The High Cost of Bargains

This past week the local paper ran an article about dental tourism. I’m not sure why it popped up just now as both medical and dental tourism have been around for quite a few years.

On the one hand it should come as no surprise to anyone living in the United States that, owing to the high cost of health care, people look for bargains. For those with the necessary resources, courage, and an underlying sense for adventure, medical/dental tourism makes sense. The cost of care in Mexico, Central and South America, India, China, and many other overseas destinations is a fraction of what one would pay in the U.S.

On the other hand it disappoints the hell out of me. In a region of the U.S. where complaints of job loss and outsourcing to foreign competition is always front and center, it is odd that anyone would look to medical/dental tourism as a clever option in controlling healthcare costs. It’s like plumbing: If you need a new fixture you can buy it online with free shipping for X dollars. You can purchase the same item for half again as much at a local bigbox store—one that employees the people you know and one that pays local taxes (maybe). Or, you can buy the same item at a locally owned store for 2 to 3 times the Internet price and know that you are not just buying hardware, you’re supporting a business that keeps its revenue—all of it—right here in your city and state. The price you pay at a locally owned store goes toward way more than the cost of a simple fixture.

Like Internet hardware, when one travels abroad for a medical or dental procedure you are likely to get quality work. After all, many of those practitioners may have come to the U.S. to receive their specialty training and often with the benefit of your tax supported facilities.  But it’s not just the local dentist who suffers when a patient goes abroad for treatment. Every member of that dentist’s staff, every patient that remains behind, and every member of the community supported by that practice’s revenue pays for the loss of that overseas patient. And, ultimately, we may find ourselves waxing nostalgic about the day when we had a local dentist, doctor, or other caregiver.

I guess if one truly supports the fiction of a “free market system,” than we can all agree the best deal is the lowest price. Just be prepared, though, to live with the consequences of your bargain shopping as you find your choices dwindle and convenience disappears at just about the same rate as local jobs: Nobody can find a good job but, man, what bargains!

Not Treated Like a Dog

I saw an old patient of mine in the emergency room a few weeks back. He had broken his hip and was happy to see me because I had replaced his knees quite a few years earlier. In his mid eighties, he was living at home with his meticulously groomed and well-coiffed attractive wife of 60+ years.

There were options for this gentleman. I could do a quick and easy repair that would necessitate his not walking on the hip for a couple of months, or I could replace it, give him a new hip and get him going. He was a busy man, he assured me, with a garden to tend and a yard to maintain-- he wanted to get home and get back to business. So, a hip replacement it was.

One of the problems with taking care of an elderly person is that you don't always know when what they want to do is no longer what they can do. Needless to say, my patient needed to go to a nursing home for rehab for a few weeks after surgery.

Three weeks later he was back in the hospital with pneumonia (a "readmission within 30 days," an event for which Medicare no longer reimburses hospitals). And that's when the nurse noticed his wound was a little red.

My patient went on to require 2 more surgeries to wash out his infected wound. He had pneumonia, miserable pain, hated going back to the nursing home, and pleaded with his doctors, including me, to just let him die-- the latter something he managed to do on his own about 8 weeks after the whole miserable episode started.

I feel confident there was nothing technically wrong with the care he received. We followed all the "best practices," we met all the "core quality measures" set by the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services. But, in the end, I think our system failed to take care of a frightened old man who was in pain and dying. He had hospice care but not until the bitter end.

I've been thinking a lot about this man and his wife the last few days since I learned of his passing. And it leads me to think about this: If we euthanize our dogs when they are suffering and dying as an act of human kindness, why do our elderly have to suffer and beg?

Public Service Pam

Every girl under the age of 25 should have been watching Dancing With the Stars the last couple of nights. Every dad in America should have been watching as well. In an "All Star" reprise season of the show, Pamela Andersen was among the celebrities invited to make an encore appearance on the show. Her appearance really served as a public service announcement for every young woman in America.

