Across Five Novembers

After Thursday’s ruling upholding Obama’s healthcare reform mandate I had hoped to see some degree of resolution to the issue.  At least see things settle down enough to allow Democrats and Republicans to agree to come together and tweak the program if need be. Not in a million. In less than 30 minutes the new Republican rallying cry went forth that healthcare reform was just one more “job killing” tax on the American system that struggles to recover owing to burdensome taxation and regulation of the American economic machine. The pledge went forth to continue the fight to overturn the program. Both sides drew their rhetorical weapons. Winner. Loser. Cheater. Revenge. I think the bases have all been set.

What we seem to have in this country is civil war. It erupted in earnest on November 4, 2008 when an uppity liberal Harvard educated black man was elected president. And it's been escalating ever since. Not unlike this nation’s previous civil war, which extended across five Aprils from 1861 to 1865, our contemporary version is heading into its fifth year this November. So far no bloodshed. But the constant stubborn refusal to work toward a common goal, the constant work to disrupt, derail, and just plain sabotage any efforts of the opposition party, the complete disregard for the common welfare—these are nothing less than acts of civil war.

I have at least a vague recollection of  bipartisan politics extending all the way back to Kennedy vs. Goldwater in the early 60’s. I have no recollection, however, of the bitter, rude, and counterproductive fighting we’ve witnessed in the past few years. National elected office has become perverted by personal agendas, special interests, and access to the highest bidder. If this goes on much longer I fear it may result in loss of life. I, for one, would rather kill myself than continue to listen to the nonstop bullsh#t coming out of Washington. There's only so much self-serving self-righteous crap a guy can take.

Nora Ephron: The Humor In It

One of my favorite movies of all time is Preston Sturges' "Sullivan's Travels." It's a 1941 comedy about a film director who makes wildy popular light comedies. He longs to make a socially relevant serious movie, sets out to do so, and in the process learns the real value of good comedy.

Nora Ephron was one of my all-time favorite writers and directors of film comedy. She was also an author of several books. (One of which, "I Feel Bad About My Neck And Other Thoughts On Being A Woman," I lent out and sorely miss. If you're reading this……)  She passed away this past Tuesday at age 71.

Comedy-- the ability to write clever dialog, to mine a belly laugh from the shaft of life-- that is one of the greatest gifts of all. Good clever comedy is one of our best tonics and probably has done more for the quality of life on this planet than any war ever fought.

Geez. Dick Cheney got a new heart at 71. Where's the justice in that? He's funny but not in a comedic way. He was instrumental in starting what has evolved into a lengthy and multiple front war but I don't think it's done much for humanity. He hasn't made me laugh once, except for the time he shot his hunting partner-- and then he wasn't even trying.

Nonetheless, the crusty old fart gets a new heart at seventy-one so he can continue his conservative alarmist negativity and curmudgeonly ways while Nora Ephron, a woman who has produced more than a lifetime of pleasure and good laughs, dies at the same age of leukemia. Not funny. Then again, Nora Ephron could probably find the humor in that score.

Doggone It Anyway

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love dogs, especially when they belong to other people. I've owned several myself, from an Akita to a Welsh Corgi. Not exactly A to Z but close enough. For a guy like me a dog is just one too many responsibilities: Up early to walk the dog. Feed the dog. Water the dog. Take the dog to the vet. Board the dog every time you want to be gone overnight.  In fact, my last dog, a Jack Russell Terrier, I gave to the groomer at my kennel: He was spending more time there being boarded than home with me.

Funny how things change. I've been married for 7 years. I've had a son for 5. Saturday afternoon we brought home dog. Well, not yet. What we brought home is a puppy-- a puppy that needs to be housebroken, is tempted to chew on any unattended piece of footwear or exposed piece of wood in the house, a puppy that will attempt to put anything found on the floor or in the yard into its mouth. A puppy that will someday be a dog, probably an 85 pound dog, making 85 pound dog messes in the yard to be cleaned up by...... probably me.

For now it's a puppy. For now I'll start getting up an hour or so earlier so that I can exercise and do my morning thing before I take the dog out, feed the dog, water the dog, clean up after the dog. With any luck at all, someday he will be someone else's dog: My son's. Then he can walk the dog, feed the dog, clean up after the dog..... We'll see.

