Above Sunset Boulevard

Winding Down

2008-12-30T22:16:00.004-06:00

In fewer than 2 days, a new year will have arrived, 2009. That number looks like something out of science fiction, but I can remember when 1984 sounded just as futuristic. I don't remember much that's memorable about the new year holiday, except that I was married for the first time on 12/31/59. I suppose that makes it memorable on a permanent basis, though that marriage ended many years ago.

I do remember taking notice of 1950 coming in as I listened to the radio (yes, radio) as the grownups talked and, I'm sure, drank. But other than 1950 and 1959, I've met the arrival of a
new year with little notice, much less excitement. Since I'm a recovering alcoholic, I'm sure I was blitzed more than once on that auspicious eve. But I'm taking notice of this one more than usual because it could very well be my last one. And I say that without self-pity, more with a matter-of-fact.

Back in February 2006, I spent a month in hospital at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles. I entered through the emergency room, as I was having a difficult time breathing. I wasn't there long before I went into respiratory failure and was put on a respiratore, life-support for those of you who follow "ER." I stayed hooked up for 15 days, and I feared that I might not survive. Dr Schroeder promised I would leave the hospital under my own power, and I did. The lung infection was finally diminished, and I went home to a life of oxygen use for the remainder of my time on earth.

Well, just a few weeks ago, I came down with another lung infection and was admitted to The University of Minnesota Hospital, though this time without the respirator. While I was being treated with antibiotics, a 70% occlusion in my Main Coronary Artery was discovered, and I underwent an angioplasty and received a third stent. I suffer from what is called Interstitial Lung Disease, and I will use oxygen for the rest of my life. But what I've noticed from this last infection is that my lung capacity has diminished, and it will never get back up to where it was.

In other words, each time my lungs get sick, my breathing will be affected on a permanent basis, so "getting well" takes on a whole new meaning. This will continue until there's no breath left. My particular condition just doesn't "improve." Of course, I brought this on myself with 44 years of smoking cigarettes. But that doesn't make it any more acceptable or any less scary.

Maybe I'm luckier than most in that I at least know what will kill me; I just don't know when. I don't dwell on all this, but it helps to write about it. Maybe there are others out there who are similarly afflicted. If so, drop me a line at giddocliff@yahoo.com. Happy New Year!

How Do You LIke Your Blue Eyed Boy Now, Mr. Death?

2008-12-19T05:46:00.005-06:00

December has been, and it's only 2/3 over, a difficult month. I returned home Wednesday after 8 days in hospital, a locale at which too much of my life has played out over the last few years. On 12/9/08 I felt myself short of breath beyond normal, so my wife took me to the ER at the University of Minnesota Medical Center, as the memory of my complete respiratory failure in 2006 is yet quite fresh. I was admitted after 9 long hours, and I was soon put on a regimen of powerful antibiotics for a lung infection. Tests were run, blood was drawn, EKGs and Echo Cardiograms were performed. The medical professionals feared that my heart condition had worsened, and they were right.

An angioplasty was performed, and a stent put into a 70% occluded artery. I now have 3 stents, of which I'm justly proud, as they saved my life, a procedure that wasn't even available just a few years ago. I picked up a load of prescriptions on my way out of the hospital, and I now take what seems like dozens of pills every day. A good friend back in Los Angeles helped me out with some cash relief, and I was able to purchase them all. It's really a shame what outrageous prices the pharmaceutical companies charge for medicine that one really needs. Part D of Medicare was not our lawmakers' finest hour. But I'm alive.

This time I'm truly going to have to alter my eating habits, cut down on salt and fats. I was told that the site of the new stent must remain open. The alternative is simple: death. Although my many years of smoking brought all this on, there's nothing scarier than being short of breath and not be able to do anything about it. I'm grateful to all the medical folks and also to those who make the machines that help me maintain an acceptable level of oxygen. I wish Santa could bring me a new pair of lungs. One of my children told me that if I had made better "life choices" that I wouldn't be in this pickle. Hell, if I had made better "life choices," she wouldn't be around to criticize me.

In any case, I'm home and looking forward to a quiet Christmas. We'll dine with the other seniors here, and I'll say thank you one more time. Merry Christmas.

Almost As Bad As The Day After Christmas

2008-11-30T01:08:00.002-06:00

You remember that, don't you? Every possible package has been opened, colorful paper and ribbons are strewn all about the common areas, and everybody seems to have sunk a little deeper down in their chairs. It happens each time we have a family holiday involving gifts. It's just a riff on the old theme, "what have you done for me lately?" You can't get rid of it. Don't try. Ignore it. Eat more. Get sick. Take a nap. But don't let the letdown let you down. Happy Thanksgiving!

Give Thanks

2008-11-27T03:56:00.006-06:00

Here it is Thanksgiving Day about 4 A. M., and I'm temporarily awake. Today we share our first Thanksgiving meal with our new community here at Ebenezer Tower Apartments; I hope there are many more to come.

On Wednesday I received news that I had been approved for Minnesota Medical Assistance, which means that I'll be covered even better than I was with Medicare. It also allows me to choose a new prescription drug plan better than anything Medicare offers. This is truly a big deal for us, as we're now living solely on our social security income, though my wife is going to try to work here in the senior building helping set up meds, cleaning, and taking non-drivers shopping.

For so long, we've had a run of lousy luck, mainly health problems, which resulted in extreme financial problems. Since 1999 I've had two heart attacks, two stents put in my heart, spinal surgery, and a near deadly lung infection, which left me using oxygen in order to have any quality of life. And because of the spinal surgery, I walk with a cane and can walk only short distances. As I have, my wife has also suffered clinical depression, fell on her face with an acute kidney failure attack, and undergone emergency dialysis. While in hospital, she was discovered to have congenital heart failure and underwent robotic heart bypass surgery.

During none of this have we been offered any real or lasting assistance by our children, so living in a community as we do now makes such a difference. Because of contacts we've made at both senior group therapy and in the senior tower, I wound up with the aforementioned aid from the State of Minnesota. I must say that Minnesota treats its seniors better than most places, and my wife and I are very grateful. The case workers have been tireless and unrelenting in getting all the paperwork done, and I've expressed my appreciation to them.

Of course, the ideal is not to have to use any of these wonderful services, but that's not realistic. At a certain age, one's health generally declines, even if it's just a little. Mine and my wife's has jumped and begun rolling down a hill. But fortunately we're in a location that doesn't abandon its old folks. It feels funny when I say "old folks," as I just don't feel old. My mind feels much the same as it did 30 or 40 years ago. Well, that's enough pre-holiday blather. All of you have a wonderful time with food and family. And be well.