What I know about Pamela Andersen has come from copies of People magazine left laying around the office and hearing other peoples comments about her, her celebrity marriages, and her criminally augmented boobs. So, I'll go out on a limb here with my observation but feel fairly safe at this height: Pamela Andersen is a poster child for a failure of parenting. For an absence of self-esteem. For what becomes of a person who chooses a life lived in pursuit of fame and esteem by association. A life that lives or dies by the arm you hang on.

When a child, any child, regardless of gender, is raised without a well formed sense of self then they accumulate nothing in the drawer marked "self-worth." They become puppets and dolls, errand boys and accessories, in the lives of others-- and almost always others who share a similar disease. They are condemned to a life trying to gain approval, constantly at the bidding of others. (As a friend of mine in the ER likes to say, when your daughter grows up to be a pole dancer you know you've pretty much flunked fatherhood.)

I felt there was a desperate sadness to Pamela Anderson last night as she failed her dance routine and became the first to get booted off the show. It was a "Sunset Boulevard" moment. It just seemed that, there she was, not flunking at dance but at the only thing she knew how to do: be popular.

Flunking popularity on a primetime national TV stage has got to be a miserable feeling. For someone with her credentials, a monumental personal failure, a zero balance in the self-worth vault. And that's why father's and daughters should have been watching. This is a woman who seems to have started out in self-esteem bankruptcy, created a fortune-- a self-worth Ponzi scheme, if you will-- only to get caught on primetime television with nothing. Nothing to provide and nothing to be given.

I have always told my daughter that it doesn't matter what she chooses in life. She just needs to choose wisely enough that, by the time she's 50, she can look in the mirror, know who's looking back, and have the ability to say, "I choose to be here." It's about ownership. And it's a sad thing watching someone discover that, after all these years, they have been a renter, not an owner. Worse still, to find you can no longer come up with the rent.

McDonalds - Smart: An Oxymoron

The other night my daughter and I were watching U of M throw the ball to Notre Dame in what was supposed to be a football game. An ad came on which has been in the loop now for a month or so: It features a group of youngish adults going out to eat at a McDonalds. One of the guys is asked where he is living and, via flashback, we see he has moved back home. The crux of the matter is his need to gracefully get out of telling his friends he has moved back in with his parents. After a moment he comes up with a clever reply that distorts the truth and the equation is it's smart to eat at Mcdonalds just like our hapless friend was smart in embroidering his reply.

My daughter said, "I will never be in that situation."
Dad, a little disappointed, "What, moving back home?"
Daughter, "No! Going out for a meal with my friends at McDonalds in my 30's!"

I was relieved with her answer but then I was struck by the rest of the story: Lying and distorting the truth has become a standard-- and apparently admirable-- modi operandi in our society. We've just become so clever and smart we can just say whatever we want. Credibility is in the answer, not the truth.

The other really pathetic part of the ad is that is implies there is shame in having to move back home with your parents. In a time when millions of Americans cannot find work it is an all too well known scenario that young people who would like to be independent, working, and living in their own apartment or home are having to move back home. So, rather than admit to the circumstance, rather than demonstrate a sense of gratitude that his mother is happy, able, and willing to have him move back home, our sorry McDonalds customer lies about it. And then comes the tag line that links eating at McDonalds with being smart, something like: McDonalds. Smart.

From a personal perspective I'm not too disappointed. I stopped eating at McDonalds quite a while back because it's just wrong on so many levels. But for the "billions and billions served" it's the wrong message entirely and a disservice. Unfortunately, it's also probably a pretty good barometer of the current state of personal integrity.

Yes. A Good Weekend

Dad time, c. 1992

It drives me crazy when people ask, "J'have a good weekend?" It's not a privacy issue so much as weekends kind of come and go. My life is good. My weekdays are good. My weekends aren't some type of uncorked celebration marking the end of a tedious week. My weekends are just two more days of the week and, happily, tend to be enjoyable as well….providing there aren't too many chores to take care of.