Next up will be training the dog. Thank goodness he's a smart dog. Thank goodness he's a willing dog. Thank goodness he's a dog that's bred to please his owners. Thank goodness my daughter's home for a couple of days.  She's raised and trained several dogs all through primary and secondary school. I tried to hire her away from her junior year at the University of Michigan last night-- but to no avail. Alas, she's no longer a puppy and wants to pursue a life of her own.

Double Jeopardy

It doesn't seem fair. I realize, however, it's just the way it is: This summer we have to endure both presidential election political crap and the shameless commercialization of the Olympics. I mean, I've pretty much stopped listening to the political crap-- I rarely stayed turned to any speech; certainly never sit still for the "insight" or "analysis" that are so much grist for 24 hour news networks.

But the "Official Sponsor Team USA" ads are annoying as hell. BMW, BP, Coke, Proctor & Gamble, VISA…… As if we have a patriotic duty to purchase these products.

Now there's an idea: Let's sell sponsorships for U.S. military interventions. Instead of blowing billions of taxpayer dollars every year we could, in their place, endure an endless stream of advertisements by retailers and manufacturers who are "Proud Sponsor of The United States Military." Then, for those of us who really want to throw our financial support into the latest U.S. military expedition, we can go out, ramp up our VISA card, and buy stuff. You know, "Buy stuff. Win a war!"

Not bad. I'd even spring for my tax dollars going to the Olympics in exchange!

On The Cheap

It looks great on a healthy model

Since when did cheaper become better? It seems there was a time, certainly within my lifetime, when a manufacturer or retailer was proud of the quality and substance of the product offered. By contrast, today a manufacturer is admired for the profit they generate reflected in cost per unit.

Every time I see a patient come to the office after receiving a sling from the hospital I'm just a bit disgusted. First, your insurance company probably doesn't pay for a sling. The sling is just part of the deal, a package deal. Second, since it's part of the package price, the item you get is designed to kind-of-do-the-job while costing as little as possible at manufacture and subsequently at retail. That's how I come to see 78 year old women with broken shoulders who show up in these slings that are as flimsy as  a paper towel, fit with narrow unpadded cloth straps that are entirely ill-fitting, uncomfortable, cutting into their necks, and damn near impossible to adjust. ("One size." Who's piece of brilliant insight was "one size fits all.")

At the local grocery stores-- at least in this town-- a similar thing is happening. Years ago store-brand goods were offered as an economical alternative to the name brand product. Now I have trouble finding the name brand goods in many categories. Instead, everything from cereal to canned goods to tissue is store-brand. I think the trend started a couple of years back with the downturn in the economy. Now, I'm fairly well convinced, the move has flourished because offering store-brand cornflakes generates a lot more profit than, say, Kellogg's-- which, as we all know, is the real deal when it comes to cornflakes.

It seems we have come to hold profits in such high regard that we are beginning to put quality in the back seat. Going forward, I only hope it won't be a nightmare as hospitals continue the impossible struggle between cutting costs as required while simultaneously demonstrating increased quality and patient satisfaction. When it comes to offering compassionate patient-centered care that math just doesn't work out. As for cereal: I'll just keep making my own granola.

Situational Awareness

objects in mirror…..

Situational awareness is a term in aviation to describe, well, your awareness of a situation. Its your ability to keep rightside up and upside down, ascent and descent, and right from left in proper perspective. It's part of what keeps pilots from flying airplanes upside down and into the ground when they should be rightside up and climbing at night or in a storm.

I'm not a pilot but it seems I'm having a bit of a problem with situation awareness as I continue making the transition from a great big truck to a mid-size sedan. I was reminded of the fact Wednesday as I drove by the local auto-body shop and saw my medical assistant's big SUV parked there waiting to have the front bumper fixed. That would be the very same front bumper I backed into last week in the parking lot at the office. It wasn't easy: There were only a half-dozen spots available when I decided I liked the one next to her big black truck.

With my new car I've discovered I'm doing a terrible job turning corners-- cutting them too close. And I'm doing a terrible job backing up into spaces in parking lots and here at home in the garage. At first I thought it was a serious decline in mental function. Then I started to think perhaps I'm just being careless, a daredevil. Well, I'm happy to report, the problem has nothing to do with deteriorating mental function or recklessness. It seems it has more to do with the difference between sitting up high and being able to see all four margins of a vehicle versus sitting down low and not seeing any margins of the vehicle. And, too, in the truck it was so dang big I learned things were not as close as they appeared. So, close in the truck was, really, not all that close. Close in my Buick, I'm learning, is, well, a trip to the body shop. My car goes in next.

