Birthday Gifts

Today we celebrate the last of March and the last of the March Birthdays in this family. I was pulling a few things together this morning for a card and finding a photo to frame. Photos always take me places-- past, present and future.

Tam truly cherishes photos of her son. As I was looking through a batch of those from this past year it really brought into focus where we've been, where we are, and where we're headed. For me it's taken an awfully long time but I'm finally starting to realize that it's about them. As a Dad, as a husband-- it's about them. Many people grow up with that insight. Probably even more think they have that insight. Some of us wait years to gain that insight. And then, there are those who never do: They provide, they do their job, they "bring home the bacon," but it's still, at the end of the day and the end of a lifetime, always about them.

There are dozens of things with which a person can occupy a lifetime. Nothing deserves that time and attention more than the people you've brought into this world and the partner with whom you'll spend that time. No one deserves it more than the child who needs care and direction. No one deserves it more than the mate who stands along side. Nothing deserves your time more and there is no more deserving way to spend it.

So, this year,  my wife gets me for her birthday. Kels and Evan are getting the same thing. It fits well, goes everywhere, and lasts a lifetime. Best of all, I know they'll like it and won't mind getting the same thing year after year.

Fake Out

I got up a bit ago to see what all the noise was about. It was thunder… and sleet. Sleet is kinda like melting hail. It goes rat-a-tat-tat on the windows and sills. The roads and sidewalks get covered with icy slush. Trucks slide into ditches. Geez, two weeks ago it was 80.

I love fall. I love the transition from summer's heat to the warm days and cool nights of autumn. I love the way the wind comes up to move the change along. That's how it's been here these last few weeks.  Hot days giving way to cooler. Now comes the wind and rain and sleet and snow and…… April?? Yep. March 30th and it is cold, cold, cold!! As they say in these parts, it's a nasty day.

With March weather my Mom would always announce: "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." I think she also claimed the converse was true: In like a lamb, out like a lion. We'll see. We have about 36 hours to sort this out. In the meantime this is nothing more than a nasty fake out. Just when you think you can trust the weather and prepare to sail into better weather, somebody pulls the ball away and lands you right on your cold weather butt. Welcome to Michigan.

An Old Story

Last night PBS aired a National Geographic special, "Quest for the Lost Maya." It is the story of a previously known and poorly understood "northern suburb," if you will, on the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. It is the story of a civilization that thrived for over 1500 years in a region without any source of water other than rain. It is the story of a civilization that appears to have possessed both wealth and a middle class.

The mystery revolves around the fact that this civilization, this northern outpost of the Maya, was previously under estimated in its capabilities and sophistication-- a poor stepchild of the more famous southern civilization. It is also a mystery as to why it so suddenly disappeared. The entire region appears to have packed up and left; but left with the intention of returning.

This is not the story of alien abduction. This appears to be the story of what happens when religious fanaticism infects politics and the devastating consequences on governance and society.

There are several reasons anyone would enjoy this beautiful story. There are a few very pointed reasons several of our fundamentalist leaning candidates for elected office should be required to watch. Then again, I suppose they would attribute the demise of the Maya to a failure to give the "One True God" place-- a lack of Christian principles.

What the hell, they probably had it coming. Surely we can do better than a bunch of dumb old Mexicans. Then again, I guess we'll know in about 1250 years.

The Land of Canaan

What seems like a zillion years ago, I went to medical school in southern California. We were out in Pomona, in the farthest eastern reaches of Los Angeles County. I lived in the quaint village of Claremont and rode about 7 miles to school each day courtesy of my roommate Mike. This was a time when one could still find productive plots of agricultural land in those parts. The orange and lemon groves were long gone but a fertile productive field could still be found here and there.

One of those properties was a strawberry field just a mile or so from our apartment. Each year, and it seems like it was twice each year, a little roadside stand would flip open it's lid and a sign would read "Strawberries." I wish I could report that my roommate and I took every advantage of this bounty but, foolish boys, it was only a handful of occasions he would pull over in his trusty old Volvo 120 series wagon.

I'm not the world's greatest fan of strawberries. I can take 'em or leave 'em. My shortcake needs mountains of whipped cream. My favorite presentation is a'la Polachek: strawberries with whipped cream, sour cream, and raw granulated cane sugar. I think dipping them in chocolate is a waste of perfectly good candy. Nonetheless, I loved stopping at that roadside stand.

That stand was always staffed by a single woman whom I'd guess was well into her 70's. She was a large round Mexican woman with beautiful weathered features and eyes that truly sparkled. The berries she had were the size of a young boy's hand. She would take one box, place it on brown paper, and then pile more from another box on top of those until the strawberries were heaped and falling onto the paper. Then her gnarled fingers would fold that paper snug around your bounty and you'd be on your way.

I haven't been back that way in over a lifetime but I would seriously doubt that field still exists. But for a few years of my life it was a wonderful roadside attraction providing berries of Biblical proportion. It was a happy reunion here in Arizona this past weekend when we found similar berries. Evan holds one in the photo above. If only I had snapped a photo all those years ago: That wonderful woman, her tidy bundled packages, those giant berries. Alas, the iPhone and Instagram were lightyears in the future.

Spring

I've been in Michigan for more than 25 years. I've spent the better part of that 25 years indoors working but, nonetheless, I've seen the change of seasons with each of those years. And, like everyone else I've spoken with this past week, I've never seen anything like the spring that's sprung here in the last week or so.

A typical Michigan spring is like junior high dating. It's timid. It's a slow process that frequently never goes too far. Spring is just a dance: Snow flurries come and go. Rain soaks the fields. Eventually, by around late April or early May you'll begin to see signs of life: The grass starts to green, flowers begin to bloom-- about a full two months after anything you'd see in more moderate climes. Finally, by June, the party is on and the landscape has been restored with new growth and the winter clothes are back in storage.