But this weekend was different. I got to spend almost the whole entire day Saturday with Kels. I never get to do that. At least not since she started driving.  Not since she got a boyfriend. Not since she left for college. But she was home for the weekend from school and decided she wanted to kinda hang out with me. Amazing!

We did rounds at two different hospitals-- something she hasn't done much really since she stopped drawing with crayons. We looked at x-rays together; straightened out a broken ankle and a couple of broken wrists; talked about school and exams and medical school and the future of medicine and working. We talked about damn near everything and finished up the day watching U of M lose to Notre Dame which turned out to be the only sour note in the symphony that was a day spent with my daughter.

In the morning Ev and I bundled up in the crisp fall air and sunshine and rode our bikes down to Lance's Bakery and hauled home fresh bread, donuts and maple bars. The breakfast of champions. And the perfect end to a perfect weekend with my daughter, something I never get to do.

Ya, so just if you were wondering, I did have a good weekend. A really good weekend.

Nosey Discount Cards

Where I live it seems like every retailer wants you to have their card. Not a charge card. A discount card. You know: It's that little stubby plastic number you hang on your keyring so that you can read "You saved $4 using your savings card!" at the bottom of your receipt. Makes you feel pretty thrifty and shopper savvy, right? There are even little perks like a free donut or something on your birthday.

Not so much me. I resist these programs as a nuisance and an invasion of privacy. I prefer to shop where the prices just seem reasonable and you don't have to feel bad if you drive your wife's car and forget your little keychain card. That said, I finally got tired of being asked if I have a card and so consented to obtaining one of the little buggers some time ago. It's not a great store but it is close by and I do use their pharmacy.

After yesterday, however, I know why I hate the little discount cards and will never use one again: "Here's your receipt and a coupon" the clerk says handing me my paperwork. The coupon was for Men's One-A-Day Over 50. Whatever. Like I'm even 50.

Not just an invasion of my privacy, it's, like, y'know, totally stupid and inaccurate. Seriously. I'm going full retail if it's gonna be about name calling.

Of Soup and Stew and Chili

Last night summer melted away into the first day of autumn. Enough of a soft, cool, intermittent rain fell to keep our big oaks water soaked-- their leaves dripping larges drops of water on the roof over our bedroom. Water soaked enough to let the occasional small branch give way and hit the roof with a crack. Water soaked enough to break free those last few acorns-- and dear God there were billions this year-- and let them smack our roof as well. Summer melting away.

Michigan never takes her seasons for granted: Each enters and exits with some degree of ceremony and display. The winds in the last couple weeks were enough to make the dog raise his clever nose for long pause and a whiff. Even to the lowly human nose it was simple enough to pick up the smell of a hundred fields, farms, and forests that surround this town. The wind carried it all: crops harvested, crops waiting, leaves preparing to shut down 'til next year. And the memory of 50-some summers past,warm days, late night play, and a thousand things to accomplish before it's over-- all of that carried in the wind.

Like most everything in my life, I look forward to what's ahead and am grateful for most all that's left behind. For now, I'll send the light weight stuff into storage and start taking inventory of the flannels, the rubber mocs, the Portland clogs, and my rain coats. It's time to start thinking of soups, and stews, and chili.

The Trouble With Toothplace

Whatever happened to plain old Crest??

I'm walking around this morning with a used-up tube of toothpaste in my pocket. I seriously hope I remember to remove it prior to heading to work but, for now, I need it. God help me, I can't send this thing into the trash until I carefully write down what it is I'm throwing away.

I went to the local big grocer/pharmacy Wal-Mart competitor and thought that, while I was there, I'd pick up a new tube of toothpaste. It's on the list-- I'll pick it up. All the other shopping complete I just zipped over to the "Oral Care" aisle and.....stopped cold.

