So Long to a Girl's Best Friend

My heart aches for my dear daughter. One of dearest and closest friends slipped away Tuesday afternoon.  A treasured companion and confidant, the one who could share her losses and her frustrations, parents divorcing and remarrying, the arrival of half siblings, wrong teacher, right teacher—heartaches and celebrations of every stripe.  And, although her friend could not attend college with her, she was still able to maintain that special bond. Never jealous, never demanding, always willing and patient, striving to be the very best friend possible—almost more than anyone could ever ask for.

Her friend had followed her from grade school to college; from girl friends to boyfriends, always there when hopes were not realized as well as for dreams that came true. Through everything a life can throw at a young girl as she journeyed along the path from primary school to medical school, her little friend always remained willing, caring, and available.

So my heart aches and breaks for my sweet daughter as she bids her dear companion of 15 years goodbye, the victim of an overwhelming infection. Her dear sweet Spookee, a Shih Tzu with a heart ten times what her small body could hold. Always there, always accepting, wanting only to be loved.

My daughter has chosen a career where she will have intimate knowledge of loss. She may share in those most intimate moments when another person feels loss and pain and sorrow and the coming of an absence that seemingly cannot be resolved. It will fall to her to offer sympathy, to empathize, with those who suffer such loss. It will fall to her to offer initial comfort and compassion. And in this, as my daughter begins this important chapter of her adult life, she can again look to her little companion with gratitude for once again being available, patient, understanding, and willing to assist her in learning this most difficult lesson, preparing for this most difficult task. In that she was a special little dog even to the end.

You’re a lucky girl, Kelsey. I hope the many happy memories of your life and times with Spookee will soon bring you peace and comfort-- just one more lesson given to you by your faithful little companion.

All that, and a birthday today. Happy Birthday Kels. Your life has been filled with so many gifts, not the least of which was your dear Spookee.

The Coffee Break

Time for a coffee break

It's Sunday afternoon and time to sit down with a cup of what I call coffee. I've just finished cleaning out a garage filled with several years accumulation of bikes and toys and other items best described as, well, crap. With my mouth, nose, and hair full of dust, dirt, and cobwebs, a hot shower felt great. And now, a mug o' joe, sitting at the kitchen table.

This was almost a ritual with my dad, and often mom too, albeit on a Saturday afternoon: Yard work at a stopping point, supper 90 minutes in the future, it was time for a cup of coffee and, if luck would have it, a fresh slice of coffee cake or a cinnamon roll. (And, if luck wouldn't have it, a cookie or two from the green glass cookie jar that now rests on my kitchen counter.)

I thought of all this as I decided to take a break after finishing my chores and before making dinner. Looking out, there is not a bud, bloom, or leaf in sight. But, I can finally see more lawn than snow, even if it is still brown and dormant. And the river is moving again with a crowded pre-St. Patrick's Day parade of various sized chunks and slabs of ice and snow on their way to the Great Lakes. And the squirrels are busy chasing one another about the yard and park-- that can't be good: I fear more furry tailed rodents are just a few weeks away.

I'll be 58 tomorrow, probably about his age in the picture above, and I feel like I'm channeling my dad a bit, sitting at this table. And that's not a bad thing. My parents recognized the value in an afternoon coffee break; a moment to catch up; a moment to sit and watch the world go by, to see the neighborhood at work and play. Not a bad idea, stopping for 10 or 15 minutes. I never do this but I've probably been missing something.

I know what they missed: Advil. Time to take a couple and start dinner!

Making Do

A party perfect wrap

Mark Twain is credited with a comment that goes something like, "...heaven for climate, hell for company." I think I could paraphrase something to the effect, Mom for style, Dad for ingenuity.

I have Evan with me this weekend along with the instruction that he needs to get to a classmate's birthday party at 11:30 Sunday morning. Along with that, we needed to pick up a gift. Oh, and wrap it, too.

If any of you have ever received a wrapped package from me you already know where this is going. I love giving gifts and pride myself when it comes to wrapping all my own packages. I'm not that lame-ass manly guy hovering around the Girl Scout table in the Mall at Christmas time, waiting to have some board-certified-in-package-wrapping mom turn my gifts into Martha Stewart worthy works of wrapped, tied, and bowed genius. No. I'm your basic one pair of scissors, one roll of wrapping paper, one roll of tape kinda guy.

Finding the appropriate gift was easy enough: Every 8 year old needs an easy to assemble scale model of an American warplane, right? Check. And then around 9 o'clock last night I realized I had failed to pick-up some wrapping paper. And tape.