The photo above is of one of the magnolia trees in town.  I've never seen these trees in bloom prior to late April or early May. Forsythia, daffodils-- we usually see these in the latter part of the month. The month of April. When Evan's birthday rolls around in early May we hope it will be warm enough to have his party outside. It was well over 80 degrees Thursday, March 22nd. Keep this up and people are going to want to start moving to Michigan.

The down side is severe weather. We've had a tornado, not our usual fare. And the other night flying west we dodged thunderstorms at 34,000 feet for the better part of two hours. I thought the tail was coming off! (Happy to be able to report to the contrary.)

True to Michigan meteorologic form, old spring returned Sunday. When our flight arrived in Detroit Sunday evening it was 72 degrees. 90 minutes later, arriving home it was 53. Monday morning walking to work it was 30. Tuesday night, frost and freeze warnings. The really bad news is that there are a lot of plants that do not fair well when you mess with the weather in this fashion. Hopefully the good news will be that mosquito larvae suffer catastrophically.

I don't suppose I'll see another spring like this in Michigan but, wow, what a show it's been! It's just another one of the advantages to living where I do. You come to recognize and appreciate things that others often overlook as mundane or, more to the point, never get to witness.

Now, where did I put that scarf?

Getting Juiced

We launched this past weekend by spending an hour with our new financial planner, Dana Anspach. She's really quite good. She's nonjudgemental, pleasant, and obviously passionate about her work. Knowledgable too. She writes a monthly blog for About.com, a service of the New York Times. Her blog is appropriately titled Money Over 55. (Hey, not bad: First paragraph and I've already given you three valuable links!)  If nothing else, check out her blog.

At any rate, when you engage Dana's services you start out by having to take inventory of everything you think you have, everything you think you spend, in an effort to debunk everything you think you need to retire. For me, that's already thinking too much. For some, like me, that right there is enough to make you start to feel a little uncomfortable. After you've forwarded your fiction to Dana she sets up a time to meet with you and start the process of getting your financial ducks in a row.

In Arizona every meeting you have-- realtor, attorney, financial planner-- starts the same way: "Can I get you some water?" I guess that's for good reason: You're in a region that receives as much rainfall in a year as Portland, Oregon does on any given Wednesday. Note to Dana: you might want to change up to liquor. At any rate, for the next 60 minutes she very kindly takes you on a tour of your financial self including all the fantasies and misrepresentations you may have sent her way. You get to leave your clothes on but that's about all. She is very thorough and you come away feeling, well, juiced. And that's what she calls it, a Juicing Session.

After embarking on the process I'm not sure in what fashion I've been juiced. On the one hand, I do feel empowered (put that on my list of "never" words) to start moving towards shoring up my financials. On the other hand, I also feel rather like an orange after exiting an attachment to your KitchenAid.

All in all, it was a good start to the weekend even if it did dictate the focus of conversation for the next 72 hours. I realize that many of my friends and family are way ahead of me in this and have been responsible planners for years. For this slightly nicked-up reformed bachelor it was an eye opener and well worth the time.  Best lesson of the experience? My daughter needs to get juiced now. And if you haven't been, you should.

Fluent in American

In the last month our local paper has had several editorial pieces pertaining to the recent Rush Limbaugh debacle. Other media personalities are just as guilty of routinely using derogatory and demeaning language. The formula is quite simple really: These people use this language because it sells. Media personalities like Limbaugh and Maher are very highly paid owing to massive advertising budgets; budgets fueled by the masses of Americans who love trash talk and tune in daily to listen to their favorite smartass. Now political candidates and politicians follow suit to gain the appearance of being smart, hip, sharp witted.

The American idiocracy has an insatiable appetite for gossip, vile behavior, and personal attack. This country seems to have abandoned all efforts at maintaining any semblance of civility; so much so, it is fair to say, that all manner of low-minded, mean spirited comment is interpreted as clever. Being mean has become cool. Sarcasm and cynicism have become synonymous with wit. Expletives have become the sharp edged tools of movers and shakers.

There have always been sharp-tongued irreverent comedians and commentators. It was understood who they were and how they worked. Some were popular, some were despised. Don Rickles was an artist, an entertainer, and the recognized dean of insult comedy. It was exceptional and understood as such. For my money, our contemporary practitioners are simply rude, hiding anger and frustration behind what is foisted onto the public as witty entertainment. Repartee.  It’s the tapas platter catering the wholesale appetite we’ve developed for bad taste and worse manners.

I find it especially discouraging listening to those with political ambitions phrase their presentations in a lowest common denominator type speech. It seems the ability to be articulate has been laid waste by the need to be vile. Given the current taste for casual and derogatory commentary, it is simply not cool to speak well. It is not effective to carefully articulate one’s platform or point of view. To be effective you must attack. Elections in this country are not being won based on what a candidate has to offer but solely on how much detritus has been heaved on the opponent. That leaves me to wonder just how great an impact month after month of negativism and personal attack has on an individual’s constitution. My concern is that these strategies and behaviors are either creating little monsters or revealing the candidates as such. Either way, the only reason I can see for endorsing such a candidate would be a desire to elect an angry frustrated individual with a limited vocabulary—or is that what it means to be a real American these days?

Any scholar of American political speeches must be wondering what there will be to study from this period of our history. So far, I’m not seeing much in the way of material. As for the talking heads who feel they garner the authority to rifle off insults and offenses at anyone who fails to live up to their media-stoked ego-centric standards, hopefully they will be remembered as criminals-- if at all. 