Does it have to be a sign of aging that I have trouble buying toothpaste? I mean, am I that far gone? How many types of Crest toothpaste do we really need in this world. Should reducing the number of toothpaste choices be rolled into the Accountable Care Act?  How many blue boxes should be allowed? Whitening, Extra-Whitening, Triple Protection-- what ever happened to that white box with the red triangle on it? Noticing that my ice cream was starting to drip through the slats in my basket I grabbed a box that looked like the one I'd just thrown out at home.

No such luck. I was wrong by a factor of 1 whitening power.

Next time I'll be prepared. The tube is in my pocket and I'm going to write it down. Next time I'll pull out my list and on that list will be the name-- the exact name-- of the toothpaste I'm replacing. Providing, of course, I remember to take the list.

The Shopper Dad

This?

Or this?

Kelsey's Mom used to accuse me of trying to substitute time spent with stuff bought. I don't think that was true but I did enjoy getting stuff for Kels now and then. Moms often talk about how fun it is to have a little girl and buy her cute outfits and shoes and dolls and all of that. Believe me, none of those claims are lost on me.

In Chicago this weekend I passed by the American Girl store and had to remember at least a dozen or more times in that store with Kels between the age of 4 and 10. We didn't always buy something, especially not one of those seriously expensive dolls. And, thankfully, she never wanted to eat at the American Girl Cafe. But we toured every floor, saw the shows at the American Girl Theater, and usually left with some small accessory at the least.

Kels is all grown up now and I doubt I'll ever be hanging out in the American Girl Store again, short of having a granddaughter or such. But the urge to buy for my "little girl" hasn't dissipated. Always on the lookout for something cool, I was happy to discover a really nice pair of Topsider loafers at Bloomies for less than American Girl's Girl of the Year 2012, McKenna-- who, by the way, I think looks like a WASP sorority bitch in training.

I have to agree with all those moms out there-- it is fun shopping for a daughter. I'm just glad mine has finally reached an age where I can shop in "her" stores just as well as she.

Last Shot

One photo pretty much says it all. Even though Ev has been back in school for a week this was technically the last weekend of summer. Monday it's forecast to be in the 80's, Tuesday it's rain, and then they say the thermometer will start its gradual descent for the year. Warm days, cool nights. Cool days, cold nights. And so forth.

But this weekend the gods of sun and heat shined down on mid-Michigan one more time and Evan got to spend the weekend and Grampa and Gramma's. One more weekend to run around outside with the new dog. One more weekend to run around outside in shorts. One more Saturday afternoon to go fishing off the deck at the grandparent's pond.

A 5 year old boy, his dog, and a fishing pole. A happy farewell to the summer of 2012.

Saying the Pledge

I saw a piece making the Facebook rounds that featured a photo of kids in a classroom saying the pledge of allegiance. It asks you to share or like or something if you grew up saying the pledge and think kids still should.

I grew up saying the pledge. I remember it up until 3rd grade but don't remember saying it so much beyond that at school in Los Angeles. I would think we did but, frankly, don't remember.

The funny thing is, these nostalgic recollections of the pledge of allegiance strike me as just one more example of the sentimental, and frequently distorted, recollection of the good ol' days in the U.S.: Mom at home with the kids-- one boy, one girl, maybe a dog. Dad off to work each day. Everyone in church on Sunday. No such thing as an "unwed mom"-- at least not outside a "home" for such girls. Somehow people look back on memories of activities like saying the pledge and everything else falls away: the poverty, the lack of diversity, the intolerance, the open discrimination on the basis of race, religion, and gender.  Sexual orientation? Forget about it!

The scary part about it is that I have to wonder if there aren't those among us who really would like to turn the clock back. As hard as it is to believe, I have to think there probably are those who really do wish it were that way, that polyanna, rose colored view of American history.

The really scary part is what seems to be an effort to turn the clock back to a time that never was: Nothing more dangerous than thinking you know exactly where you're at, where you're going, committed to the path, and being completely misinformed.

