people in need. In our own little town we're up to 3 primary care and 2 specialists lost in the last 12 months.

The problem is larger than what we're hearing. Unfortunately, I don't think we've seen anything like the solution that's needed.

The Letter

I spent some time this weekend working on a letter of recommendation for the son of a friend who is aiming for medical school this next fall. A lot of people get these requests. I would imagine a lot of people have the stock letter on their hard drive. Just a tweak here and there and, presto! letter done.

I tend to take a bit more time than that. I have to give real thought as to how I know the person, to attempting to promote their strengths, and to avoid addressing things to which I really can't respond. For me it takes a little effort and, while I'm happy to do it, I am also left to wonder: Could you do this for your own kid? Could you write a letter to recommend a member of your family for a position of responsibility, a position that could easily evolve into one involving decisions and actions that will impact the lives of others in a real and substantive manner? Could you honestly give your own kid a letter of recommendation?

With time I have become a bit of a hardass. I tend to be critical of myself and others when it comes to evaluating performance and behavior. And when I think of the letter of recommendation process I shudder to think how many letters get kicked out every year with all the right buzz words and references; insubstantial epistles fashioned by "wordsmiths" who know exactly what to say without really knowing who they're talking about or understanding the consequences.

As for me, I'd love to be able to write a letter of recommendation for my daughter. That, in part, is just the point: I would hope that most any father or mother would be able to write a letter of recommendation for their son or daughter. I would hope that a parent would have a journal filled with examples of creative thinking, leadership skills, challenges faced and problem solving skills. I would hope a parent would be able to address their child's ability to extend compassion and understanding, their ability to sympathize and the experiences that have nurtured empathy. I can. And I take partial credit for that. And that's the other point that came to mind: If you can't, just where do we place the blame?

If you have a young child at home perhaps you should keep it in mind: Someday, you'll want to be able to write that letter on your kid's behalf. Even if it isn't allowed, it still counts.

16 All Over Again

Do you ever have those mornings when you stand in front of your clothes and can't decide what to wear? I'm not talking about parties or functions or formal. I'm talking about getting up in the morning and getting dressed to go to the office. Or the gym. Or to walk across the street to the hospital where the first thing I'll do is take my own clothes off and put on a pair of hospital issued scrubs. It amazes me how some of the crap you think you leave years behind rises up out of the youth-grave and gives you a fright. Jeans, khakis or slacks? Pressed shirt or pull-over?

Oh-my-god-is-that-a-zit?  How is that medically possible? How can a person live zit-free for more than half their life and still have one of the little effers pop up now and then? And, true to 13 year-old form, they tend to show up just before an event. Right between your eyes. Or on your forehead or on the corner of your lip like some herpetic tattle-tale.

I like to consider myself a grown-up. I like to think about grown-up things like justice and poverty and education and healthcare. But I'll be damned if standing there in my closet this morning I didn't feel just as inadequate as a teen and with no higher priority at that moment in time than trying to ponder my wardrobe for this Tuesday, November 27th.

A Lovely Record

My brother started something of a round-robin family Thanksgiving letter this past week. It was great to read about his life and family in New York. Then a brother's in Washington, a sister in Oregon, a brother in Oregon, a brother in California. E-mail is a fabulous convenience.

The NPR news site carried the story Sunday of a woman who found a bundle of love letters washed ashore after Hurricane Sandy. The letters dated from the 1940's and chronicled a wartime love affair that led to marriage and children as falling in love can do. The story goes on to report how the finder was able to locate a relative of the long deceased correspondents who was, needless to say, thrilled to have this fragment of romantic family history.

On a similar note, one of my office staff found a box of the love letters in her late mother's attic. They were letters her father had written her mother from Europe during World War II while they were boyfriend-girlfriend and separated by half a continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She took certain of the letters and had them cleverly framed for other members of the family. An incredible treasure, to be sure.

I've mentioned it before: I'm a terrible collector of "stuff." In my recent re-organization of my office I've uncovered a few relics. And, too, I continue to house a collection of letters-- romantic and otherwise-- that extend back more than 40 years. Friends, girlfriends, wives, family-- even a lawyer or two.

As fun as it is to read about long lost love letters being found the real point is this: what happens 60 years from now? Will your children, or their children, wonder what life was like "back in the day." Will they wonder about your courtship? Popular culture?  It may well be that no one will really give a rip about how it was way back then. But, if history repeats itself, someone's gonna want to know and someone's gonna be pretty disappointed that there is no written first hand social history. No love letters. No letters home from camp or college (like that ever happened anyway!). No letters to collegues and friends. Unless your e-mails get subpoenaed in some sort of nasty legal proceeding, there is little likelihood any written autobiographical information will exist down the road.