The Smoke Starts to Settle

2008-11-10T23:51:00.007-06:00

Nothing yet seems different, but it's very, very early. The whirlwind of activities around President-Elect Obama are surely going on, and we learn about them through intermediaries and assorted aides who tell only that part of the story they want us to hear. Of course, news streams day and night, and we have to then decide what to cut off or what to listen to. Even still, some of the relentlessness of the campaign has settled, and some of us entertain some questions of how things will be. I'm certain that they'll be better! How could they get much worse!? We, of course, think about how much better things will be specifically? Will more people get to live in a 1 family dwelling? Will the economy return to even a portion of what it once was? Will we make progress in the War on Terror? Will we be able to send our children to the many fine but expensive colleges and unversities in our nation? Yes, we are wondering.

We know that dedicated people are working very hard right now to bring these positive change about. They come from a wide range of education, a wide range of competence, and a wide range of intelligence. Let us hope that Barack Obama wants around him the best and brightest he can get, not just cronies and college chums. And I also hope that these people will see public service as an honor, a chance to serve, a chance to give back to this country some of what it has given to them. Let's hope. I believe that Barack Obama wants these good things for us. So, in addition to hope, let us do what we can to bring about this better society that he talked about during this longest campaign in history.

As far as I'm concerned, one's political preferences say as much about him as anything. I know, without hesitation, that I couldn't live with a conservative, as their basic attitudes have everything to say about their attitude toward people. And it's not an attitude I could live around, much less live. I used to joke that I won't fly on an airplance if it doesn't have two left wings. While that elicited chuckles, even laughter, it's not far from the truth. I know that the television show, The West Wing, was fiction, but I could hope. And depending on what happens in real time politics over the next few years, I just might find my policitical life totally satisfied.

As Thanksgiving approaches, we can all be satisfied enough to give thanks that our government will no longer be run by unprincipled thugs and hacks and know-nothings. If nothing else, Barack Obama can bring intellect and intelligence and curiosity back into the White House and the working of government. He will surround himself with very capable people, all of whom have minds of their own. And this President will encourage their use, rather than hide from an answer he either disagrees with or from a question he doesn't understand. This is going to be a thinking man's government. It's about time.

Mr. President

2008-11-07T17:04:00.005-06:00

Barack Obama's election this week to the highest office in the land and the most powerful office in the world was near earth-shattering. It just hasn't been that long ago when such a proposition was unthinkable, even laughable to some. But it happened, and we are so much the better for it. I was born in 1940 in Alabama and grew up (some would allege otherwise) there. The living conditions for black people was abysmal, and I don't hesitate to compare the Alabama I grew up in to South Africa and its system of apartheid. Whites in much of the American South simply had the power of life and death over black people.

I was fortunate to have had a role model, my grandfather, who never judged a human being by any measure but the content of his character. He taught me that people are pretty much the same all over, and he treated everybody with respect. But I never could have wildly imagined that a man of African descent would be elected president in my lifetime. Unless you know how horrible life could be for a black person back then, you can't know what a wondrous thing has taken place. It feels like my beloved country is getting its soul back.

Halloween Nightmare

2008-10-30T22:18:00.004-06:00

Here it is Halloween, and I don't have the money to purchase the medications that my wife and I need. These aren't recreational drugs; these are prescribed drugs for specific conditions. I used to wonder what older people did when they couldn't afford their medications. Now I know. They don't take them. They do without, and risk their health. Of course I have Medicare Part D, but that doesn't help but a small part of the year. Then you're back to paying retail.

We now live totally on our two Social Security checks. I know that we should've planned better, but we didn't. But that doesn't mean that we're undeserving of a thoughtful, balanced, and affordable health care system, including prescriptions. The politicians of our great nation have failed us miserably as regards health care. Barack Obama says he will change this, and I hope he has the guts to push hard because greedy pharmaceutical companies and greedy doctors will be pushing back by buying more Senators and Representatives.

If we give our mandate to Obama, and it's a mandate we'll need, we then must hold his feet to the fire until we get Universal Health Care in this rich nation. Go out and VOTE! on Tuesday next.

It's That Time Again.

2008-10-21T00:00:00.010-05:00

It's late Semptember when it begins, when one feels that first nip of cool weather. Then tree leaves turn red, yellow, orange, brown, oftentimes creating a gloriuosly bright surrounding in which we go about our daily tasks. Even though this is a season of "dying," autumn strikes me as very much alive. The colorful leaves we see every day will soon fall, one by one, to the earth below. The death will have been completed. Until that time, there's a changing, daily show for us, as no tree stays the same. And until this "lying down to rest" is completed, the show will go on.

A phenomenon which is a part of this process for me almost every year is the slight surprise I feel when all the leaves are down. In my busy life, I probably didn't stop to see the kaleidescope of colors, at least as not often as I should have. Then, poof! It's all gone. And we're left with the starkness -- which has its own beauty. But it seems as if one day I'm driving down the street admiring the lovely colors, and the next day I'm looking at bare limbs, limbs being held out to cradle the coming snow.

And soon after, I'll awaken one morning to see the serene beauty brought by the soft, white snow on those stark tree limbs which just a few weeks ago had been blazing with color.

How About the Brother?

2008-10-18T23:58:00.003-05:00

How 'bout that brother!? The brother who's so smooth and unflappable in a pressure situation. Yes, the brother, too, who's intelligent and widely read and who walked tall through the doors of two of the finest universities in our nation based only on his own merit, not the merit of his father or grandfather or any other relative. Yes, yes, that brother, the one who's running for President of the United States, our United States, the country that we love so much and want so much good for, the country that's floundering a bit as some of our precious freedoms are being chipped away and not enough good men are saying no. Yes, that brother, the one who's going to take the country back from the greedy men who've been looting our riches as we've slept in our beds at night. Yes, yes, that brother, that good man from Illinois who's going to mend and restore the respect we once held in all parts of the globe and assign competent people to help him. That brother, yes. It's coming soon.

Who Would've Thought It? Certainly Not Me!

2008-10-15T09:42:00.008-05:00

My wife and I are now living in senior housing. Though I barely think of myself as a senior, here I am, in senior housing. This is a 23 story building with apartments for ages 55 or over. And I actually like it.

First of all, there's a built-in community. Just walk out of your apartment door! Oh, I know that the true meaning of community is more than just a number of people hanging around together. Community implies commonality. And we have just that. There are activities which tenants can engage in as a group, such as art classes, a far cry from the isolation we endured in Bloomington. There are movie nights, bingo nights, and other things. Hey! Bingo's not lame! It's fun. And finally, there are interdenominational worship services. In our sister building about a block away, one can also attend a 12-step meeting.

A tenant can also have a pet if he or she is so inclinced. As long as the pet has had proper immunizations, it's welcome to join us. At this point in my life, I can't imagine not having a cat, and we do have one whose name is Claudia. Obtained by my wife from a Beverly Hills animal rescuer, she's an affectionate ball of fur whose company we both enjoy.