She Doesn't Get It

We went out to the airport for breakfast Sunday morning. The cafe is run by a friend of ours and, occasionally, by her Archey Buker ex-Marine of a husband. She's sweet as pie while he is rougher than the whiskers on a wino. Loud, rude, profane-- all of that but with a soft heart underneath that brash exterior.

So Sunday we find out the husband's been out of town for two weeks taking a walk down memory lane…. in Vietnam. (When he says "I love the smell of napalm" he knows of what he speaks.) She goes on to tell us just how much she's been enjoying having two weeks without the ol' man hanging around. So much, it turns out, she took the opportunity to remodel-- the entire house.

I have no problem with that. I have opinions about the appearance of our interior but I can work with Tam, no problem. New fridge, range, new paint, new carpet. No problem. And then our friend mentions the dumpster. The dumpster?

Turns out she also took that marital lull as an opportunity to clean a few things out. Like the ol' man's office. Like his favorite old desk. And stacks of old magazines he'd stashed away. And stacks of old papers. And on and on.

Tam will tell you I'm terrible about hanging on to things that probably should be hauled away in a dumpster. And she keeps after me in an attempt to motivate some action on my part. But she gets it: You don't mess with your man's stuff. I know I have magazines from 40 years ago. And old letters from friends and family all the way back to junior high. And books, and pictures, and, well, just plain stuff. But it's my stuff and I keep it pretty well sequestered in my office here at home, even while it sometimes tumbles out of cabinets, closets and off of shelves.

I'll be seeing our friend's husband in the next few days and I'll be ready with a sympathetic ear. You just don't mess with a guys stuff. Geez, I just hope nobody got hurt!

Skateistan

I happened across this video today while reading about a recent suicide bombing in Kabul, Afghanistan. Of the dead, six were children and, of those, four were from the Skateistan skate park.

This short documentary is beautiful and so incredibly illustrates the insanity of war. At the same time it illustrates so incredibly the fire, the unconditional optimism, that is so much a part of youth, so much the resource we need to understand and promote. Watch this and ask yourself why. Why must we continue to insist on destroying our own? Why do children go to bed hungry? As for me-- I think I know the answers to these questions. And I may be more disgusted by the answers than I am by the consequences.

It's a great short film. I hope you watch.

How Many More?

We're having a funeral here in town this week. Funerals are big in my corner of the U.S. It's all part of family and friendship and a sense of caring. This one will be different, though. It'll be held in the local high school football stadium, the stadium at the high school from which he graduated. In 2010.

The young man was a member of my daughter's high school graduating class. He didn't die of natural causes. He didn't die of the usual suspects in death among teens-- an overdose, an accident, or a violent crime. He died a soldier, in Afghanistan. And the community has come together in a show of respect and caring visible on every reader board and electronic sign in the county. I think it's fair to say there is not one person in this county who is not aware of the loss of this young man.

The real tragedy in this is that this isn't an isolated occurrence. Rather, it's both common and international in scope. It's unGodly common. And it affects families throughout the world every single day. As tragic as it is to see the hearts of parents ripped out, it has been become all too usual. As the current war in Afghanistan drags on and after years and years and years and years of war after war, destruction, injury and death, we are saddened but remain resigned to believing that this is how it is and always will be.

As sad as it is to see a young man dead at 20 years of age, his life taken in military service on foreign soil for a cause I don't believe he could even begin to articulate, it is more tragic that we do not believe there is another way to live in this world. Maybe it's time we come to recognize that we're wasting our most precious resources when we allow our young people to die trying to kill others so that we can continue with business as usual or advance some narrow-minded agenda. We hear public outcry against homosexuality, same-sex marriage, and a woman's right to abortion as affronts to God and mankind. And yet, somewhere in this country, we mourn the loss of a young man or woman, brother or sister, husband or wife, mother or father, every single day of the week this war continues. And that's just U.S. lives. I find it hard to believe anyone's deity could embrace and give blessing on such wholesale sacrifice of human life.