Funny Ideas

One of my Mom's all time favorites was Lucille Ball. I remember she and my Dad tuning in from "I Love Lucy" on through to the "Lucy Show" and "Here's Lucy." She laughed at her pranks and wit as much as she appreciated her as a woman. I think my Mom really admired her as a Star-- capital S-- a woman of prominence who made her way to great heights in the industry employing clever and decent humor.

My memory of Lucy involves gags, pratfalls and crazy situations. I have an old friend from way back in the Warner Avenue days who's mom was one of the writers. I had to think of that woman the other night, Madelyn Pugh Davis, a woman I never met. As Tam was assembling this amazing dessert for Evan's pre-school (the letter is "W," the snack is worms in a tub of dirt) I started thinking of the numerous ways in which Lucy could have corralled this project into a paddock filled with hilarity. From ingredients, to technique, to assembly, to storage, to substituting forks instead of spoons for kids being served a pudding dessert. I could see nothing but one opportunity after another to make this 30 minute project into a gut splitting half hour of comedy. But Mrs. Davis did it-- week after week after week. And I had to wonder: where did all those ideas come from?  I know there was a team at work but who the heck ever thought of assembly line work in a chocolate factory, stomping grapes, or getting drunk doing a vitamin ad???

I guess maybe the lesson here is just this: What you find in life depends on both what you're looking at and what you hope to find. The important thing is to be looking and expecting to find the best. My hat's off to those who find the humorous and share it with the rest of us.

Here's something to start your day with a laugh.

In case you're wondering-- the desert was a smashing success!

Dancing With The Stars

Over the past couple of years Tam and I have dropped in on Dancing With The Stars a time or two. Or three. Or four. True confession. A guilty little secret although I can't really give you the names of the judges off the top of my head. (Kari, Bruno, and Len-- okay, so I can. So what?)

Monday night we tuned into the premier of the new season. After watching this off and on over the past couple of years, I came to a realization:  Call me slow on the take but this is totally a chick show. Duh, I know. The clue? Donald Driver, Jack Wagner, little Roshon Fagen, and William Levy ("The Latin Hottie"). There are 10 others on the show but they're kind of like the opening act for the Beatles. The ladies go crazy when these guys hit the floor. Between these contestants and the professional male dance partners It's Dancing With The Narcissists. Me? I don't have to look like those guys, I've got self confidence!

I guess with all the violent crap on the air these days it's nice to have little eye candy once a week. Even if it is for the ladies. Wait, what am I saying??  Especially since it's for the ladies!

Because

In the past two years we have often enjoyed taking a group shower in our big box double shower. We have two showers and a separate sprayer. It has turned bath time into family time on many occasions. Ev loves to slide around on the marble tile like a slip and slide, although we outlawed running starts from the get-go. But he has had a lot of fun in the shower and we have had a lot of fun with him. And when you're tired and dirty there's no better way to get his bath done along with your own.

It's all been good until he started noticing things about Mom. Like what we have that she doesn't, and what she has that we don't. Now we've never been modest about being undressed around Ev but always kind of figured there would come a time when his interest becomes just a bit too intrusive for comfort.

Well, we're there. Just a bit too much stooping and staring and reaching. A bit too much laughter and not enough academics in his approach. So tonight we had to drop the bomb: No. We cannot take a group shower tonight. "Just you and Dad tonight. Mom's not going to do that anymore." "Why?"

Ever remember your mom answering a question with that one word that was simultaneously both absolute and perfectly evasive? "Because."

God's Gift?

There's a Catholic social club, The Knights of Columbus, here in town. One large wall of the building faces a Planned Parenthood clinic. They don't do abortions at the clinic, just education, healthcare screenings and birth control. On the large wall of the Knights building facing the clinic is a bold sign that reads, "Life. God's Greatest Gift!" Here's a page for their consideration. It is a page for anyone who is steadfast in their belief that abortion should never be an option.

I see incarcerated juveniles on only rare occasions but I can tell you this, they are never normal. They are alternately starved for caring and affection or suspicious and hostile. Criminal juveniles remind me of abused animals. That would be because they are just that. When I look at these photographs and read the associated stories three thoughts come to mind:

First, I hope that neither of my children ever run seriously afoul of the law. I can't ever imagine a reason but I know it can happen. Sometimes it's accidental, sometimes circumstantial. If a child of mine were faced with incarceration I would be filled with an unbearable sadness.

Second, I cannot imagine the cascade of social and familial misfortunes and neglect that drive kids to criminal acts and prison. It is human failure of the highest magnitude. When I see a parent neglecting a child, hitting a child, ignoring a child, it breaks my heart. Seeing such behaviors I fear for the child and I fear for the society he will one day populate as an adult.

Third, I am always left to think of the many who condemn abortion of an unwanted pregnancy and, likewise, am left to wonder-- how many of those stand ready to intervene, to take action as foster or adoptive parents and provide a life that's whole and affords substantial opportunity for the unwanted infant? How many of those who would dictate another person's choice fill there homes with even a few of the unwanted children, many of whom are physically, mentally, and emotionally damaged for life? How many of those are eager to have their taxes raised in an effort to fund the education and resources needed to prevent these pregnancies, to house the unwanted products of these pregnancies, and to continue to increase our prison capacity?

The volume of unwanted, neglected, abused, and abandoned children in this well endowed nation of ours is a testament to nothing less than a living, breathing, legacy of social failure. God's Gift? Not from my perspective. Challenge, perhaps, but not a gift.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

Last night at dinner my 4 year old announces he's really excited for tomorrow. That's a good thing and not unusual. He goes to a pre-school where he's pretty well engaged and often looks forward to the next day's projects as well as meeting up with his pals and playing.