I'm not about to deactivate my email accounts. And I'm not about to stop writing the family via e-mail. But I will try to save the personal e-letters I get, print them to paper, and place them with my stash of letters. And every now and then, just once in a great while, I'll get out a piece of paper, fire up my old typewriter, and put a letter in the mail-- for as long as that service exists.

Really Expensive Clothes

http://michaelbiach.wordpress.com/2012/05/15/made-in-bangladesh/

I read the story this morning of a textile factory fire in Bangladesh in which more than 100 workers died in a factory with no emergency exits. According to the article, Bangladesh has 4000 garment factories, many without proper safety measures in place. This event recalls the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911 in New York City in which 146 people died. Most were children and young adults. Most were female. In a building with no emergency exits.

The Triangle Shirtwaist fire was instrumental in forwarding the establishment of the powerful garment industry unions; the very same organizations that, 100 years later, have been so instrumental in motivating the export of garment factory jobs to countries like Bangladesh.

I have no problem with an evolving world economy. I have no problem with my pants or shirts or shoes or car being made outside the U.S.  Unless, I hasten to add, the formula is to move jobs into a location where worker's rights, safety, and honest pay are easily discarded. And that's why I tend to buy American. I don't think the products are necessarily better made. I know my decision limits selection. But I also know my shoes and clothing are made in a country which has already done the hard work of learning about employee safety, fair wages, environmental safeguards, and that my income is staying home where unemployment is high and manufacturing jobs are at risk.

Next time you slip on a pair of jeans, underwear, or a shirt, check the label. Kinda creepy today if it reads "Made in Bangladesh." There is no global economy worth growing if it is fertilized with labor conditions we felt proper disposing of a hundred years ago. Perhaps this weekend's fire in Bangladesh will bring proper focus and change within the industry-- and among consumers.

Friday's Blog: The Morning After

I love preparing the Thanksgiving meal. I love having some help with it as well, but love setting the table, selecting the wine, offering the cocktails, and spending a day or two cooking. But, when I'm on call I won't do it.

So this year, as in the last few, I fixed a broken hip and then we headed over to my wife's aunt and uncle's big farm. As expected, and worthy of the day, there was a mountain of food all taken off the prescription pad for Thanksgiving indulgence. It's disappointing not being able to do the meal at our house my own way but it's nice to have family to carry the torch.

Then comes Friday morning. I'll be back in the O.R. shortly and I am grateful to have nothing to look forward to: No load after load of dishes to do. No greased up roasting pan to scrub clean. No collection of china and stemware to hand dry and put away. No refrigerator full of left overs that seem like such a wonderful bonus day one-- only to turn into an unnavigable collection of half-filled containers by day three.

Next year I'm off for Thanksgiving and so will probably be here manning the kitchen. For now, I'll just plan on a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and, maybe, Mexican for dinner.

Thanksgiving

Give Thanks and enjoy the day

Happy Thanksgiving

I heard a report on TV yesterday stating that 1 in 5 Americans will be working on Thanksgiving Day. This year I may be joining the ranks as I'm on call and that can mean anywhere from nothing to nightmare. For myself, and any other party to my work, I hope I'll have nothing to do but carry my beeper.

As for the hundreds of employees around the country who have "volunteered" to work retail on Thanksgiving Day, whether starting at 8PM or midnight, my sympathy. I seriously doubt there are more than handful of front-line retail workers in the nation that would "volunteer" to staff a cash register on Thanksgiving Day. I can only hope there is a special place in hell for the corporate decision makers who think enticing the public out of their homes and into their retail outlets to purchase crap on Thanksgiving is clever and smart.

Thanksgiving is a luxury: To live in a country where so many enjoy safe and comfortable housing, free of the sound of air-raid sirens and the concussion of rockets and bombs; to live in a country where so many of us will be left at the end of the day holding our bellies-- not owing to hunger but rather because of over-eating on a day of feasts; in a country where there are so many who care enough to reach out to others in need, insuring that churches, community centers, and other charitable venues can offer a free and generous meal to those without-- these are the gifts we enjoy and so often take for granted.

It is only right and fitting that this nation that enjoys such immeasurable wealth, this island of bounty in an ocean of need, that we should dedicate a day to acknowledge and celebrate our good fortune. To use this day as an opportunity to wring a few more dollars from a nation of compulsive shoppers should only be seen for what it is: offensive and deeply disrespectful. Pernicious avarice. Conspicuous consumption.