Although neither of us needs it right now, there's also an assisted living/nursing home connected to our building by an underground tunnel. Since we never know when our health can take a sudden and debillitating turn for the worse, that's some comfort. I feel so grateful right now, as we had had two years of the worst "luck" of our married lives until we moved here. Could it be that our "luck" is turning? Could it be that "fortune" is beginning to smile on us at last? I certainly hope so. We deserve it, no questions asked!

The feelings one has after a long stretch of very difficult problems is a kind of relief that's hard for me to describe. The constant knot in my stomach is gone. The nearly overwhelming fear is gone. I'm much more able to help my wife with any difficulty she might have. The closest I can come to describing it is that it's like getting out of prison. I see sunlight. I feel the breeze. I hear laughter. And I sleep.

It's About Time!

2008-10-10T00:44:00.002-05:00

Good Grief! It's been two months almost to the day since I last made entry in my blog, an undertaking I meant to assiduously compile at least once a week. But as they so often do in our irregular lives, something else happened. Actually, somethings else happened. Although it's only about 20 miles from where we used to live, our new digs are light years away from there.

We now live in a building specifically for seniors, in this case, men and women over 55, though there are several who passed 55 during the last millenium. This is an interesting state of being for me, as I never thought much about being a "senior." But I am one. I had my 68th birthday on 9/27/08, but my mind, that magical place inside our skulls, doesn't feel a day over 30.

There are some advantages to living in a place like this. First of all, there's an ongoing community with activities scheduled throughout the week, and the activities are varied enough so that one can find something to interest him or her. On the wall facing the elevators are the works of tenants who've taken advantage of an ongoing art class here. And I must say that some of the work is of high quality, and none of it is bad.

As most young people (when I was one), I had absolutely no concept of aging. Old folks were just there, wrinkly, grousing, spitting, smelly old people. They were hardly people as I viewed them through the selfish lenses of a teen or a twenty-something. They could never have been as young and hopeful and smart as I was. But they had been. Add to that the years and years of experiencing this old world, and you've got yourself a walking, talking history lesson if you'll take the time to ask about someone besides yourself.

Back in the mid-80s, I drove a taxi during the autumn of the year. I was in Florida, which certainly doesn't lack its share of seniors. And I made it a point to ask them about themselves, and they were only happy to reply and tell me of a different, often better, sometimes worse, time. What could I have known about going to theatre on the Broadway of the 30s and 40s? Some of these seniors had seen legends before they became legends, magical names I had only read about. It was always fun to get them to talk about their lives, and they needed only to be asked.

One important aspect of living as we do now is that we have a built-in community, at least as far as people in proximity. Of course, community requires human interaction and activity, and we have that in spades. We are also privy to a monthly newsletter which contains a calendar of events for the month, events varied enough for different tastes and interests. And I've always liked it when I've been in an area long enough for people to recognize my face, possibly even remember my name. This could very well be the last place I live; if it is, that's okay.

We're on the 18th floor of a 23 floor building, and we have a Minneapolis city skyline view, especially pretty as the daylight wanes and the city lights come up. We're very close to the city, which pleases me, as I've always delighted in city life. And I'm giving some thought to developing a course, too, on reading and/or writing poetry. Who knows what kind of fun I could stir up? For a saner person than I, it's difficult to explain just how relieved I feel to have this place to live. I had a terror of winter coming and our not having anywhere to go when the foreclosure on our condo was complete. It's as if a huge boulder was lifted off my shoulders and somebody smiled right at me. I like that.

There's one gross inequity here, however. Isn't that always the case? You think you've found the perfect place and WHAM! There it is. In the basement. A CANDY MACHINE! I'm powerless. . .and I succumb.

High School Class of 1958

2008-08-12T21:43:00.005-05:00

My oldest friend celebrated his 70th birthday in July. I met him at Birmingham-Southern College in Alabama in the summer of 1964, and I felt an instant connection. He was active in the college theatre and later moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career. He succeeded, and he's now retired on a Screen Actor's Guild pension and Social Security, living a relatively quiet life in Sherman Oaks, CA. Some time last year, he had his Medicare card tatooed on his arm, which actually looks quite good and has elicited several comments. I've enjoyed watching him in films and various television shows over the years, and my son and I even watched him shoot some scenes in Florida for a Jerry Lewis movie. I say all this because I can't get my head around the fact that I've known someone for 44 years. It's an all too accurate reminder that I'm an old guy, too. I'm officially a senior citizen and have been for some time.

But neither of us feels like a senior in our minds. It was only yesterday that I was a physically healthy, mentally sharp 35 year old working full time while earning a Master's Degree. When I think of the hours of reading, study, research, I can hardly believe how I did it all. Back then being tired was what old people did, But now I am one, and I can hardly believe it. Remember when the age of even college athletes seemed so far, far away? And now I tune in to a game and see children playing for USC or Alabama. Those big, tough football players look so young now, from my present vantage point.

My high school alma mater recently sent me some material on the 50th anniversary of the Class of 1958. My friend of 44 years attended his Class of 1956 high school reunion in 2006, but I won't be at mine, for several reasons, the most immediate of which is that I attended that school for only about a year and a half, and I really didn't get to know many people. It never felt like "my school." Also, my health weighs heavily against such a trip. But even if I were healthy, had remained at Bessemer High School in Alabama for 4 years, and had received 50th anniversary material from them, I still wouldn't attend. I have memories of the "kids" I knew then, most of those memories fond or funny or bittersweet, and I choose to leave the "kids" in the memories as they were: young, hopeful, with their whole lives ahead of them. That was me, too, back then, a long time ago.

Summer Lightning

2008-07-28T13:53:00.003-05:00

It seems that summer here in Minnesota goes faster than it does elsewhere, maybe because everybody is dreading the return of the nasty winter that is guaranteed to follow. And this year, the late arrival of spring is contributing to this seeming rapid passing of summer. In any case, I'm certainly not looking forward to another bleak 6 months that are a trademark of of life near the Canadian border.

My last post was far too long ago, back in the latter part of June. It was a remembrance of an old friend from Los Angeles, and my depressions, coupled with the sorrow of losing him, have made it difficult for me to write, to even believe I have anything worth saying, or even if I do, to even believe I can do it well. Which brings me to this day's musings. Isn't it strange how one "aw shit" can wipe out at least one hundred "attaboys?" How difficult it is for so many of us to believe anything good about ourselves, and when we finally struggle our way to some positive feeling, just one little negative or hurtful moment or situation can wipe it all out.

After I turned in my M. A. thesis lo these 24 years ago, one of my thesis readers, a former Chair of the English Department, telephoned my house and left the message with my wife that it was probably the best thesis he had read in 25 years in the Department. You'd think that such praise would be enough to convince me that I was a decent writer, but no, not me. People such as I are so used to self-loathing that it's nearly impossible to get us to feel positive about ourselves, accept to good in us. Let me present a recent situation that might illustrate.