"Why are you excited for tomorrow, Ev?" "Because it's spring!" Without even thinking I said, "No, not yet. Spring isn't until the 21st." "Yes it is. It's tomorrow. I saw it on the calendar."

May I just say, I think the next 14 years could be tough for me? So much for parental authority. He's going to make me earn it!

Happy first day of Spring.

The Typewriter Kid

Here's some thing you need to know-- even if you don't need to know it. By way of introduction, I have a 1940's era big heavy manual Royal desktop typewriter. It's the typewriter my Mom gave me for high school graduation. She loved good grammar and a well written paper. She also expected I would be writing papers for college and, so, thought the Royal desktop would be just the ticket for her college bound son in 1975.

I love my typewriter. Unfortunately, to communicate by typewriter requires a mailman. My big desktop also does not possess an on-board dictionary and the simple facility of hitting the backspace button in order to correct and edit.

For any shortcomings, there is much to recommend my big old machine:  When you use a typewriter you literally feel the story leave your hands for the paper. There is no luminescent screen, just a sheet of paper reflecting the glow of an incandescent bulb-- at least for as long as the latter remain in circulation. A typewriter also provides the lively voice of words being written: Clackity clack clack clack. Ding!  Zzzzzip. Clackity clackity clack clack clack… The sound track of a million great stories. And finally, the smell. If you've ever had the opportunity to look under the lid of a typewriter--  to look closely at that mechanical collection of letters and arms and spools and ribbon-- you might have noticed the smell. It's the smell of lubricating oil and ink, that substance that laid out so many wonderful stories from the mind to the page.

At any rate, check out Kibler's Typewriter Company. There are others but this one has got to be among the very best for just a whole lot of reasons. Klick on the link and see why. Whether you think typewriters are cool or cold, you'll like what you read. And maybe, just maybe, think about getting a typewriter to park on your desk at home. Better still, maybe Mr. Kibler can figure a way to wire my big Royal keyboard to my Mac.

Get Well Soon

A friend on Facebook left a post recently that she was sick and in the doldrums. The message was very brief but effectively conveyed the misery of having your life put on hold while a viral convention chooses you for its host facility.  Best example is just that really rotten cold-- that I can't breathe, no energy, just want a time out until this thing is over, seasonal cold. (Crap! Are we out of Kleenex??)

I hate getting sick. I think I get that from my mother. Mom took illness as a sign of weakness, a bad behavior, a personal assault to be fiercely opposed and hidden from public view.  Even so, I knew what this woman was talking about and I sent her my sympathy.  I also suggested she take comfort in the fact she would be getting better.

When I was very young my Mom's near and dear sister was diagnosed with cancer. I know it involved her liver because I remember seeing her at our house at her final Thanksgiving. She was a shade of yellow no single digit kid could ever understand. Shortly after that visit I sent her a get well card which I had made by hand. My mother took the card to my aunt, but first, after reading it, explained to me that her sister would not be getting well. She explained that, sometimes, people don't get well. I remember that like yesterday and am reminded of it rather frequently working where I do.

I feel like I understand sudden events, accidents and injury. But I can't imagine terminal illness. I can't imagine what it's like when a person finally gets to the point where they realize they will not win the battle.

Perhaps such thoughts can't really make having a dastardly cold or flu bug any better. Then again, sometimes it helps to have a little perspective on things and understand the scale of one's own plight. Sometimes we're luckier than we may know.

Here's wishing you good health and speedy recoveries.

Best Practices

In medicine we are always challenged to meet "best practices." This comes to us by way of manufacturing. Best practices are those techniques and processes employed to bring about the best possible result. Personally, I think best practices are those techniques and processes that have provided the most robust employment to the consulting industry.

As cynical as I may get about the consulting industry, Tam gets acknowledged for best practices today. She has not received any consulting fee and, as far as I know, there isn't a website where you can rate or read about her qualities. There isn't an industry standard of any type. like an ISO rating for moms. But Evan's Mom gets a "best practices" acknowledgement for St. Patrick's Day, 2012.

Evan just about came unglued this morning when he woke up to a trail of shamrocks and gold dots that lead him to a small box, wrapped in green, and filled with a dollar bill, 4 gold coins (chocolate, the most valuable of all) and a green St. Patrick's Day Hot Wheels car. If there were a Richter scale for holiday glee, this morning's reaction may have displaced December 25th. Five star job mommabear! Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Birthday Dinner

In my childhood home there were 3 certainties when it came to your birthday. 1.) You got to pick the type of cake. 2.) You didn't have to help set or clear the table. 3.) You got to pick the menu. All of these "certainties" were subject to expense and reason but, more often than not, you usually got your wish when it came to dinner and cake.

For me, there was nothing like a Bucket of Colonel Saunder's Kentucky Fried Chicken, as it was called back then. This was in a time when fast food was a treat, an indulgence, and long before people started to think eating such crap 3 or 4 days a week was normal. It was certainly well before there was any need to specify "original or extra crispy."To this day I swear I can still taste that crisp greasy treat. The meal was a bucket of chicken, though, not all the other stuff. Mom supplied the potatoes, rolls and anything else one would find in a KFC meal these days.

As I matured the menu choice changed to steak on the grill. How manly can one get? Not only that but my Dad hated chicken and looked forward to any excuse to grill steaks.

In spite of my advancing years the birthday meal slid down the menu tree and has resided somewhere near rock bottom since my daughter was old enough to chew solid foods. I'm happy, though, if not proud. Fortunately my choice is one that is easily adapted to my meatless diet. And so it is, this evening I will sit down and mark the successful completion of an enjoyable and action packed 55 years of life by gobbling up a few Sloppy Joes (made with vegetarian crumbles) and a bag of Cheetos. Crispy fried, of course. Bon appetite.