Pencil It In

I used that term the other day talking with a patient about scheduling a procedure. I told her we'd "pencil it in" for such and such a date, which she acknowledged. She was in her late fifties and I knew she knew what I meant. But it made me pause a moment and wonder, will this soon be one of those archaic terms people hear on occasion but don't really know or understand?

I guess "who cares" may be the appropriate answer. I used the term "mind your p's and q's" the other day and received a lecture on the etiology of the term. I've known the expression forever but didn't know of it's origin. (The version my "expert" acclaimed pertained to pints and quarts.)

But "pencil you/me/it in" is a term I understand from a historical perspective, one utilized in my own lifetime. It's something I've done. I've never been much of one for using calendars-- more of a jot it on a scrap of paper and forget it kind of guy-- but I understand, to pencil something in means, basically, a definite maybe. Plan on it but we'll see what happens.

In this day and age no one uses a pencil. Pencils have become like pennies. There always seems to be one lying around but no one seems to need or use one much anymore. More and more purchases are completed with credit and debit cards with loose change just becoming the numbers to the right of the decimal point on your statements. Likewise there is usually a pencil lying around but, unless you're an artist, most people don't use them for anything.  Even in kindergarten my son will be using an iPad and computer.

My schedule shows up each week electronically. It can be altered with a tap of the finger. I love the convenience and ease of use (is that what "functionality"means??) and the fact that the "scrap of paper" won't get lost. I'm just not sure what term to use other than, "I'll put you on my calendar." Being on someone's calendar in this day and age is far more tenuous and vulnerable than ever being "penciled in." Click, and you're off the agenda. No pink erasure. No arm work. No pencil shadow of a memory. Just gone. I guess perhaps we'll come to realize it's never a sure thing until it happens.

Were You Ever So In Love?

Happy summer. Here's another snapshot I couldn't get. The scene came and went at 60 miles an hour on a hot almost first day of summer. It's a scene you won't find along just any road in the U.S. It's as quaint as an Amish village, less common than a mid-Michigan farm store, and as sweet as local honey. But you'll have to close your eyes and imagine the scene because it came and went too quickly.

Moving along Michigan Highway 21, I passed field after field of rapidly maturing hay and wheat, gold and tan in the intense direct sun. As I crossed an intersection at speed I noticed the big green tractor stopped with its hay trailer there at the corner of the field. At the intersection a car was parked, off the shoulder, its far wheels just resting on the margin of the new mown field. The young man was stopped there in his tractor seat, ball cap in place, shirt open in the heat. And then I saw her: In a blue sundress, long dark hair, with a big smile, and lunch in a basket. She was sitting on the big fender of that tractor sharing lunch with her bo. Probably both 17 years old, cast in a scene as old as American farming. Young lovers happy to be sharing a meal-- in spite of the heat, in spite of the hard work, in spite of the table.

I could travel from coast to coast this summer but I doubt I could find a better snapshot of pure old-fashioned American youth than that farmhand and his girl sharing lunch atop his John Deere tractor in the shade of its faded yellow umbrella. It'll have to wait for a painter, though, because it came up too fast, was too intimate, and was just too beautiful to interrupt and steal an image. But I'm glad I stole a peak.

No Deposit No Return

The Michigan House of Representatives recently passed legislation aimed at excluding alcoholic drink pouches from the deposit law. Michigan currently is one of the states that requires a “10-cent deposit on soft drinks, soda water, carbonated natural or mineral water, other non-alcoholic carbonated drinks; beer, ale, other malt drink of any alcoholic content; or a mixed wine or spirit drink that is contained in an airtight metal, glass, paper or plastic container, or a container composed of a combination of those materials.”  Somehow the current House membership has seen fit to find exclusion for pouches. Think Captain Morgan and Coke in a Capri Sun pouch.


This is a giant step in the wrong direction. Whatever economic benefit may be imagined from this move it will certainly be quickly outweighed by the volume of garbage that will litter streets, parks, and campuses across Michigan. Playing to the agenda of the beverage industry has obvious value to elected officials but little value to the public in general and demonstrates complete disregard for one of this state’s greatest treasures: Her beauty and natural resources.