I am now attending a Senior Outpatient Program, which is group therapy 3 times per week for people who suffer from mental problems, mine being clinical depression. One of the group members is a retired corporate executive who earned an MFA in Creative Writing while he was serving in his capacity in the corporate world. When he asked me what my thesis topic was, I told him that it was E. E. Cummings, a groundbreaking poet of the first half of the 20th Century. His eyes lit up, and he quoted a Cummings poem verbatim, finishing with a big smile. He said he'd like to read my thesis, so I brought it to him.

Then I couldn't believe the praise he later gave, such "strong" and "muscular prose," an "excellent writer." How I enjoyed hearing that! But two days later I was in the emotional dumps again, having nothing to do with writing, poetry, creativity, or anything I could put my finger on, just in the emotional dumps. What in the world happened to us that we have such a difficult time just accepting ourselves, not to mention feeling the least bit good about ourselves? I wish I could pinpoint what happened; then maybe I could finally erase it all. But probably not. There are some candidates for the events I'm looking for, but I doubt if it's any one of them, probably all of them in combination, mixed with whatever chemical imbalance contributes to depression.

This near life-long depression, which has ebbed and flowed, will probably never completely disappear. At this point, I'll be grateful if the depression can just be corralled and I can feel some happiness, however small, however brief. Maybe when our bankruptcy is over we can feel some relief, if not happiness. For the time being, we can just put one foot in front of the other and move slowly forward. I hope.

However,

2008-06-12T16:50:00.004-05:00

Since I am utterly human, I reserve the right to change my mind. Writing in my blog today is an example of changing my mind. About 2 months ago, I got the silly idea that I needed to "move on," whatever in hell that means, so I decided to abandon "Above Sunset Boulevard" and create a new blog. However, as I see it today, I was simply full of crap, as I've so often been. I did live 2 blocks above Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles for almost twenty years. And I have accepted that Los Angeles was, is, and always will be my spiritual home. Even if I never return to L. A., it is my spiritual home. Therefore, "Above Sunset Boulevard" will continue after its recent absence.

I am truly weary. I don't know if I've ever been so tired. Having my wife almost die twice this year has been a terribly trying and tiring experience. I doubt if you can know how I feel unless you're hit with one disaster after another in such short order. First she attempted suicide, and spent ten days in a psych ward. Soon she suffered acute kidney failure and underwent emergency dialysis. And while she was in hospital for her kidneys, congestive heart failure was discovered, which required heart bypass surgery. Add to this that I'm also experiencing clinical depression and recently spent seven days of my own in the psych ward, and you might possibly understand just how difficult life has been for a while. Add to all this that I had spinal surgery for a degenerative condition in December 2005 and that I spent fifteen days on a respirator in February 2006 for a near fatal lung infection, and you might just begin to understand why I feel as I do. Whew! Oh, and I had two heart attacks in 1999.

I admit to good fortune, however, in one or two areas. I now attend a senior outpatient program for old nuts like me on 3 days of the week. It's the first time I've ever voluntarily connected myself with anything that included the word "senior" in its title. I always thought that I wouldn't be comfortable with a bunch of old people. But I am one! And I've fit in quite well, thank you. It has made my life somewhat more pleasant over the past few weeks. I'm just hoping that this isn't just a temporary palliative but a sea change in my emotional life. I want to feel better all the time, or at least most of the time. This program has allowed me to feel better at least 3 days per week.

I also visited my new therapist for the first time this week, and it was a generally pleasant experience. He was visibly affected by what has happened to us in the last few years, as it does sound awful when I detail our lives over that time. In fact, going over all of it again wore me out. The therapist saw it happen before his eyes and cut our session a little short, and I had to come home and lie down.

Finally, if you come upon this blog, please put my wife and me in your good thoughts. We have nobody to help us, and we could use your good energy, prayers even, if that's what you do. I have little choice but to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward, no matter how slowly. I can't let myself despair again. Help us with your good thoughts and prayers.
Thanks.

Not Quite Crazy

2008-04-09T18:52:00.002-05:00

I came home from the psych ward today, and I'm quite tired. But it was nearly a week of much needed isolation (to a point) and protection. One of the questions that staff members ask patients on a regular basis at this hospital is, "Do you feel safe?" And I did. I also benefitted from the group therapy sessions, and I'll begin outpatient therapy very soon. All in all, I feel better.

Although I plan to continue blogging, I'm going to blog from another space. "Above Sunset Boulevard" will be retired. I've been away from Los Angeles from almost two years now, and I think it's time I move on -- in many ways -- though I'd still love to live in L. A. My blogging efforts will, more than likely, increase, and anyone who truly wants to read my future stuff, just send a comment to this posting, and I'll send you the name of my new blog.

Until then, take good care.

And So It Goes (thank you, Kurt)

2008-04-05T13:28:00.003-06:00

I write this from the psych ward at a major hospital in Minneapolis, MN, about 20 minutes from my current home in Bloomington, MN. Of all ironies, I'm in the same psych ward where my wife recently spent 10 days after a serious attempt to take her life. I didn't intend to admit myself to the hospital; rather, I came into the family aftercare program as a result of her recent unsuccessful try at easing her pain. And I just simply couldn't stop crying. The therapist took me to the E. R., and the psychiatrist on duty decided to admit me to the hospital. So here I am.

I feel a bit of relief from facing the storms in our lives, though I know I'll have to face them later. I hope to have a few more tools to work with. But for today, I feel almost safe. Now that the houseslipper is on the other foot, my wife is bringing me some clean clothes, and while she's here, I'll have a large chocolate shake at the in-hospital McDonald's, open 24/7.

A couple of oddities, and then I'll sign off for now. One young woman patient on the ward is from San Diego and truly dislikes the Twin Cities. She, too, came here at the invitation of a relative who later decided that she wasn't so welcome after all. And I just learned that another female patient worked for Eastern Airlines from 1967-1972 as a "Stewardess" and came through the Birmingham, Alabama, airport many, many times during my two years as an Eastern gate agent.

And as Vonnegut said so many times, "And so it goes."

March Madness

2008-03-29T12:07:00.003-06:00

The title refers to basketball, though it could just as well refer to our lives here in cold, unfriendly Minnesota. My wife is home from the hospital after spending 10 days in the psych ward of a large hospital downtown. Her suicide attempt failed, but it wasn't from a lack of trying. She thought 30 prescription sleeping pills would end the pain, but we both learned that those particular pills, even though prescribed by a physician, aren't fatal, even if you take 30, which she did. So now she's attending daily therapy from 9 AM to 6 PM at that same large hospital downtown.

She'll never be able to return to the horribly stressful job she had, so our fortunes are definitely taking a turn for the worse. At least today, we're okay. And I'm taking life less than one day at a time. Sometimes I'm taking it a few minutes, an hour at a time. We have no friends in this very odd place called The Twin Cities. Neither of us find the people here very warm, pardon the pun. And almost every native I was able to bring this up to agrees with me. The people here are extremely reserved and wouldn't say hello if it brought them eternal life.