Pre-Summertime Blues

Michigan enjoyed record high temperatures Wednesday. When I left for home at around 7 last night it was still 75 degrees. Everyone, all day, it's all they could talk about was how nice it was outside. What a treat.

For me, being on call, it is not such a good thing.  This weather makes people go crazy. Suddenly everyone is outside-- the cabin fever has broken and insanity has set in. All I can do is just imagine what trouble people are headed for.

Today I'll take care of a young man who broke his leg this past evening. Typical summer night story: He's a "professional bicyclist"-- although he smokes a pack a day of cigarettes, drinks a few beers now and then (including shortly before crashing). Drugs? No. Well, a little pot now and then, you know.... Skinny, toothless, poor hygiene, pocked-up skin. Can you say meth head?  The ER was crawling with weirdos last night with everything from suicide attempts to weird infections to just plain weirdo's. An ER is always that kind of place. It doesn't matter if it's Cedars-Sinai, Bellevue, or good old Memorial. Face it: you don't go to an emergency room because things are good and you have other options.

We'll see the same thing in the dog days of summer when the nights are hot and steamy, mosquitoes are thick, and the air is still. As beautiful a day as we enjoyed Wednesday I just can't help thinkin': Maybe we can still find a few more weeks of cold-let's-stay-indoors-and-behave-ourselves kind of weather. Not soon enough, however. I'm on call until Monday and the weather is looking pretty good right through the weekend.

Daylight "Savings" Time-- Seriously?

As a kid I loved the summers in Portland, Oregon. We would finally have our 4 or 5 weeks when you could see blue sky. After dinner we would rush out of the house and squeeze in a few more hours of play before the streetlights came on-- our auto sensor that it was time to go home.  Daylight savings time was a young boys best friend.

Years ago setting the clocks ahead an hour as we got closer to summer made economic sense: Farmers could keep their hands in the fields until late in the evening gathering up the harvest. Years ago. Now many farmers have giant tractors with more lights than an airport runway and GPS to guide their every turn. Nowadays daylight savings time just doesn't make sense from the perspective of needing daylight to get work done. And the arguments about saving energy? Seriously? Anyone who actually thinks we save energy because we don't use lights for as long a period in the evening obviously is not aware of how we get around the house in the early morning hours. Ditto the argument for fewer traffic accidents because it stays light longer.

Somehow, though, it seems we simply can't give up our daylight savings time. It's already been three days and I'm trying to cooperate this time around. My heart's just not in it. What's worse, I seriously don't get it. After all, no one inserts an extra hour into the calendar day. Daylight savings time is the very definition of robbing Peter to pay Paul. And those people who are so excited for the "extra" daylight at the end of the day must get up a whole lot later than me. My clock still says 6:45 when I leave the house but, let me tell you, it is one heck of a lot darker outside than it was at 6:45 last week. For my money, I'd prefer to wake up to a little daylight then to have an extra dose after work.

For now I have no choice in the matter, but I'll tell you this: I've just found one more thing to like about Arizona.

Mom's Birthday

March 12th was my Mom's birthday. Somehow I thought it was Tuesday this year. I didn't realize my mistake until I got up Monday. After seeing MAR 12 peek out on my little calendar icon I started to think about her on that day when she would have been 102.

First, let me say how glad I am for her that she's not here. Being 102 is not easy and it is the infinitesmally minute exception that an individual reaches that age and is happy to still be blowing out the candles. Second, the world today would be a constant source of disappointment. Everything from the rise of terrorism to the careless disregard of our economy to the reckless slaughter of the english language. She'd love the computer, though, and recycling. But, all in all, she's better off where she's at, as the saying goes.

I had trouble with my Mom's birthday as a kid. The problem was that her birthday came just a few days before mine. So, while it was great to have two birthday cakes in one 4 day period, it was kind of a distraction from the main event, if you know what I mean. "Happy Birthday Mom-- but can we move on down the calendar to that bucket of Colonel Saunder's and my presents?"

Paybacks are hell: Evan is already telling me what type of cake I should have. That or he says, quite simply, "I wish we could just skip to my birthday." The little rat-- his is almost 2 months away!

The Rewards of Routine

I am not an organizer. I can do meticulous work. I can proceed through a project step-wise. I can organize others in their work. But, when it comes to my own stuff, well--remember that office I was going to get cleaned up as I started the New Year?

I've just sat down to this after an almost 2 hour expedition Sunday evening. Somehow the thought came to me around 7:10 that I should probably locate all the tax stuff I had assembled late last month and get it ready to be copied and mailed off.  First piece of advice: Don't dig into the important stuff on a Sunday evening when all you really want to do is have a hot drink, maybe soak in the tub, and go to bed. Second: When you get something  ready to go-- send it!

After going to pick the folder up off the kitchen table, where I thought I had left it a couple of weeks back, I soon found it was nowhere to be found among the scattered pieces of mail and a couple of newspapers there on the table. Hmm. That's weird.  Within a moment, that feeling started to rise up from my gut. A quick rifle through a few assorted stacks of (important) papers on the counter and same result: no luck. My stomach started to churn and I started to feel a bit lightheaded. Looking back at the table I almost passed out as I recalled pitching a large stack of newspapers off that table just a few days ago-- straight to the recycling guy. No way!! 

Next stop: down the hall to the office. I checked the file cabinet (the tax files would have been a good place to leave it). Then I remembered: I didn't want to leave that folder out on the kitchen table when I would be gone to Arizona for a few days. Now I got my Lucille Ball on and started looking under counters, in drawers that are almost never used, among bookshelves. Nothing. I'm starting to need a cane to stay upright.