I am one who believes our present deposit laws do not go far enough. As I walk the short distance from my home to work several days each week, I am disgusted by the number of times I see bags, cups, lids, and boxes from fast food restaurants thrown to the curb. I only wish this nation, this state—or even just our local government-- had the moxie to step up and levy a tax on the fast food take-out industry to help cover the cost of picking up the litter their industry creates. I would also support an additional surcharge to cover energy costs and pollution associated with cars idling in take-out drive-thru lanes as well as a contribution to support government funded programs to combat the epidemic of obesity.  


I recognize the individual’s responsibility in all of this. We have an obligation to look after our health as well as to be good citizens and not litter in the first place.  Be that as it may, we all get stuck paying the substantial direct and indirect costs associated with litter and obesity. Now we can soon add beverage pouches to the detritus that collects in our public spaces as city, county, and state funds fall short of the means needed to keep our streets and public spaces free of garbage.


Whatever urgency we may imagine exists to create jobs and foster a hospitable business climate here in Michigan, passing such an exemption is gross negligence and abandonment of all fiduciary responsibility lawmakers have for the care and keeping of our natural environment. The beverage industry stands to make substantial profits in direct proportion to the volume of litter we’ll find tossed about our beautiful state. 


Some things should just cost more.

Bad Days

I'm happy to report I don't have many bad days. I have long days, and difficult days at times, but rarely a bad day. Although I guess I can count myself among the most fortunate of all because I know that I have never really had a bad day in the sense of personal tragedy, natural disaster, or manmade catastrophe. Lucky and I know it.

Occasionally I do have those days, however, when it just never lets up. Everything goes well enough but it just seems that one thing after another keeps pulling me back from that feeling of being on top-- the feeling we all know and love when we're in control and cruising toward the finish.

At my age and stage of the game these days become graduate education: What happened and why? What can be done differently? What choices did I make? What choices might I make differently? Whatever I come up with I always try to realize this: The best thing to do after plowing through a difficult situation is to carefully take inventory with the objective in mind it won't play that way again. It's not voodoo, it's not karma, it's not fate or resignation. It's reflection. It's reassessment. It's planning for next time.

All of that and a good home cooked meal. And maybe something really good like chocolate or english toffee for dessert. And a good hot soak. And bed by 10.

Father's Day

My little guy turned 5 this year.  I've gone another round at fatherhood late in life but, so far, so good. When I turned 5 my Dad was only 2 years younger than I am now, and I thought he was crazy.

With Ev turning 5 and Kels just finishing her second year in college I am coming to realize parenting is a work in progress-- gaining a little perspective.  I'm coming to realize it is a role that changes but one from which you probably never completely retire, regardless of your child's age or place in life.

The nice thing is, with fatherhood I continue to learn. As much as I hate the word when used in this fashion, I continue to grow. I cannot believe how much my understanding and tolerance for a small child has changed in the last 5 years. Likewise, I cannot believe how much I've learned about myself, my shortcomings, my strengths, my capacity for life and love.

With Kels midway through college I am gaining a whole new perspective on my own history. Her experiences take me back to my own. To a small degree sharing her experience rekindles memories of my own. Being with her now is allowing me to re-examine my experience, to re-examine who I was, what I thought I was achieving, and how I got where I am today. And I believe doing so also makes me a better advisor to my daughter.

In all of that I am left to appreciate what a gift it is to be a Dad. It is one hell of an unending responsibility, but one I am happy to embrace. I hope every Dad can feel such good fortune. It's an opportunity that, if given, one shouldn't neglect. Done right, fatherhood provides a lifetime of pleasure for parent and child. And watching your child grow and embrace a meaningful life is the greatest Father's Day gift of all.

Clean Breaks

purely medicinal

I read a post on Facebook Wednesday from a woman who decided to share her going clean tale on her social media page. I was blown away. For all the fluff and such one reads on fb it was such a breath of fresh air to read her heartfelt and earnest comments.

I stopped drinking alcohol a little over two years ago just because I thought it had become a problem for me. Mostly I felt I was waisting too much time in a lifetime of limited days. Too often, especially among professionals, there is a propensity to use alcohol and other substances as a stress relief valve. I never drank when I was working and I never drank during the week I was on call but, boy, when I wasn't I sure looked forward to cocktails and vino. The point for me was I pretty much decided that since I sometimes had a problem with limits, boundaries, and behavior, why keep doing it? I watched my young son-- his active mind and busy body-- and I thought of myself and had to wonder: When had I started needing a tranquilizer? And what am I forfeiting while I sit and chill out with a few drinks?