Again, think good thoughts of us as you go through your daily routines. We're both frightened about the future. And we're alone.

However

2008-03-13T18:39:00.003-06:00

I reported in my last posting how much a little increase in confidence and hope means to one's view of life and to one's attitude toward life itself. I had been making progress from those dark days when I considered terminating my stay on earth. However, I chose to live, to keep trying, and it began to feel better and better.

But while I was progressing, I failed to notice how much my wife was going in the other direction. Both of us take anti-depressants, and she's been aware of her tendency toward depression since she was very young. Well, with the pressures of an inordinate amount of debt (which is our own doing) and a very stressful and difficult job (it's a job for someone 20-30 years younger), she decided last weekend that she simply couldn't cope anymore.

My wife ingested a month's worth of prescription sleep medication and lay down to die. Of course, I didn't know what she had done, as I had gone to bed early. But to her surprise, she awoke about the same time I did the next day, and groggily told me what she'd done. She said that she couldn't apologize, as she didn't expect to wake up. I called 911, and followed the ambulance to a major hospital in Minneapolis which has a psych ward, and that's where she is as I write, safe for now.

As if attempting suicide wasn't enough, she then came down with such a bad case of influenza that she had to be put on an IV, and the family session that we were to begin with has been postponed twice, probably until next Monday. When I delivered her glasses and some clean clothes to her today, she was still attached to the IV and looked so tired. There aren't words to describe how lousy I felt, but I was able to return a blown kiss and state my continued love for her. I probably will take a little break now, plan little or nothing, and wait for our uncertain future to begin unfolding. And yes, I am afraid.

We welcome all good thoughts.

As Spring Approaches

2008-03-05T20:26:00.004-06:00

When I try to recall how poorly and nearly hopeless I felt just a few months back, I hardly feel like the same person. It's amazing what a little success, a little encouragement can do for a person. I've just been invited to fill out and complete the hiring package for online teaching at the U. of Pheonix, which I'll do quite before the deadline. When one has hope, one has almost all he needs. Almost.

This weekend we push our clocks forward and slide into Daylight Savings Time. But before the clocks move, the two of us will have the joy of hearing the Minnesota Orchestra again. This is a preview concert of the 2008-2009 season, and the menu is delightful: Haydn; Mozart; Beethoven; Tchaikovsky; Sibelius; Elgar; and others. It should be quite a night. And before we go to the concert, we're going to break bread together using one of several restaurant gift certificates we received over the holidays. As much as I really don't like Daylight Savings Time, I'm looking forward to Saturday evening.

As for location, location, location, I do think it matters in more than in sales. Living in this foreign atmosphere we find ourselves in puts an additional stress on us that otherwise wouldn't exist. So, while we have to face day-to-day living problems, we also carry that stress with us 24/7. We had found our home, but we just weren't sure enough, and the energy that brought us here was nothing but negative, bordering on evil, and we were blinded to the truth until it was too late to turn around. Put a good thought up for us to return to our true home, where the nearest snow is at least two hours away!

Movin' On

2008-02-28T14:01:00.002-06:00

As my wife works in South Dakota today, I learn by email that I passed the last phase of training for U. of Phoenix. Actually, I did more than pass. My work was "top notch." Yes, I'm quite pleased, quite! The next phase is actually teaching two classes with a mentor guiding me along. Oh, how this creates possibilities, as every penny I earn can be placed against our debt structure, and we can get out of this frozen hell hole, and back to our spiritual home, Southern California. How I pray that I live long enough for this to come to fruition. Nothing can ruin this day. As most good alcoholics, I spent a lot of time worrying about failing when there was little or no chance that I would. Whew! What a relief!

My wife was working in San Diego last weekend, and it served to remind her of how much she loves the place, how beautiful it is. She and I spent many a long weekend in Pacific Beach in the San Diego area, and it cleansed us each and every time. It's interesting that no matter how difficult things seemed to us in Southern California, we thrived spiritually. Looking back, it was a huge mistake for us to leave, and it took coming here for us to realize this.

While we're here, however, we at least have sense enough to feed our spirits, so I scheduled three more trips to hear the Minnesota Orchestra. For those lovely two hours or so, we can exist in a world of beauty, our cares far away, unable to touch us. It's interesting that refreshments are served before curtain time, and some of the best chocolate chip cookies I've ever eaten are available. Who would have thought it? However, I'll happily trade a short stack of DuPar's pancakes and crispy bacon for all the chocolate chip cookies in Minnesota.

To change the subject again, the online training I've experienced in the last month has taught me truly that it's not what you say that matters, it's how you say it. Your tone comes through every time, and I'm sure that's why U. of Phoenix emphasizes care in communicating with your students. In any case, the training was fun, my classmates were highly educated, and I held my own with them. It's a loverly day today!

Blah!

2008-02-16T16:36:00.005-06:00

Over the years, I've heard some people refer to the month of February as the "Blah Month." They assert that nothing happens in February and that nothing of note has ever happened. Well, I can't review every February in history, but I can claim that February 2008 has been an active and somewhat successful month for me and my wife.

First of all, I'm halfway through the second phase of training to teach in a major online university. So far, I've received good response from my postings in training and from my comments about others' work. I'm moving slowly toward being employed again, something I've missed terribly. Most people, including me, need some structure in their lives, something to participate in, and something to look forward to. The training and the possibility of teaching again give me all three. And it all began to truly take shape in the month of February.

As for my wife, though she, as I, must use an inhaler for our respective lung conditions, February has brought her continued recovery, such that she may be back to work on a full-time basis very soon. She also received news that she will have to go to San Diego (horrors!) to help get a new pharmaceutical study off the ground. I'm happy for her. My only twinge about it is that I can't go with her.

In this cold, cold February here in Minnesota, I also received an invitation to a wedding. The groom in this case is a former student of mine at California State University, Los Angeles, and he is now serving in Afghanistan as a Captain in the U. S. Marine Corps. He and his lovely fiance will be married on the island of Oahu, Hawaii. I hope with all my strength that I am able to participate in their celebration. This is an exceptional young man, and I'm prouder of him than of any student I ever had in almost 20 years of teaching.

Finally, I've finally properly adjusted my pain medication, and I can spend the necessary time at my pc for my current training and the teaching I hope to be doing online soon. So, this month, whose length changes every fourth year and now slightly over halfway completed, has been filled with good stuff. I'll take a few more months like the "Blah Month."

Oh, and I almost forgot. Our Valentine's Day was one of the best in a long time. I'll try not to be gone so long again. Hurrah!

Is It Ever Too Late?

2008-01-29T12:50:00.001-06:00

I just finished another phase of training in the application process for an online university. It's been some time since I felt a sense of accomplishment, and even though this is a comparatively small accomplishment, it really, really feels good. As most of you know, I'm 67 years old (though I look much younger!), and I still need those "warm fuzzies." Do we ever get over our need for recognition and accomplishment? Well, I haven't yet, and I don't believe that others do, either.