Next stop: In the car and down the road to my clinic office. I looked everywhere and even circled back twice, each time to check one more obscure place I may have left that folder.  Now the "F word" is becoming audible. I'm trying to think of just how I'm going to replace and reassemble all those loose pieces of data in the next 4 weeks. I know it can be done but, G@# D*&^#$*@! anyway!!

Returning home I did the only logical thing: I carefully retraced my steps. Just like a scene from a Disney movie, there was my folder.  Everything was there but the little fairy that had returned it to the file rack on my office desk.

I'm sure my bodily functions will have returned to normal by the time this goes online. Lesson number 3: put things where they belong. Lesson number 4: Get rid of papers you are done with or don't need. Always, every time.  And while you're at it-- clean up your damn office!

(Sociology + Biology) / Religion =

Sometimes I tend to think there are just so many things to sort out these days. Then again, I read posts like these and I realize it's not so much sort things out, it's throw things out. There are just an awful lot of crazy scared people out there, many of whom want to run our lives.

There seems to be a growing population of people in the US today who are frightened to death of losing control. I think the problem is they don't really know who they are and, lacking personal competence and any real understanding of self, they are threatened by every wisp of social change. They hate any type of GBLT tolerance. They hate having their deity fall off the main stage of government. They hate allowing women autonomy outside of ancient relationships dictated by reproductive roles. (Similarly, they hate the thought of anyone choosing not to be pregnant.) They hate the poor for not taking charge of their lives. They hate those who would ask them to share their wealth. In short, they really don't care for anyone who is, well, not like them.

It fascinates and frustrates me that humans cannot move beyond their simple social fears. We cannot embrace tolerance. We cannot embrace sharing. We cannot extend our trust beyond the confines of a very small circle. And that, I'm afraid, is the bane of humanity. Too big for our own britches we are victims of a complex psychology bred at the intersection of biology and sociology.  At some point, hopefully before some religiously motivated group sets off a nuclear device, we will start to understand this fear and move beyond.

The chains that constrain our social progress are formidable. We struggle with the biological needs of shelter, hunger, and reproduction. We struggle with the sociological needs for belonging, cooperation, and shared resources. At some point, somehow, some way, we have to invoke the intellectual-- the only unique instrument we possess-- and move out of our primitive state. I'm not too optimistic, however. Religion will have to give way and allow spirituality to exist outside of the church/mosque/temple. The whole premise that has fueled wars for thousands of years will have to be discarded and leaders will have to convince their followers that those people over there, those guys, they are a part of us. What people do that offends your sense of the spiritual does not negate your sense of the spiritual. It's okay to be different. It's okay to let others be different too. The important thing is we all realize this experience, these 60, 70, 80 or so years will pass in the blink of an eye. And in that short time everyone needs to eat and everyone needs to be cared for and everyone deserves to be cared about. Anything else is stone age-- or obliteration.

CRAA(R)P

I've been duped into submission. I have bobbed and dodged and danced my way around it for the past 5 years but the trap has finally sprung. The worst of it is I deliberately walked into its jaws.

A couple of weeks ago we decided we should shop our insurance policies around. The house, the cars, that sort of insurance. (At my age with a 4 year old, trust me, I've got life insurance all wrapped up!) So we sent out requests to some of the local agencies and soon discovered, lo and behold, we were under insured and being over charged. If you own anything the insurance thing can be pretty importatnt. Needless to say, getting your coverage evaluated from time to time is a wise move.

Turns out the big money saver we've overlooked these past few years is membership in the AARP-- the American Association of Retired Persons. (Or is that the Angry Aging and Republican People?) Either way, I've been tossing the organization's solicitations in the trash just as fast as they hit the p.o. box for the past few years. Having to wear glasses is bad enough. Carrying the card that confirms what everyone else already suspects ("you're old!!") just ain't gonna happen. Until now.

As of yesterday I am one of the AARP's newest (and youngest) members. Tuesday we will report the happy news to our new insurance agent. I can only hope that by Tuesday night we will be enjoying several hundred dollars in savings that my wife can use to massage my aching ego.

It's probably better than all that. Lord knows it will probably be just a few weeks until I'll be writing about all the fabulous discounts my new membership affords me.  Now, if only I can arrange my schedule to get us into restaurants for dinner between 4 and 5.

Marital Genetics

Well I think Ev is comfortably back home in Michigan. Departing out of Phoenix the other day he, once again, dropped his little head and said he wanted to stay in Arizona. Once again he told his Mom and me how it's just too cold in Michigan.

Monday was the real test. We woke up to a (beautiful) dusting of snow, the light powdery kind one can sweep away with the single swipe of a broom. With that meteorological welcome he was back at school with all his old pals here in Michigan. I left early that morning for surgery so I wasn't here to see him off. But, I'm happy to report, I was here to see him come home that afternoon. The door opened and he sailed into the house. Not only was he glad to be back with all his old friends who had really missed him, he was even more excited to be reunited with his current flame, Brenna--  more excited still to tell us he was going to marry her!

Glad as I am to see him re-acclimate to life in wintry Michigan, to say I have mixed feelings on that last issue is an understatement. I have enough marital experience to make me worry and wonder: Is this inclination of his in anyway genetic? If so, he's in trouble. Given his dad's track record, I figure if he were to start any time soon he could end up making 6 to 8 trips down the aisle by the time he reaches my age!

Industrial Snapshots

My niece, ever the promoter of all things Detroit-- and god bless-- recently posted a link to Instagram of photos the Detroit Free Press had collected. The common thread among the images is Packard and the long derelict Packard automobile plant in Detroit.