I have people ask me all the time why and I guess that's the reason: time. I'd rather just stay busy and engaged with myself and the ones I love until it's time for bed. Reading that woman's comments really made me think because, fact is, I don't really think much about it at all anymore. It's just normal. I feel better, sleep better, digest better-- I'm just better.

There are all kinds of addictions and I would imagine they are all pretty much rooted in the same soil. I see runners who compete in spite of serious injuries. Sometimes I wonder if an entire generation isn't addicted to electronic devices. The gambling addiction probably possesses one of the greatest destructive capacities. Pills. Booze. Spending. Fucking. Risk-taking: Pick your own personal messed-up poison. There's something for everyone if you have the need.

Anyway, my hat's off to Sandee and anyone else like her. The number of people running around with substance impairment is staggering. Many are victims of misguided medical interventions. Others are simply struggling souls. Personally I don't find it to be a moral or religious issue. It's simply a personal issue and I feel sorry for all the people who never get to figure it out. Invariably, if they live long enough, they wake up to wonder who they are, who the hell the rest of those people are, and how'd they end up where they're at? I see it with surprising regularity and it just isn't pretty.

Cheers to Sandee and all the many making a clean break.

Manfred

Sometimes a moment in passing, a glance at something forgotten, a sound, a taste, a smell-- sometimes something makes a synapse go "click" and suddenly you remember. On a mission, moving through the house, at work, in the car. I can't say it happens all the time, but it happens.

Last night something happened and, suddenly, I was thinking about Manfred. Manfred worked at the Grill on the Alley in Chicago. He would almost fly around that restaurant in his black slacks and white waiter's coat, a shock of white hair standing straight-up, hands held chest-high, greeting his regulars, chasing down drinks, recommending an item. Always, "Oh Michael und Tommy. Und how's my little Efun!" He was from Dusseldorf and retained his thick accent.

I think I remember him because he was a character and, also, because of his kindness. When Ev was an infant Manfred once built him a bed in our booth. He first led us to a quiet corner of the restaurant that was already out of service for the evening and then he fashioned a bed from a stack of clean table cloths. Finally he reassured Evan's mother that the baby was okay and told her to have a Lemon Drop. As Ev got older Manfred would always park us in a spot where Evan could play with his cars and trucks on the floor around the table without tripping and killing a customer or employee.

And when Kelsey came for her 16th birthday with her small posse of friends he had to really pour it on-- easy for him. Greeting all the girlfriends and paying special attention to the Birthday girl. Even at 16 he would still offer her a Shirley Temple.  I think they all may have had one that evening. "Hoppy Burfday und may all your vishes come twue!"

Manfred came from the very old European school of service. He understood and took pride in facilitating your needs as a diner in his restaurant. For Manfred it was far more than a job. And when you left the restaurant, whether you'd had a bone-in New York steak or chicken pot pie, you felt you had been out for dinner. It was dinner and a show and you were damn glad you'd bought the ticket.

I would guess Manfred was well into his seventies when he left The Grill. I don't know where he is now but I thank him for taking care of me and my family. As he would always say after bringing the drinks, "Here's to your hoppiness und goot hellt. Und de most important of dese s your hellt!" That, and good memories.

Back in the day: an evening out, red meat, good booze, long dinners, and Manfred

With Any Luck

Here's a story. A sad story. It's one that, unfortunately, gets repeated with greater and greater frequency every day.

An 18 year old is out for a drive on a beautiful Michigan evening. Next to him is his beautiful 18 year old girlfriend as they take a drive down a country road.  The cell phone rings and he answers. It's for her. She takes the call, ends, and hands the phone back to him. Her boyfriend tucks the phone back down in the cupholder. As his eyes return to the road he barely has an instant to see the 24 year old man out enjoying the same evening, on the same road, on his bicycle, in the path of his car.

With any luck at all, someone will get a new heart. Someone else, new lungs. A couple more will get a kidney. Another, a liver. A couple more, corneas. There's skin, there's bone, there's tendon. With any luck.

With any luck at all, that 18 year old and his girlfriend will find peace. With any luck at all, they will not be haunted for the rest of their lives.

I don't know what it will take to get people to hang up and drive but-- with any luck-- I think I'm there.

So Big

My kid went off to camp the other day. He's barely 5, he's about 36 inches, and he doesn't weigh 40 pounds. And off he goes to get on a bus and spend the day at camp today.