Perhaps it's time to raise the age of military service to 55 or 60. Perhaps, in this country, we should require 3 years of military service after retirement and before receiving Social Security benefits. But, until that day arrives, the best we can do is raise the public awareness of not just the tragedy of a young person's death, but of the larger tragedy of continuing a policy of war as a solution to conflict.  Fair to say, throughout history, war has never brought lasting resolution to any conflict. Nothing more than a viaduct for heartache and pain, resentment and retaliation. God bless the war dead, yes. But God help the living.

Time To Pay…... Attention

A recent article in the online Huffington Post discussed the depth and breadth of the corrupting influence of money in the political landscape of this country. I'm not expert or even well informed on the subject, but I'm aware of the subject. Campaign finances are the 800 pound gorilla in the room that is American democracy.

Like so many conditions in contemporary life we seem to want to fall into the belief that this is just how it is and how it's going to be. The thought of forging change in an arena where the players themselves don't have any interest in changing the rules seems hopeless. Fact is, money rules American life at every level. It's true in politics, it's true in medicine, it's true in religion, it's true in education. Money makes us tick: Sit, stay, rollover, play dead, be happy.

More and more it seems we are being lulled into accepting this cult, the cult of materialism. So much so that for many Americans just the semblance of material wealth is enough to provide that happy contentment that keeps one from paying attention, asking real questions, actively looking after one's personal welfare. As long as we have iPads, pods and phones; texting, tweeting, and gaming; as long as we have football 4 nights a week-- or basketball or baseball, tennis or golf, wings and beer; as long as we have great food and stuff to eat like Applebees and Ponderosa, Outback, and freezer cases full of "ready to eat family meals"; as long as we have 20 dollar jeans and hundred dollar suits, 5 dollar ties and 40 dollar loafers; as long as our health and education become "pay for performance" and, in doing so, removes all individual responsibility for wellbeing and knowledge-- in short, as long as we can convince people that the food, clothing, and entertainment they're getting is fun, affordable, and all that matters-- then nobody needs to worry about anyone seriously wanting to alter the status quo. After all, they're happy! Boy, are they happy!

Unfortunately, what we really are is distracted. We've become happily distracted and are encouraged to remain that way every 5 minutes or so that a TV is left on. We've become distracted and believe the most critical issues facing Americans in this election are not civil rights, it's not justice, not healthcare, or education, or tolerance, or care of the elderly. It's jobs. Give me a job. Give me some money. Let me buy stuff-- and I'll be happy. It has all become about "me" rather than "us." The politics of money have become very personal, indeed. Meanwhile, as the lopsided growth of wealth continues unabated, the real poverty that's being created in this country is becoming obscured by all the pretty distractions.

Fortunately, I do think there remains a fundamental difference between the two major political parties, campaign financing aside. I don't know that I've recognized such a well defined philosophical dividing line at any time previously in my voting lifetime. And, as the President said Thursday night, this election will be about making a choice and choosing a direction. For us as individuals, however, we may just need to turn off the entertainment and get to work in order to become educated about who is in charge and just what is going on in this country.

Until the long reach of corporate and special interest money is either exposed completely or eliminated entirely, we won't fully know what we're getting regardless of who wins this election.  And you can expect the task of achieving campaign finance reform will fall to us, the people, not them, the elected. Until then, I'll continue to vote the ticket that I believe will best support us and not me; us and not them.

Unwanted Guest

A rodent by any other name.

I'm not a country boy. And, in fact, although I live in a rural part of Michigan-- that would be  most of the state-- I live in enough of a town to consider myself city, not country. Nevertheless, I drive past farms with their beautiful hip-roofed barns, their silos, their collection of beautiful old wood outbuildings and I think that might just be really cool. Maybe a horse or two.