Looking through these photos is a sober reminder of the impermanence of it all. You look at the images of the ruins and one can't help but think of the thousands of jobs, the thousands of automobiles, the pride, the prestige, the magnitude of business that at one time all seemed so solidly affixed to the foundation of everything that was America, the very substance of a rising world power. It was all so very, well, American. Packard was a symbol of just exactly what it was we did so well. The plant, the product, the employment, all the jobs and resources required to feed that factory-- like everything else about American manufacturing, decline and demise seemed impossible. As with so many other tiles in the mosaic of our industrial heritage-- both here in Michigan and throughout the US-- we are continuing to discover just how temporal it all is.

Whether it is manufacturing, construction, humanities, or the arts-- there is not a human endeavor that is immune from the effects of time. Especially here in the US, where the economic landscape has so thoroughly transformed much of a culture we took for granted in the 1940's, '50's, and '60's. I don't say that to sound alarm, only to encourage us to never ever take this moment, this place, these things for granted. What we have will not last forever. It might be worth a snapshot now and then.

License to Drive

I got lucky Monday. Not a big deal, just a little ego bump. But I'd had my fingers crossed for sure.

Birthday month is license renewal month here in the great State of Michigan. The Secretary of State will give you about 5 years in which time you can simply go on line, pay your fee, and renew your license during each of those five years.  At the end of your prescribed 5 years, however, they need to check your hair color, wrinkle quota, and vision prior to handing over a new license.

The hair color is no problem. Mine's been a fairly uniform crop of silver-gray for several years now. I can't seriously be threatened by a photo update. Same thing wrinkles. I haven't studied the new photo yet but I'm fairly certain I won't look like a Shar Pei. It was the vision thing that was sticking in my craw. I've been wearing glasses for reading (and then some) since age 40 years and 1 hour. That landmark arrived a great many hours ago and in the interim my eyes have continued a slow stroll toward greater and greater dependency on these multifocal assistive devices resting on my nose. But, so far at least, I haven't needed them to drive. In fact, I really find wearing glasses to my disadvantage when driving.  Thus it was that, this past Monday, I proceeded to the nearby Secretary of State's office to renew my license, filled with dread that my new document would feature a photo of me with glasses and a notation indicating that's what I should be wearing whenever I'm behind the wheel.

Somehow I lucked out. "Read line two across." "A, F, S, O, P...." "Okay. All set!" Seriously?? Happy as I am I felt a little bit concerned. Now I have to wonder:  Just how bad do eyes have to get before they intervene on behalf of public safety? Likewise driving knowledge and driving skills.

Airplanes are supposedly safer than automobiles on a magnitude of several thousand times. Perhaps that's no wonder given that flying requires constant proof of both currency (you do fly) and competency (you can fly). With all due respect to that powerhouse of senior political clout the AARP, as the population hits age 65 at a rate of 10,000 people per day, isn't it about time we start requiring a bit more attention to who's out there behind the wheel?  I saw a couple of older citizens in that office who scared me just to watch them walk! It's not as pressing an issue as healthcare reform but I do feel we need to take a look at what it requires to remain a licensed driver for, say, 70 years. No offense.

In the meantime that's me behind the wheel of that big white truck. If I'm squinting it's just because the sun's a little bright.  Don't worry: I see you just fine.

Life's a Snap

Sometimes it's good to have a reminder. 4 year-olds are often good for that.

I got Ev dressed the other morning and he was somewhat distressed that I had selected a pair of jeans with a snap fastener at the top as opposed to a fastener that slides/clips shut. The reason for his concern was that he could manipulate the clip but the snap would not cooperate with his little fingers. With the snap jeans he feared he would need help fastening his pants.

Reasonable enough. I suggested to him, however, that today might be the day he would be able to snap that stubborn snap and master that type pair of jeans. Hesitant, but ever willing, he pulled up those jeans, wrestled the snap into position and...."snap!" His eyes lit up and his face erupted into a smile that words can not describe. "I did it!"

His triumph made me wonder: When was the last time I faced an obstacle and succeeded with such a feeling of immense satisfaction? And too, when was the last time I did not take for granted one of the many small tasks I successfully accomplish each day? A hundred times a day we do small things like tie shoelaces, button shirts, wipe our butts, hold our own coffee cup, dial a phone number. We cannot possibly remember what it took to learn such things. And now such tasks are automatic-- unconscious and beyond even being taken for granted. Lucky us.

We might do well to pay better attention. Someone may be snapping our pants soon enough!

Bad Medicine

On behalf of crappy clinicians everywhere I offer this apology. I'm sorry we don't do a better job of educating patients.

I went to the market this evening to do a bare essentials re-stock. The rotund little checkout girl was sniffling and coughing. She apologized for her condition and then went on to tell me how she was on "tons" of medication and an antibiotic. I told her that wouldn't help me and that I hoped I would leave the store without her bug. Then she said, "It's okay. It's allergies. My doctor told me it's allergies."

Allergies! Allergies? To what, ice and snow? There's not so much as a grain of pollen within 1000 miles of here. We don't even have dust this time of year. But more to the point, why would a doc put someone on antibiotics for allergies?

I left the store irritated with the young woman's ignorance and then I realized: She only knows what her doctor, nurse, or whatever, tells her. That is truly one of the shortcomings of our system. Providers either don't have the time or they are not compensated in a manner that makes it worth taking the time to talk. So, patients are often sent on their way with mis-, incomplete, or no information at all. People get handed a prescription and pointed to the door. The pharmacy gives the patient a sheet or two of information that most patients either don't read or don't understand. Next thing you know the snot-nosed, misinformed, misdiagnosed, and fully medicated patient is scanning groceries and telling people she has allergies-- in Michigan, on March 4th, with a temperature of 29 degrees outside and snowing!

Every patient does not need to be provided with a medical education but they do deserve a reasonable explanation of their condition and treatment. Every doctor has the obligation to slow down, pay attention, and effectively communicate, aka, do a good job of being a "healthcare provider." Good grief!