I know now why it's much easier to have kinds in your twenties and thirties: You're so f'n busy at that age with developing your own life that you don't have time to pay attention to your kids. You don't get all gooey watching your little guy walk out the door with his oversize backpack on his tiny shoulders. You don't worry about possible bee stings, overheating, or big kids mistreating your little guy. In your 30's you don't get all emotional about your little guy growing up.  I'm here to tell you: In your 50's you do.

He came home filthy dirty, exhausted, fearless, and happy as a clam. And ready to go back. I guess we're doing something right. But this growing up stuff is killing me.

Me, Immigrant

I saw an old illustration the other day, a photograph advertising travel by rail. It dated from 1958 and featured travelers sitting on the train, having a meal, and watching the world go by. If you had elected to ride that train from Los Angeles to Chicago you would have left LA in the late morning and arrived in Chicago something like 40 hours later-- about the same time it would take today to ride an airliner back and forth between those two cities at least 8 times. Ironically enough, 1958 was the year you could start flying on jets across America. (Oh, yeah. And the Interstate Highway Act had freeways starting under construction throughout the country.)

There are a lot of parallels in modern society: Tweets and text in place of conversation. E-mail in place of a written letter. A tablet instead of a book or magazine. Now instead of later.

I'm not hopelessly stuck in the past. The benefits, pleasure, and safety we've gained from instant communication are certainly not lost on me. Likewise, I'm the first in line to take advantage of cross country travel for a weekend away. And packing a bulky hardbound book for the trip? No way. But I do have to wonder: What have we abandoned that we will not regain? What have we lost? As my Dad used to say, "you don't know what you're missing."

The problem is, even though the option exists to take advantage of snail technology, not many of us are interested in exploring the option. And so it is that we have no idea what we are not seeing when we no longer look out the window of a train crossing the country at 30, 50, or 70 miles an hour. We don't know what it's like to relax with a letter written by a loved one-- written on paper, perhaps scented with a favorite fragrance, and delivered in a mailbox. Soon enough, it seems, a large number of us won't know what it's like to have a conversation on a telephone-- or, possibly, even in person. And sit down for meals together? Really?

We're like immigrants, a strange kind of immigrant: Technological immigrants A large group of us are immigrants in a land of Twitter and tweets, e-mail, Amazon, and phonic shorthand. As immigrants, we would be well advised to assimilate and immerse ourselves in the new technology. I just hope that a significant number will also choose to keep the old ways in our lives as well.

Maybe it's time to pack a couple of books, grab some stationery, and take the train. All I need is a week or two.

Nothing To Do

Our local school district let out for the year at noon this past Thursday. By the time I drove home that evening I already saw kids standing outside their homes looking around like, "Okay. Now what?" Kids can't wait for school to get out but, frequently, haven't given much thought to what will happen next now that they won't be seeing their friends every day from 8 to 3. I'm sure it won't take long but there's always that initial concern with what to do next: Nothing worse than nothing to do.

Similarly, that same day I met with a man in his very early 60's to discuss knee replacement. I've known him a few years. I know he lost his wife to cancer few years back and had quite a struggle with depression. I know he was a busy salesman. So, I was happy to see him again and to meet his new wife. He was equally happy to let me know he was now retired. Wow, retired. I think this guy is around 62.

Like kids getting out of school, so many adults seem to look forward to retirement with great anticipation. Just can't wait. But for me? Holy crap! I've got a lot to keep me busy. But retired? I can't imagine not working at least some of the time-- and for a long time to come.

I reserve the right to change my mind. Maybe check-in with me in 5 or 10 years. Until then: Nothing worse than nothing to do.

Field Trip 2

I never rode a school bus on a daily basis. When I started 3rd grade in Los Angeles it was really my first memory of school buses. They'd line up in front of the entrance before and after school and I would envy the kids that got to ride the bus. I felt they were especially lucky when the bus was late and they all got an excused tardy.  I lived within a couple blocks of school so I was a walker. But when it came time for a field trip getting there on those big yellow buses was half the fun.

So far I've completed 3 of the field trips our hospital board has planned to meet with the boards of potential affiliation partners. As I've mentioned, our bus is much smaller than the one above. Our group is getting more comfortable with the routine of riding the bus even after just three outings: We're starting to talk, chatter a bit, and laugh. It's almost getting to be fun. So far no one's tried to spit out a window or moon a passing car-- the windows don't open and they're pretty dark tinted anyway. But we've got a few more trips to figure something out. If only we could get our hands on one of those big old LAUSD Crown buses.