No problem for this daddy-o. I learned years ago there are certain tangible advantages to shopping at the better department stores. Just one of those advantages is getting those sturdy and attractive paper shopping bags over the holidays. And so it is that Evan will be showing up at the party today with the most special, and hardy, gift wrap of the bunch-- guaranteed. The formula was easy enough for an ingenious guy like me:

This (Mom taught me to never throw out those nice sturdy shopping bags): 

Plus this (who needs Scotch tape when you've got packing tape in the drawer?):

Equals this:

I know, thank you, genius! Right? You have to feel that baby to really appreciate its heft. Oh, and those Tootsie Rolls? Well, yeah, they've been here a bit, but Ev agreed, they make the perfect final touch.

If mom had been in charge, Evan's buddy would be receiving his gift in a gorgeous little ship-shape package-- well styled and reeking of happy-birthday-8-year-old-boy. But, as they say in truly critical situations, that just wasn't an option. Faced with a crisis, I made do. Hopefully, not do-do.

How Long is Too Long?

My nephew Joel had a birthday the other day-- which in typical and despicable fashion I failed to acknowledge. In responding to his many well-wishers he commented that the life-expectancy of the average male in 1900 was 48 years. I did my fact checking and I think he was a teensy bit generous-- I come up with 46 years, but his point is well made.

Fast forward a few dozen years and FDR signs the Social Security Act in 1935, a time when the average life expectancy for a male was almost 60 years. Five years later the first payments were paid out and the average life expectancy had ticked up to just under 61 years. For a program designed to make payments some time after the age of 61 years, the math was pretty good.

In 2014, the life expectance for a male born in the United States is 76 years. The math has definitely changed.

Somehow, where I live, it seems that I see an awful lot of people in their late 70's and 80's. Every once in a while I see one, or a couple, who have been able to save and invest in such a way that they continue to enjoy a comfortable existence, whether they remain at home or live in some fashion of facility.  (The good ones cost 5-7000 per month around here-- snow and all.) By a long stretch I see a vast majority, however, who live on very limited means. Skipping or skimping on medications is common. Thread bare clothing-- often well kept. clean, and tidy-- is not all that uncommon. I think hunger is not all that foreign as well.

At the same time, I am always interested in stories like the one on Science Friday yesterday discussing the future utility and promise of scientific advances in medicine like cyborg bacteria-- creature/machines programed to search out and destroy cancer cells and the like. We could live on and on and on in a perfect world.  3D generated replacement parts, stem cell regeneration. Everything but a vaccine to protect us against our most insidious foes: hatred, violence, and war.

In the past few weeks I've had the opportunity to visit with a couple elderly wives of elderly patients. Both were facing the same concerns-- husbands with failing minds, failing health, and dwindling financial resources. I was struck with the fact that both of these women were so very real in their perspective: They understood the value of a life well lived, they understood the value of rich memories, and, importantly, they understood the finite nature of life. They understood that life, hard as it may be, can be a gift or a curse and that, just which that will be is, in part, at the discretion of the receiver. These women saw life as a gift, a gift that is yours for a lifetime. A finite and unpredictable lifetime that doesn't necessarily end as well as it was lived or scripted.

So, I guess before I hold out any hope for some type of bioengineered happy ending, I need to concentrate on the value of a life that offers just so many years-- just so many fabulous, frustrating, fun-filled, trying, passionate, challenging years. And keep up my payments on that nursing home insurance.

By the way, a belated Happy Birthday Joel!

Seasonal Atitude Disorder-- SAD

Here in Michigan we struggle with extremes of weather. We seem to go from too hot to too cold with just a handful of weeks where we can all agree, "Isn't this weather fantastic?" Certainly this isn't unique to Michigan or the Great Lakes states in general. In the Pacific Northwest, for instance, with their pall of clouds from October 'til May, the forecast is often the same day after day, "Partly cloudy, 40% chance of rain." People in these regions can suffer from what the psycho-medical industry has labeled Seasonal Affective Disorder, a forty dollar term that means: I feel bad when the weather is lousy.

When you live where it's cold, however, and I do, we suffer from another less obvious malady: Seasonal Attitude Disorder, SAD.  This affliction can have serious implications for the sufferer just as surely as those suffering from the affective disorder.