If you have thoughts of journeying out on Thanksgiving evening to take advantage of the retail carnival I hope you will reconsider and stay home. Enjoy the day, the evening, and the whole night long. Relax and recover from over indulgence in the peace and quiet of your own home. Things that cannot be done in much of the rest of the world this Thursday, November 22, 2012.

Parental Guidance Advised

The football season is finally winding down. The pro-stuff is not so compellimg but we've had fun staying tuned into Michigan, Oregon, and the occasional UCLA game-- like when they beat SC the other day. Ev frequently will watch with us a bit and that can be be problematic. It's not the beer ads or discussions of erectile dysfunction. It's the advertising for the X-Box games like Call of Duty and pay-per-view fights that make me uncomfortable.

I don't consider myself much of a prude. I will say, however, that when it comes to violence and  fighting I have no stomach whatsoever. The current infatuation with bloody mixed martial arts fighting and "games" involving graphic depiction of war and killing are so far removed from my understanding I am left speechless. Almost:

As for myself I can sit through an ad or two. More likely, I will get up and go to the kitchen or bathroom during these ads. The problem is, Evan likes to sit there and the action is irresistible to a 5 year-old. I find myself calling out to him, having him go get me something, or fumbling for the remote so I can quickly remove the ad from his view. I make a disapproving editorial comment and pry him away.

For me, an educated, fairly well to do white male, I find the ads offensive to the core. And for all the self-righteous anger about affairs, abortion, prostitution, and same-sex relationships, I would be far more comfortable sitting and explaining an advertisement focusing on the pleasures of sex than I would trying to explain one about the pleasure people find in violence.

When I look around the world today I find nothing entertaining about bombs, guns, shootings, killings, and beatings. I really am not interested in finding a means to desensitize myself; to make that whole ugly part of primitive human nature somehow enjoyable. As much as I hate self-righteous chest-beaters I might just toss a vote in the direction of one who would stand up and declare hatred, violence, and war as the greatest crimes against moral decency. Sex I can deal with, in any consensual form.

The One

I was out to breakfast with an old friend the other morning. We’re of that age where we start to learn of the passing of some of our early mentors. He said he would be attending a funeral that weekend for a woman who, as a teacher, had changed his life forever. He went on to recall for us how she had intervened and not only set him on his life course to success and accomplishment, but he really shuddered to think where he might have ended up without her interest and efforts.

Once again, I had to think of my own life and how, even given all the advantage and good fortune from birth, there are still individuals who have stood along the path I’ve travelled. I don’t know that I can say there has been one like my friend had saluted. But several have been there.  Still there? I’m not sure.  Maybe that’s a perspective one only gains in retrospect but I'm inclined to think so.

But, for now, I thank my friend for the reminder to take the long look, be mindful of the one, the few, the many who have been there to push, pull, nudge, or do whatever was needed to keep me moving in the right direction. I think it’s an important part of remaining passionate and compassionate in my own life. And, too, it’s a reminder to thank those who deserve our acknowledgement before it’s too late.

Please, No More

I hope I'm in the majority when I say I've had enough of sex scandals. The only kind I'm really interested in are those that involve born-agains or other self-righteous bastards-- and then only if they're running for office and the expose` torpedoes their chances. Otherwise: Who gives a sh#t.

Every time a story of this nature breaks I cannot help but think of angry high school teens, heartbreak, tears, vengeance, and resolution. Drama with a capital "D" and of the cheesiest variety. That, and I have to think there just aren't enough people in this world who have either had an affair or who are willing to admit the fact.

I guess if an affair were something worthy of inclusion on a resume there would be no story. But affairs still seem to be dirty laundry. And, unfortunately for the players, we live in a time when secrets have no insulation, where a walk on the wide side has little hope of escaping an errant e-mail, cellular phone grab shot, or rant on Twitter or Facebook. Social secrets are an endangered species and still heavily hunted. And that's too bad. Exposing an affair serves no purpose for the public good. In fact, I'd argue just the opposite: Affairs are a source of public attention-- a mainline to center stage. Widespread coverage makes one think an affair is something everyone does-- especially cool people like movie stars, politicians, and high-ranking military officers.

The fact is, an affair is no one's business but the parties to the circumstance.  The media's feigned concern, the self-righteous shock, it's nothing more than a script to attract an audience. As for me, I don't want to know. The stories don't help me, they don't help the country, and they certainly aren't kind to the families left to stand stripped, battered, and bleeding on the public stage.

And, what the hell? If the subject is so fascinating, go have one. You know the old saying: Don't knock it if you haven't tried it. On the other hand, having tried it may just leave you less than fascinated and a whole lot more sympathetic to the incredibly personal-- and private-- dynamics involved.