I was lucky to have lived in a household in which I was encouraged and given opportunities to do things like play the piano, take dancing lessions, go to a prestigious camp each summer. This wonderful environment lasted until I was almost 14, and I looked at the world with anticipation for the future. That changed when my mother remarried, but I had it for a while. If you had an encouraging environment, you know exactly what it feels like to receive praise for the things you do well.

For the first time in many, many months, I'm looking forward to what's coming next. I'm looking forward to my new adventure in teaching. I'm looking forward to meeting new people, educated and thoughtful people to learn from. Unless one is truly debillitated, I don't believe it's ever too late to want and enjoy the next journey, to continue, to take the first step on a new path. And as much as anything else, I'm looking forward to helping my wife with our expenses and with getting us out of debt.

In a few words, I feel useful again. And for an old fart such as I, there's no better feeling. Underneath all these feelings is the hope that. debt free, I will once again drive the streets of Los Angeles, have a hot dog at Pink's, savor my pancakes at DuPar's, see a first-run movie at the Cinerama Dome. Hope is the thing with feathers.

You Forget How Feeling Good Feels Until You Don't Feel Good Anymore

2008-01-15T18:23:00.000-06:00

Until, that is, you feel better, which, as you know if you've been reading my postings, has been my wife's experience for the last few weeks. Her visit to her pulmonologist revealed that she has begun a slow recovery, though her breathing still isn't at 100%. And I had my scheduled visit to my pulmonologist at the University of Minnesota Clinics which revealed that I haven't gone backwards, though I haven't lept far forward either

It appears that my wife has a touch of emphysema, as do I. So I suppose that the pneumonia was a tiny blessing, as it revealed the emphysema, and she's now using an inhaler with steroids every day. As you probably know, this condition is permanent, and her shortness of breath is now a part of her everyday life. Now we both have to be careful about what we're exposed to and also keep ourselves well covered in this freezer chamber of a city!

I just received an email from a former student who was commissioned an officer in the U. S. Marine Corps just after he finished working himself through college. He sent it from Afghanistan. Being a former Marine, I'm particularly proud of him, as he attained the rank of Captain in less than 4 years. Even more important than that, he's a man of good values. He's a solid human being, the kind our country needs more of. This is his second tour in Afghanistan; between those 2 tours, he also served a tour in Iraq. I'd say he's fulfilled the obligations he took on when he became an officer in the Corps. I'll add only that he's also a proud Mexican-American.

Oh! One more addition. My student serves in danger zones; he could easily be killed. But when his Commander-in-Chief, our pitiful president, faced the possibility of serving in combat, his daddy got him into the Texas Air National Guard over others on the waiting list. And he spent the war hiding behind the National Guard and engaging in dereliction of duty. That was still a time when National Guard service almost guaranteed that you wouldn't serve in Vietnam. This cowardly president now has the temerity to send others to their deaths, others to return wounded and maimed beyond recognition.

Being someone who loves to put words on paper, I'm disturbed by the strike of the Writers Guild of America - West. Actually, I'm disturbed by the avarice of the producers, who refuse to pay the writers a fair share for material which winds up on the web and other technological outlets. It's insulting what the producers are offering. I just spent 20 years in Hollywood, and I have an idea how difficult it is to make a living writing for television, movies and other outlets controlled by the producers. I don't mind if the entire fall tv season is cancelled because of this strike. The writers deserve their share of this gold mine.

In the past, my wife and I made popcorn and settled in for the night to watch the Academy Awards on television. In the last few years of our lives in Hollywood, we were only about 2 miles from the Kodak Theater, now the permanent home of the Oscar ceremony. Though I never attended the Oscars, I knew it was coming when Hollywood Blvd just east of us was closed down and seats were erected. Don't most of us enjoy all that glitz even though few of us have anything to do with the entertainment industry? I think so. And I make the best popcorn you can find anywhere.

Well, this wasn't a particularly sharp installment, but you'll allow me the freedom to occasionally just ramble a bit and keep the "old" brain sharp. Think of us with warmth as the snow returns and the temperature falls below zero for 10 nights in a row. Brrrrrr!

Breath of Life

2008-01-05T17:14:00.000-06:00

Well, friends, my wife had another follow-up visit yesterday with her physician following her recent pneumonia, and the news is not good. Her lung capacity continues to fall, even since last week's visit. So the good doctor scheduled a full pulmonary evaluation for this coming Monday. I'm sure that lack of oxygen is responsible for her continuing fatigue, and it's scary as far as I'm concerned, as I almost died from lack of oxygen back in early 2006, going into respiratory failure and living on a respirator for 15 days. She's keeping up a good front, but I know she's a bit afraid. She recently visited with her sister in Cape Cod for the first time in a long time. After that she visited her oldest friend in Florida. Fortunately, she was able to work the visits in with her work, and the cost to us was minimal, though money was really not a consideration. She needed these visits in her present state of health.

It's been obvious to me that she's thinking about her own mortality, which she finally admitted to me today. It certainly gives me serious pause, as she's the person who knows me best and who loves me most. And she knows I love her more than anyone in the world. I can't imagine my world without her, though I know than none of us gets out of this alive. If you pray, I would appreciate your prayers for her complete recovery. If you don't pray, keep her in your good thoughts. We're both taking this one day at a time, at least most of the time.

Actually, she's been having problems with her breathing for some time as many former smokers do, but she pushed on simply because we need the income. The pneumonia put an end to pushing on, as it exacerbated her existing problem. How I wish I could make her well. She's been so important to me, and I love her dearly. All good thoughts and prayers will be appreciated.

Welcome 2008

2008-01-03T15:13:00.000-06:00

This year could just possibly be better than the last two, as I've completed the second phase of the application/hiring process to teach again. I will be scheduled for training very soon. I'm very happy about this turn of events, as it will give me more to do, and it will help us eventually leave this snow-bound hell hole. If my wife's health can be maintained, possibly improved, we could get out of debt relatively soon and move one last time.

One of the things that came out of all this recent uncertainty is that one's life is certainly more easily managed if one has hope, something to look forward to, something to plan for. Now that I'll be working again, I again have that hope. I very grateful for this opportunity at my age. And I'm truly pleased to help remove some of the burden from my wife's shoulders. Her doctor's visit last Friday kept her off work for at least another week, but she's slowly coming around. So, even if she has to work less (if the company will allow it), I'll have income to make up for it.

Don't let anybody every tell you that age doesn't make everything in your life more difficult. It does, and nobody understands that until he or she experiences it. It's like the constant pain I've carried since my spinal surgery. Nobody understands constant pain until it hits him or her. I'm grateful that it's under control now, managed by medication.