Case in point: The other night it got down to minus 20 degrees. That's minus 29 celsius to the rest of the world. Within a day the temperatures here had rocketed north by over 40 degrees! Suddenly, the sun was out and it was 21!! And that's when SAD kicks in. Suddenly you hear perfectly sane and rational people making statements like, "Boy! It's really warmed up!" or, ""Wow! I sure am glad that cold front's moved on!" Right. And then, SAD begins to show it's potentially dangerous side and you start to witness affected individuals show up for work in light jackets or hooded sweatshirts, or hop in their cars for a 5 or 10 minute drive without a jacket because "it's not that cold." Without treatment, one slowly deteriorates until, one day, you see the patient driving around with the window of their vehicle down and the radio blasting, excited as heck that the thermometer has hit 40. Seeing an individual driving a convertible with the top down in sub-50 degree weather is pathognomonic for this condition.

I fully understand it's cause: While the rest of the world is outside looking to see if the daffodils are up, we're outside looking to see if any pipes are frozen or ice dams have formed.

I've said it before: Living in this region of the United States is not for the faint of heart or frail in constitution.

Treatment of this disorder consists of expensive blast therapy: The individual is required to blast off from Michigan on one or more trips to a truly warm and sunny destination like Florida, California or Arizona. Only then can a proper and healthy seasonal attitude be restored. Only then can a person regain their seasonal senses and realize that 20, 30, 40 degrees is still WAY TOO COLD!

Toll House Cookies

Comfort food is about mom. I mean, everyone needs, deserves, gets, and puts up with a mom of some sort or other at some point in life. Even in this age of male cooks, male foodies, inventive guys showing up with their favorite version of macaroni and cheese, a hearty stew, or some kind of apple pie: I would argue that comfort food still means and requires Mom, capital M.

Well, I would have, that is, until the other night.

Evan and Kelsey would be home for a day or so here this past weekend. I figured, Chinese New Year and all, we’d go out for Chinese for dinner. I might do breakfast on Saturday if I don’t have to go in to the hospital. Then again, we could just head down to Greg and Lou’s and sit at the counter and watch the cooks dance and the wait-staff fly while we feast on pancakes and omelets.

All this I’m thinking after cleaning up the dinner dishes and standing by the kitchen counter finishing off the last two chocolate chip cookies. Now that wasn’t too thoughtful. Staring at the empty cookie jar I had no choice but to spring into action.

In less than 2 hours, the kitchen was back in order and I was heading off to bed, satisfied I'd done my motherly duty. They wouldn't be minutes fresh out of the oven when they walked in the door the next day, but they’d be as good as any mom ever made. Straight off the back of the Nestlé’s Toll House Morsels package. No fancy foot work required.

Comfort food is about traditional foods made by following traditional recipes and using only traditional ingredients and…….well wait a minute. I guess at the end of the day, the only one ingredient that's really got to be there-- mom or no mom-- is the love……..although the salt, sugar, and fat don't hurt.

Phyllis Diller or Edd China?

So I'm sitting here with my daughter the other morning and she says, "Your hair is really getting long!" Like I don't know this. I've already had one no-spot-available and had to cancel two scheduled appointments for a cut. Not that I don't like my hair on the longer side. I don't get the whole close-cropped buzz cut thing-- never have. I gave that look up when I hit double digits.

Not that I'm interested in going the other way. I still see the occasional grey-haired guy with a ponytail and I really want to just say: Really? As overused as that exclamation has become in contemporary use, I'd like to say it to that guy with the long grey ponytail. Then again, what business is it of mine?

I'm old enough-- j u s t  b a r e l y-- to remember when the Beatles began to spread their corruptive influence on the hair fashion of male American youth. I'm old enough-- j u s t   b a r e l y-- to remember  older relatives speaking in disgust about hair that was peeking over the tops of ears, sideburns that were descending to the level of earlobes. Outrageous!!

Anyway, 10:30 Saturday morning-- the lord was willing and the creek didn't rise-- I was able to bring some law and order to this mop. No more homage to celebrities past and present. As ever, it is, once again, all about ME. An orderly mop.

So That's How That Works

Sometimes a person has the craziest dreams and all you can do is wonder: Where did that come from???

I woke up this morning to that very thought and then realized: So that's where that comes from!  It's like  math-- sometimes if you just back up and work through a few really easy problems, pretty soon you understand the concept and, voila!, math genius in the making.

So I'm lying in bed this morning thinking about this dream I had, crossing rivers, looking at property on a lake. Suddenly I come to a wooded area. In a clearing there is a large fallen log from which a large population of squirrels starts to exit. And all of a sudden, scene change, I'm watching this on TV with Evan. And as the squirrels emerge from their winter lodging, they begin to pair up and, in the best Animal Planet fashion, we are provided with a close-up of their mating. Suddenly, and quite uncomfortably, I'm watching a squirrel couple stand on their haunches, face to face, grasp each other with their little squirrel paws, kiss on the mouth, and, well, let's just say it goes on from there with little squirrel protuberances searching for little squirrel hollows. And there I am on a sofa with Evan, watching this, getting very uncomfortable and wondering to myself: Should I change the channel? Turn it off? Or let the show play out and not act like it's any big deal? And then I wake up.