It's easy to have such thoughts zipping by at 62 miles an hour on a country two-lane road.  It's easy to think that when you live in a house with central air…..and a paved driveway. It's easy to think that until you hear something in your garage go "cheep." I thought I had heard it the night before. Next day Tam was sure she had heard it.  City or not we live in a neighborhood with more tunnels than a Mexican border town. And I'm not talking' roadways here. I'm talking' Theodore, Simon, and Alvin. Right. Chipmunk tunnels.

Chipmunks are the animal equivalent of those beautiful farms: They look cute and cool and seem really nifty until one decides the woodpile in your garage is exactly the spot he was thinking would provide the best winter hangout ever. What ensued after our little discovery can only be described as fitting for YouTube but, thankfully, went unfilmed.

In the next 30 minutes, while the ribs smoked on the grill we moved the woodpile, pretty well cleaned out the side garage, and sent the little bugger on his way. Not, however, before chasing the bastard around and across the garage, around and under every bike, wagon, and assorted piece of junk in the garage. Not, however, before he went scurrying across the garage and between Tam's legs at what seemed like 50 miles an hour.  (That girl can jump!) Not, however, before dragging our stealthy Golden Retriever out into the storage room into which our little Alvin had escaped. (And I do mean drag. Our beautiful expensive purebred hunting dog showed about as much nerve and interest in tracking our mini-beast as would a 16 year old girl dressed for prom.) Not, however, before leaving the corn to boil on the stove for those 30 minutes. (With salt and butter it did make a pretty tasty gum-like substance.)

I'll still enjoy driving by those area farms at 62 miles per hour. But I've just been reminded why I'll never own one: A chipmunk in the garage is bad enough. God help me if I were to have to confront a raccoon, skunk, or possum while walking out to the car. There would be bloodshed. And it would probably be mine.

Day One

First day of Kindergarten. It's a milestone a few of us remember although I'm not one of them. But I do remember finger painting for which we put on our dad's old oversized shirts-- worn backwards. And I recall paste that smelled (and tasted) like peppermint, and snack time, and realizing that canned pineapple juice is, at best, an acquired taste-- and one which still alludes me.

What I don't remember, but know I learned, as the most important lessons in what turned into over 20 years of formal education were: Learning is fun. School is good. Teachers are (mostly) on your side. Paying attention has its rewards. There is usually more fun to be had in school than in staying at home.

70 miles distant from the spot where the above photo was taken, Ev's big sister had her first day of school starting the "15th grade" down in Ann Arbor. She's already at the point where she's learned the above lessons and one more: For many of us, entering the classroom allows us to enter the world as a participant. Education is the portal to owning your future.

I still wish I had a couple of classes to attend every week, for all those reasons and one more: School is basically very good for you. Learning is terrific exercise for that big gray sponge inside your skull.

As I look at this photograph of Ev on his first day I can only hope his experience will be every bit as rich. Lord knows it will be vastly different than big green chalk boards, number 2 pencils, and Pink Pearl erasers. So far, though, it still includes Crayola Crayons. He's off to a good start.

The Sweetest Watermelon Ever

Labor Day weekend is the official end of summer. It's no matter that the calendar still promises almost 3 more full weeks of this beautiful warm weather. Summer is over and school starts Tuesday. And to that I'm sure there will be more than a few audible sighs of relief-- at least on the parent end of things.

Here at home we wound up the weekend in just the right manner: Ribs on the grill. Corn on the cob. Potatoes roasted in the fire. And for dessert? What else? Ice cold watermelon.

If you are anything like me you grew up with seasonal watermelon, meaning, watermelons that showed up in the latter part of June and pretty much disappeared by the 3rd week in September. I don't adhere to that schedule any longer and, in fact, don't hesitate much to pick up a watermelon any time of year they're in the market and looking good. That said, they're never better than they are in the heat of the summer, served ice cold.

The watermelon we had after dinner last night was just about perfect. Something I just realized last night, however, is that watermelon almost-- if not always-- watermelon almost never tastes as good as the ones you remember from childhood: The one kept cold in the cooler under the picnic table. The big dark green monster kept out in the fridge in the garage. The one hauled up after being submersed in an ice cold mountain creek for hours.