Experienced Salesperson Wanted

Michigan can be an easy sale. When spring erupts the smells and sight of new growth is spectacular and as welcome as clean clear water. Summer brings welcoming lakes with sparkling fresh water for swims and skiing and streams for canoes and kayaks. Many of the states's residents will vigorously argue that fall is the most special season of all.  The colors of autumn extend across the state and provide the color palate for cool crisp mornings, cider mills, and the smell of the harvest permeates much of the countryside. Winter, too, can be an easy sell. Fireplaces ablaze. Snow skiing, snowmobiling, snowmen and sledding.

Then comes the frigid purgatory that extends from February to late March. The weather can be just about anything but useful. It ranges from cold to colder, from wet to frozen, from unfriendly to downright hostile. The calendar says 3 weeks until spring; dispositions say "I can't hear you. Send help."

No place is it worse than right here in my living room. In Phoenix. It started with the timid greetings when I showed up. Like a visit from the school nurse-- a really nice person with a Tootsie Roll treat but you know you're going to get a shot. As we get closer to Sunday morning departure time it seems to be getting worse. As the day dawned with clear skies and a glorious sunrise I started to think I may be headed for trouble. I'm starting to worry. I can just see Evan crying and fighting all the way down the jetway. The sheriff is called and we get detained. "Son, is this man your father?" "No! No! He's taking me and my mom against our will!"

Most months of the year I can counter and do a little salesmanship getting us all on board and headed happily on our way back to the Great Lakes State. This weekend I think I may be out of luck.

Fly Friendly

U.S. Airways has a feature in their monthly magazine where they showcase one of the members of their frequent flyer club in each new issue. This month the interview asked a businessman what insights or routines he uses to insure a good trip. In addition to saying he unplugs from all electronic accoutrements he always does one thing: He tries to always keep it in mind that the best way to insure a friendly satisfying experience is to be friendly. Genius.

There are any number of tired and annoying cliches about happiness: If life gives you lemons… Make your own happiness. The fact of the matter is, however, that in a great many cases the advice is good. It's like public speaking: If you find yourself, speech in hand, facing a fidgeting audience remember that no one in the audience wants to be in your spot. At the same time, they hope the speech they're about to hear will be engaging. So it is with public travel. Most people are wary of what to expect but everyone is hoping it will be pleasant. In either scenario, if you meet the expectation you become the hero, the person who made it a pleasant experience.

Succeeding at air travel is usually a bit less stressful than public speaking. But not always. Delayed flights, long check-in lines, bag fees, security screening hassles, botched seat assignments-- any of these elements can put a whole lot of people in a bad mood in a hurry. Likewise, keep in mind that there are quite a few people on the flight that have to put up with such challenges several times a week en route to presentations, sales meetings, and customer visits. Not fun. Choosing to be the person who remains positive, maintains a smile, and continues to greet with a friendly voice may be just the influence needed to change a few attitudes. And even if you can't get a smile out of that grumpy TSA guy you will still be preserving your own good karma, making it all the easier to finally settle into that middle seat between those two grumps and, maybe, still enjoy your flight. After all, you are about to cross a patch of the globe at two-thirds the speed of sound, completing in hours what used to require days, weeks, or months. Worse case scenario, however, you may just need that iPad.

Illiteracy v2.0

I took care of a 14 year old the past few days. He had to be admitted to the hospital to have a hand infection surgically cleaned out and then stay for a few days for antibiotics. He was a pretty quiet kid. Polite. Respectful. All the character traits one seems to have such difficulty finding in teenage boys these days.

The other morning when I went into his room on rounds I found him there with his laptop open. It looked like he had some school work out. His parents were there too. After finishing my business I stopped and asked the young man, "Are you a pretty good student?" "Ya. Pretty good." "Do you like school?" He laughed, "No. Not really." He couldn't tell me why not. He also couldn't tell me what he hoped to be doing some day when he's 39 years old. "You'll be 39 in the blink of an eye, you know." He seemed to have no conception of the future.  "What kinds of things do you like? What do you like to do?" "The computer. Games and stuff." I asked and, yes, he meant playing games on the computer, not developing them.

I left that room feeling discouraged. His caring parents did not appear to be college educated. They appeared to be from a blue-collar lower-middle class background. I think the dad, at least, is employed in manufacturing although, come to think of it, he seemed able to be at the hospital more often than not. I don't know if his mom works but both parents seemed very attentive to their son.  Their son who doesn't like school and has no vision of what he'll amount to in another 25 years.  Their son that really likes to just play games on his computer.

Boys like my patient bring to light what I think is a fairly large and growing population that is both without direction and has no interest in being given any. I think he illustrates a widening chasm in the US that is not just rich - poor but productive - nonproductive, engaged - not engaged, focused - distracted. And I'm not interested in blame. I'm not even terribly concerned with the social or financial burden a kid like this threatens (although each of us should be). I'm concerned with our loss. A sharp mind. A capable body. A Ferrari left to rust in a barn. I think there must be oceans of kids who are growing up without anyone to engage them, to show them that life at 30, at 40, at 50 can be really fulfilling and pleasurable because of work. They aren't just poor inner city youth, these kids are everywhere.

When I left that room I really had to wonder: Is there a program to mentor such kids? How many of us could meet with a group of 14 year olds and tell them about what we do in this world? How many of us could relate what excites us about work, about contributing in this world, about why we don't want to spend the day playing games on a computer. How many of us could invite one of them to come along one half or one whole day a week to see how it happens? In my neck of the woods too many kids are never afforded a vision and so remain in the dark. It is a tragic form of illiteracy and one that cannot be fixed in the classroom. It's definitely a homework assignment for all of us.