When it comes to who's doing who, it's better just to turn to sports. Better yet, turn off the TV and go for a walk.

Healing Hands

We attended a fundraiser the other night for my school. While there we took a few minutes to go by, greet, and pay our respects to the president of the university and his wife. Both have had a go of it medically in the past few years. They are, as we say in the business, “an old eighty.”

When my wife stooped over to greet Mrs. P sitting there at the table in her wheel chair, Mrs. P gripped her hand and semed to just not let go. Not even speaking. Just sitting and keeping hold of her hand.

Later Tam commented on her behavior and she wondered why. I’ve seen it before. I see it every now and then. Almost always it’s an elderly woman. Almost always it’s a woman in failing health. I’ve experienced it with a man a time or two, but it's less common.

Thinking about it later I had to wonder if it’s touch. Nothing more, nothing less. Just to touch, to connect with a vibrant human, a person showing concern for the failing individual. Is it fear? Is it a recollection of youth? Is it the simple comfort of touch? Having experienced it more than a time or two I’d have to say it’s all of that: It’s the reassurance of connection. It’s the comfort of touch. It’s the calming of companionship. Rarely do they seem to want let go. Letting go and walking away I always feel a little guilty-- that I'm cheating them of something important, robbing them of a well deserved pleasure, cutting short a last indulgence.

I say all that and yet I don’t know. But if you see it, if you experience it, if you ever give your hand to that person who has come face to face with the unyielding, impassionate terminal chapter in their life, or the overwhelming cloud of serious illness, you’ll know. And you’ll feel it. Whatever it means, you’ll walk away thinking about nothing else but that moment. And I'm certain of this: In that moment you've provided peace and healing, even if there is no recovery to come.

Deer Season

Today Michiganderss will awaken to the sound of gunfire. The sun will peek over the horizon and, at least from my house, you will be able to hear the pop, pop, pop of rifle fire as a very large population of hunters begins the firearm season in pursuit of a deer head on the wall and a freezer full of venison.

I'm not a hunter but I appreciate the service hunters perform. In my opinion, deer are to Michigan what pigeons are to Chicago: Just another form of rodent. In our case, big, overgrown, car bashing rodents.  I know. I got personal with one just the other evening.

This time of year the deer become very "active," as they say. In the half hour prior to sunrise and after sunset they are on the move, looking for love. The young man I met the other evening appeared to be on the run from trouble. Sure, I've seen deer crossing roads before but this guy was in a panic. And, when he slammed into the side of my car as I travelled along that highway, his eyes popped open wide in a look that said more about getting caught than getting killed. Yeah. I'm pretty sure the guy was running from trouble; caught getting too friendly, too close, too intimate with another buck's doe. Trust me on this: I know the look. After he tumbled across the road and into the field he snapped right back up and continued to run. Further proof of nefarious activity. I hope he learned his lesson. I was a slow learner myself but it didn't take being hit by a car.

As for the car, it's fine. He wiped a little dirt off the side but I can always replace that without an insurance claim.

Same Time, Same Place?

Over the weekend I got together with a small group of old grade school friends. I really, really enjoyed the opportunity although I not sure I can fully say why. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe it’s enough just to say I really enjoyed it. But as much as I enjoy it, it does make me wonder.

Watching a peer mature, cross the same territory, surmount similar obstacles—maybe that’s what it is: The reassurance of seeing a friend make the journey from child, to adult, to what has to be called middle-age. Making the journey and doing okay—or better. And that we make the journey and the past is not all behind. Maybe that's the source enjoyment. The comfort of shared experience.

As much as I hate this use of the word, I know visits with old friends remind me that life is a journey. And, perhaps most importantly, one that is far from over. As we sat and talked it was inspiring to think, with as much as lies behind, how much lies ahead?  How many more packages remain to be unwrapped, how many paintings to be completed, stories to be written, lies to be told? How many more handshakes and hugs, smiles and laughter?

It’s interesting, I know a few people who want nothing to do with people and places of the past, but I can’t think that is entirely normal—any more than it is wanting to live in the past. I pity the person who has a past so painful, so troubled, so unfulfilled there remains nothing and no one to be revisited.

But I'm over thinking this, I'm sure. Why was it fun? I'm satisfied to simply leave it at a yes, it was fun. That, and I hope to do it again. Same time, same place, next year?

Hello Snowflake

I walked home this afternoon from the hospital. I walked out into a blast of cold air several degrees cooler than from where I remembered starting my day.  Turning down the hill toward home I thought I saw something. And then another. Teeny. Tiny. Fleeting. Not dust. Not ash. Not a raindrop or a mist. Nope. Hello, snowflake.