Fact is, if you're lucky enough to own a share, you never can do better than the sweet taste of a childhood memory. If you're lucky you can look back and recall every cook-out, every day in the sun, every trip to the park, every hour spent in the lake or pool, every marshmallow ever roasted and placed upon a Hershey's covered graham cracker, every wiener cooked on a stick, and every slice of ice cold watermelon as being the very best you ever had.

And that is exactly the kind of summer I hope we've all had. Here's to watermelon memories.

Waffle-less

Sunday evening my son said he'd like waffles for dinner. What a great idea on a quiet stay-at-home Sunday night. But, alas, I couldn't comply. So, while I grilled Mom her chicken we let Ev push the waffle down in the toaster. Not that I can't make waffles. No. My waffle iron is dead.

Last weekend I spent the better part of 90 minutes in a really well equipped cooking store. Coffee machines that do everything but start with a tree. Presses and fryers and non-stick and copper, glassware and china and ceramic mugs you could use to, well, kill a mugger. Glasses from morning juice to 5 o'clock martini. Aprons and hats and mitts and towels. Whisks and flippers and scrapers and mixers. Blenders and beaters and cauldron size processors. Sauces and seasonings and cookbooks and videos. In a word, everything. "The Art and Soul of Cooking" is their claim.

"One other thing. I need a waffle iron." With a satisfied smile she turned and pointed, "Right here!" just as cheery as could be.  I'm sorry, but when did Belgium successfully block the manufacture of all remaining types of waffles? Do you think they would have one, maybe just one measly little Sunbeam waffle iron; the kind that makes the shallow 4 panel window pane of a waffle?? Not on your life. And the lady looked at me when I said "Sunbeam waffle iron" and you would think I had just recalled the name of the little sister she had lost at the age of 3. She was sad and speechless, unable to point any longer.

I'm going to go shop online and if I can't find one there then I'm pretty sure I know what's happened: Belgium has, in fact, taken the patent on all make 'em yourself waffles. As for the shallow panel squares? Perhaps Eggo has laid legal claim to that device.

From the Department of Overreacting Dads

I remember the trauma of getting shots. Like, every trip to the doctor's office was always with that cloud hanging overhead. And, why ask? If it's a yes it's pure unbridled dread. Don't ask and you're left to hope for the best and just worry yourself sick.  Us worriers tend to go with as little information as possible.

Evan has been jumping up and down with excitement about the prospect of starting Kindergarten this next week. It's fantastic to see. He went to meet his teacher the other night at open house and reported that, "She's small but she'll do a good job."

Then came the letter: To the parents of…  It seems we canceled a vaccination appointment a few months back so as not to interfere with our flight plans the next day. No shots the day before vacation is my mantra. Having forgotten that little matter led to our receiving the letter on Wednesday informing his Mom and me that he would need 4 vaccines before start of school.

Incredibly, Ev was totally cool about the whole thing. "That's okay. It's just like a pinch." Easy enough for him to say. For me I was right back in my single digits dreading the trip to join that long line of kids crying and wrestling their Moms as they're led along to get poked.  I worried about Ev's shots while lying in bed the night before. Saying goodbye to him Friday morning as I went out the door to work, it was all I could do not to sweep him up, give him a tearful hug, and say "Be brave, little guy! I'm so sorry!"

Fortunately for Ev, his Mom was in charge. When the nurse brought in the tray with three syringes Ev immediately walked over, picked one up, and said, "Here they are!" The kid is amazing, that's all there is to it. Later at lunch, and ever so matter of fact, he showed me his wounds in both thighs.

I was so happy to see him in such great shape I insisted his Mom let him have his very first gum ball right after going out for Chinese lunch. And then she took him off to buy a toy.  Hmmmm. Maybe if I had had a Mom like Evan's…..