It didn't take long to recall a conversation from two days prior when one of the women in my office was recollecting her husband's coming of age talk with her son. I remember thinking at the time that was kind of weird. I couldn't really put myself in that position.

Now, thanks to a randy NC-17 squirrel dream, I can totally put myself in that position. I get it. That is how those crazy dreams work. Can't wait for tonight.

Just One Thing

"Just one thing." I never got that. I'm sure there are answers to be found on the web-- I mean 102,000 results in 0.41 seconds (I know, for-ever) but, personally, I never got the whole just one thing bit.

Until Thursday afternoon.  Now I get it. Now I know.

Tuesday morning dawned with the terrible triad: Late for work, couldn't find my office keys, and my glasses were MIA. The latter really bugged me. I knew I'd worn them home the afternoon prior. Beyond that, I could not remember where the H I would have set them down. They weren't in any of the usual places. They weren't in my coat or the shirt I'd worn the day before, or the pants. Nor were they in any of the unusual places in this drafty old house. They were just quite simply gone. The office keys, however, were easily located in the back pocket of my khakis as I, annoyed as heck, plopped down hard on the frozen front seat of my car. One problem solved.

For two days I lamented the passing of one of my favorite pairs of glasses. There are others in this house but the missing pair were of the go-to-work, look-smart, expensive variety and they would have to be replaced.

Years and marriages ago, I had a brother living on a farm in, what we refer to here in the Great Lakes State as, far-northern-lower-Michigan, or more simply, “up north.” It’s a land of hardwood forests, lakes and streams. It’s a land populated by mosquitoes, black flies, and "no-see'ms" in the summer, deer hunters in the fall, and snowmobilers in the winter.

We used to joke about the two old above ground fuel storage tanks that stood at the end of the driveway on that farm: one tank for insect repellant, one for lotion we’d say. Those are both seasonally requisite items here. In the summer: gallons of insect repellant.  In the winter: buckets of lotion. When the entire landscape freezes for months on end, a person’s skin will take on the cracks, wrinkles, and scales of a tortoise if not properly cared for. It’s a lesson I’ve learned and I’m never far from a shot of lotion for face and hands. 

(Ready?) And that leads me to my lost glasses-- lost, that is, until yesterday when I decided I should stop in the surgery bathroom and put some lotion on my face and hands prior to leaving and heading out into the arctic cold. Just like I’d done three evenings before. The glasses? Not lost, stolen, or destroyed. They were right where I left them 3 evenings before: Perched on a roll of toilet paper on a counter in the surgery bathroom. Guess when I take them off I'm not as smart I look with them on.

And now, coming painfully full circle: 

As a person ages, it really is about just one thing: 

             Remember where the hell you put it!  Life’s too short to spend your time looking.

What's In A Number?

My sister sent me a set of coins the other day-- a U.S. Mint Set from 1970. Seeing it brought back happy memories of that year: 13 years old, racing around UCLA on my wanna be stingray-like bike. "Blonde hair shinin' in the sun." Nothing but blue skies and warm weather.

That was also a time in my life when seeing a -8 was not necessarily a bad thing. If there were a hundred questions and I got a -8, chances are that was still a low A. Then again, if it was a spelling test of 20 words, well, -8 might just land me in some hot water.

Which brings me to today's -8:  I'm not going to suggest a grade for this score but it certainly did land me in hot water. Lots of it.  And for as long as I could stand there.

Growing up as a kid on LA's westside in the 70's there was no conception of minus eight degrees. Minus eight degrees existed in a science lab up the street at UCLA. Minus eight degrees existed in the pages of National Geographic. Minus eight degrees was an absurdity, an aberrance noted because, surely, somebody froze to death. Minus eight degrees was screeching coins into blocks of dry ice.

Unfortunately for this adult no longer residing on the westside of Los Angeles, this morning it is minus eight degrees and that means I'm going to bundle up in a down coat and mittens and watch for patches of ice as I haul the trash out to the curb. Then I'm going to go fix someone's broken bones--- someone not from the pages of National Geographic but from right here in the middle of Michigan-- someone who also knows the dark side of -8, someone who slipped on the ice.