By the time I took the dog out for is final go-round this evening it was, in fact, snowing. Not sticking to the grass and eyelashes, but falling in a real visible volume.

When it comes to snow I'm a kid at heart. I hope for snow days. I hope for weeks and weeks of snowy weather. Like a good thunderstorm, I always hope each beautiful snowfall won't be the last of the season-- leastways not until April.

It's too early for all that. I know areas of the country have already been hammered but, so far, the flakes I saw today had more of a postcard greeting in mind then the intent of moving into the 'hood. Nonetheless, I'll be ready with a cup of hot cocoa when they show up in earnest.

Style Points

I have a friend who is a retired general surgeon. He's around 93 years old and still lives by himself in his home. His wife passed several years ago after a miserable go with Alzheimer's; his daughter is an ailing woman who lives at some distance away. I'm sure he probably has days he'd rather not still be around but he doesn't feel sorry for himself. He shows up at the hospital most days. He'll sit in the lounge, read the paper, and stay current with hospital politics, the changing healthcare environment, Michigan football, and, until just a couple of weeks ago, Tigers baseball.

When I was single I used to have him over for dinner several times a year but I've fallen off since being married and having the demand of a toddler in the house. Knowing he's a steak and potatoes kind-a-guy, though, I took over a dinner for him the other night of boiled redskins and medium rare top-sirloin.

The remarkable thing is that the man is still teaching at 93. Even when dropped-in on virtually unannounced. Even when only seen for 5 minutes.

He met me at the door dressed for the day-- even at a quarter to seven on a Sunday evening. His well laundered and pressed shirt featured a large collar and broad stripes not unlike one I had in 1977. Over top he wore a tidy lightweight v-neck sweater that coordinated perfectly with his shirt and poly-knit slacks. A pair of slip-on loafers completed the look. I thank goodness I had on a pressed shirt myself or I would have felt wholly inappropriate in my faded blue jeans. Almost twice my age and now living on a fixed income and limited means, in an outfit than could only be reproduced in a costuming department, he made an irrefutable statement about the importance of presentation; the importance of caring about how one holds and presents oneself.

Looking around at airports, supermarkets, doctors offices, and shopping malls, I can only wonder about the wardrobe of the typical 90 year-old 35 years from now. The good news for the industries involved in outfitting the coming tsunami of elderly Americans is that, form all appearances, expectations will be low. Perhaps there is an opportunity waiting for the industrious individual who will create a line of senior attire. Rather than fuss with maintaining a concern for well-fitting neatly coordinated slacks and tops, our fashion entrepreneur of the future will make a fortune marketing elastic waisted pajama pants, beer or sports logo tee-shirts, and flip-flops or velcro slides. Unisex, of course.

Parting Comments

Out-of-touch

                                   

As happy as I am about the current presidential voting results I think there is a part of me that identifies with the Republican party. It's not their clean scrubbed sanitized women or their nifty flag lapel pins. No, it has more to do with their sense of fiscal and personal responsibility that appeals to me. And, if you've read any of the several editorials about the current state of the Republican party I think you have heard similar sentiments.

Somehow the party has become woefully reckless in their desperate attempt to stay in office and remain important. Incredibly, instead of trying to take principles of individual responsibility and fiscal accountability forward into modern times, they seem to have attached themselves to one group after another that seems to desperately want to remain attached to a vision of America, the American family, and the pursuit of happiness that not only no longer exists, it never did. So, instead of acknowledging change, accommodating social transition, welcoming diversity, and embracing tolerance, they have allowed themselves to slip into the control of a noisy frustrated minority that wants control. Absolute, all pervasive, deeply personal control.

In both this election and the last the Republicans hoisted a candidate who at least had some genuine qualifications even if they were not perfect. But, in both elections, somehow they felt the need to tap a running mate for their candidate who was absolutely polarizing-- and terrifying-- in their rigid, myopic, intolerant vision for America.

I could give serious consideration to a Republican candidate who acknowledged diversity. I could give series consideration to a Republican candidate who held individual rights as closely as state's rights. I could give serious consideration to a Republican candidate who recognized human beings are multifaceted, that no one system of belief holds reign over all others, that there is more value in looking for the good in people than there is in describing the faults you perceive in others.  As it stands, those candidates are almost universally Democrats in this era.

Note to the Grand Old Party:  Americans, in the majority, don't like to vote for a**holes. Drop your major in social sciences and concentrate on the math. It might do your party, and this country, some good.