Since this is an eclectic commentary about the arrival of 2008, I have to comment on all the bowl games that college football teams participate after the regular season. There are now 31 of them, and many of them are between teams that won only half their games. When I was younger, a bowl game was a reward for a good season but not any more, and I'm sure it's all about money, money from television. There was a time when there were only 5 bowl games. It's obvious that with so few games, each one meant something, as only the best teams were selected. I've watched very few on tv in the last few years because they're meaningless games between mediocre teams., If you're a real sports fan, you know exactly what I mean.

Probably the most wonderful Christmas gift that we received this year was a $100.00 gift certificate from Manny's Steak House, given to us by my son and his wife. I may have mentioned it before, but there's such a fantastic meal to look forward to that I had to mention it again. I'm going to alter my habit and order a rib eye this time, medium. And with the exquisite mashed potatoes that are served there, I look forward to being a pig again for a very brief time. I probably won't have another steak again for at least 6 months, but I'm going to enjoy this indulgence and certainly think of my son as I chew the tender fare served at Manny's.

I don't make New Year's resolutions any more. Hell, I never kept them more than a week or two anyway. But I am going to try to keep looking forward, anticipating, planning, living each day as it comes and letting life unfold as it will. And if I keep a better attitude, I'm sure I'll post more enjoyable blogs. I'm certainly going to give it a try.

Again, Happy New Year.

Come and Gone

2007-12-26T14:11:00.000-06:00

Well, another Christmas has come and gone. It was a unique Christmas in my life in that it was the first white Christmas I had ever seen. The area around the Twin Cities received more snow on Christmas Day than had fallen in 25 years, and it truly looked like a greeting card as I gazed out my window. This could also be a very special holiday season because I'm in an application process to return to teaching. It could actually happen if everything goes well. For me, that's the most exciting thing to happen to me in a very long time. I miss teaching, and if I can return and be of some service, I'll be quite happy. It will also allow me an opportunity to contribute to our personal welfare, which I really need to do, as my wife continues to get sicker as time passes. I really don't know how much longer she can work, and I need to get something going. Please keep your fingers crossed for this to happen for me, as we need it so badly.

I hope each of you had the most wonderful holiday season ever. Many of my most wonderful memories are connected to this time of year. I hope it can continue. In the meantime, Happy New Year!

Enough, Already!

2007-12-04T17:34:00.000-06:00

On Sunday, December 2, 2007, I took my last antibiotics for the pneumonia I had contracted two weeks before. I was still quite tired and ready for some relief. But that was not to be.

On Monday, my wife wasn't feeling well so she slept late and dozed most of the day. Just after dark, I woke her up and was hugging her when I realized she was very warm. In fact, I learned that her temperature was 103. I tried to help her get up off the day bed, but she was unable to stand on her own. Because of our recent snow, I decided not to drive her to St. Frances Regional Medical Center, as I'm not accustomed to driving in Minnesota during winter weather. I called 911. Quickly the police and EMTs were here, and they confirmed her fever. She had to literally be lifted onto the wheeled carrier.

Even though I didn't even consider driving with her in the car, I felt confident enough to follow the ambulance to the hospital I had been in when I had pneumonia in November 2006. I know it's called the emergency room, but I've never been in one yet where the doctors and nurses moved as if there were an emergency. She, too, had pneumonia and is warmly ensconced in the the hospital as I write this on Tuesday night. I just talked to her on the phone, and she sounds profoundly exhausted. As I've said before in several postings, good health hasn't been our strength the last two years.

After my wife was tucked in for the night, I headed out to my car, having to walk through about a foot of snow, but when I got to the car, I couldn't find my keys. I can't tell you how frustrated I felt. The temperature was below 10 degrees, the wind was blowing, and I just wanted to cry. I assumed I had somehow locked my keys in the car, and I just wanted to cry. I returned to the ER waiting room, picked up the local yellow pages, and called a locksmith who agreed to come out within a half-hour. I learned, to my further frustration, that he didn't take credit cards and would need $75.00. Though I had no cash, I told him to come out anyway. I guess I thought a miracle would occur.

As I looked up, the man, a complete stranger who had been listening to my end of the conversation two seats down from me reached into his front pocket and pulled out $100 in twenties. He handed me 4 of the twenties, $80.00. For once, I was speechless. As we completed the exchange, a young woman walked up behind me and asked, "Are these your keys?" They were, and I quickly called the locksmith back to tell him not to come. He sounded almost as relieved as I was because it was truly cold. I thanked the young woman, turned and handed the money back to my benefactor and told him that I couldn't thank him enough. He just said that we just have to help other people sometime. I thanked him again, shook his hand, and told him that I would pass it along. And I will. It wasn't a miracle, but it was close enough for me.

Did I Tell You About Our First Date?

2007-12-01T19:36:00.001-06:00

Twenty-seven years ago today, my wife and I went on our first date. We've been together ever since. This anniversary means a lot to us, as much or more than our wedding anniversary, as neither of us was looking for anything permanent back then. I, myself, just wanted to go out, have a nice dinner, laugh a little. Both of us were, in fact, coming off relationships that hadn't worked out. I was actually coming off an almost twenty-year marriage.

If truth be told, my wife actually asked me out that day, though in a round-about way. I had mentioned something about going out together, and before she left the office I was volunteering in, she asked me if I were serious. Trying to be cool, I replied."About what?" And she replied, "About going out." I replied in the affirmative, and we made a date for that evening after her work shift, a 3-11 P. M. at the Salvation Army Detox Unit. She's a nurse.

When we met at a mutually agreed on site, we took my car and went to T. G. I. Friday's. I remember clearly that I had a huge Cobb Salad, one of my favorites. I was a bit nervous because I had pretty much been out of the dating scene for years. But we ate, we talked, we laughed, and when I took her back to her car, she leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, and almost jumped out. It truly was a pleasant evening, and it began a partnership that has lasted until this day 27 years later.

Over the subsequent years, we've been through some difficult times, both with each other, and with the world at large. But one thing has always been constant -- no matter what we were going through, we loved each other and still do. Just as important, we like each other. She knows me like no other human being on earth, and that's just fine with me. By the way, when we decided to get married in April 1972, again it was she who asked, as I no longer used the "m" word because of her skittishness about it. I accepted, obviously.

I never thought I'd feel this way about another human being. Actually, I had begun to doubt if I was capable of accepting another human being exactly as she was. Through the principles I learned in the program of recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous, I found that I was capable if I could just get my ego out of the way. Once I realized this, I began to work on it, and I can honestly say that in my relationship with my loving wife, my ego plays very little part. And it's a much easier way to live than I have ever known. Besides, being right is hugely overrated. It's far better to be happy. Give it a try. You might even like it.

Gratitude

2007-11-27T17:41:00.001-06:00

Most of us have many things to be grateful for at any time during our lives. And most of us fail to recognize those things, opting instead to complain about what we don't have. I have definitely been guilty of complaining when I should've been saying, "Thank you."

Today, the first thing I have to be grateful for is my wife. Because of my spinal deterioration and its accompanying pain, and my diminished lung capacity, I'm literally no longer able to take care of myself. She does things for me that I used to easily do, and she has never wavered in her devotion. If not for her, I don't know where I'd be right now.

I'm also grateful to the pharmaceutical companies that created the anti-biotics I'm taking now, as I was diagnosed with pneumonia on last Friday. It's the second November in a row that I've come down with this disease. I certainly hope it's not a permanent pattern. Although we had a pleasant Thanksgiving, my breathing was labored in a way I've come to recognize. So when I went to my family physician the next day, I wasn't totally surprised at the diagnosis.

I'm further grateful for the anti-depressants available to people like me. If there had only been this medication when I was much younger, I could've saved myself considerable grief. As I look back over the years and see how depressed I was at different points in my life, I can only shake my head.

I'm grateful, too, for several friends I've made over the years. Some of them go back over 40 years, which is hard to imagine when I don't believe my age. But these long-time friends keep in touch, and every time I talk to one of them, it's like we just left off yesterday. These relationships are pure gold.-

Finally, I'm grateful that even though I wasn't a great father, my son continues to care how I'm doing and checks on me regularly. He's come a long way. This is just a short gratitude list, but I'm sure I'll be able to extend it if I concentrate. In any case, I'm off to another medical appointment. Have a wonderful weekend.

Bring On the Holiday Season

2007-11-22T19:29:00.000-06:00

We awoke on Thanksgiving today here in Bloomington, Minnesota, to a light blanket of snow and a very cool day. It was like a holiday card right outside my window. And as I may have said before, the end-of-year holiday season is my favorite part of any year. We spent a quiet day, and I did something I haven't done in a long time on a Thanksgiving day. I watched a football game on tv: Green Bay v. Detroit, almost a tradition by now in America.

Tomorrow is Black Friday, the day that all the pre-Christmas sales truly get started. There's one chain in this area that will actually open its doors at 4:00 A. M. Can you believe it!? Last year we did something that we've never done during our 27 years together -- we actually went to a mall on this infamous Friday. And it wasn't just any mall; it was the Mall of America. Yes, once was enough. I won't be up tomorrow for a trip to any mall.

Next week I'll prepare all my Christmas and Hannukah cards, as I've done for over 40 years. I try to get the Christmas cards mailed by December 1 each year, and I've been mostly successful. And I try to get my Hannukah cards out by the first day of the celebration, also mostly successful over the years. Sending out cards for me has always been a way to share the holiday spirit with friends and family, and most people really appreciate it. My holiday season is always enhanced by my card ritual.

Even when times were not so good, I've loved this part of the year. It's always been special to me, and it always will be. Let me send all of you peace and love for the coming year. And if you have someone in harm's way because of the foolish war we're engaged in, I pray that he or she returns not only alive but unscathed. Bless us all at this time of reflection.

Oh No! Not Again!

2007-11-11T16:36:00.000-06:00

On September, 27, 2007, I turned 67 years old. On November 11, 2007, my wife turned 66 years old. Compared to earlier centuries, that's a lengthy life. Today, it's 10 years fewer than the estimated life span. I'm certainly hoping that she and I don't fall too short of the current span. But in any case, one's life certainly does begin to change as the years pass by, and another can't really understand these changes until it happens to him or her.

In casual conversation, I might mention how much more forgetful I am at this age. I've had people in their twenties and thirties say, "Oh, I know just what you mean. I do that all the time." Well, no, you don't know what I mean because unless you're suffering some some level of brain damage or disease, you can't possibly be as forgetful as I've become. So please don't give me some false palliative.

Also, I've dropped keys or billfold or some small item at a checkout counter and remarked that it happens often to me. The response has become almost predictable. The clerk might say, "Yes, I know." No, you don't know. I have trouble carrying a cup of coffee from the kitchen to my recliner know because I often suffer little tremors which cause either spillage or my losing cup, saucer, and coffee all together. I doubt if that's happened to many young folks lately. If it can be dropped, I'll drop it. My neurological deficits also include often not being able to stop my fingers when I finish typing and hitting some extra keys, like now. Damn!

As for forgetting where I put something, it's becoming nearly pathological. My wife and/or I "lose" our keys on a regular basis. There's a jar of mayonnaise in our refrigerator the top for which is made of aluminum foil. It's kinda funny, but how did that happen? Well, while I made some little concoction recently that required mayo, the top must've snuck out and run away from home. By the time I finished eating whatever it was and returned to put everything back into the fridge, I couldn't find the top. Yes, I lost it in this small kitchen in this small condo.

I rarely get out the door to do anything lately that I don't have to come back in here to retrieve something I forgot to take. Now we each of us tries to go over things with the other as we prepare to leave the condo, whether it's just for a trip to the store or a business trip of several days. Speaking of shopping at any kind of store, our mantra has become, "If it's not on the list, forget it" because we do. And worse than that, we sometimes get to the store and find we've forgotten to bring the list. We only hope, then, to get home with at least some of the items we came out for.

These kinds of things happening with this frequency was not a part of my younger years, even 10 years ago. But they happen often now, and they're very frustrating. And what's almost as frustrating is to have someone say with that youthful smile, "I know just what you mean" No, you don't know what I mean or how this feels. But if you live long enough, you will. Have a good weekend. Now if I can just remember where I put the peanut butter.

A Crisp November Evening

2007-11-04T19:12:00.000-06:00

Last night was Nov. 3, 2007, and my wife and I spent part of it listening to Beethoven's Piano Concerto and his Symphony #7 in Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, Minnesota. It seems as if this orchestra is getting better as the season, which began in August, moves along. In this case, it's been only two weeks since we heard them play Mozart's Symphony #41 and Brahms' Symphony #2. There seems to always be a shorter piece to open each concert, but so far I haven't recognized any of the composers.

In any case, they were wonderful two weeks ago, and they were exquisite last night. I said it before, but I'll say it again. The Minneapolis Orchestra is a world class group. They either recently finished recording (does one say CDed?) or are finishing recording the complete Beethoven symphonies. Years ago I owned the collection recorded by Arturo Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra, but I fully expect this newest set to be superior.

The pianist for the piano concerto was a young Russian whom I had never heard of, though I'm sure he's known in musical circles. He did a first-class job, and at intermission I heard patrons talking of how much they enjoyed his presentation. He looked so very young, and he was a wonderful combination of delicacy and strength.

Then my favorite Mozart symphony, the magnificent #41. To think that he composed this as he lived destitute says so many things about the man and music itself. If I were to guess, I believe Ludwig von Beethoven was a bit short lacking in the sense of humour department, but I believe that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart retained his as long as humanly possible. I used to be fashionably anti-technology, but that attitude has certainly changed. And not too many years ago, I would've probably been born into a social station that excluded me from the music I've grown to love. So, if I were a drinking man, I'd lift my glass to those who had anything to do with my being able to simply pop in a CD, lean back with my Diet Coke, and go on musical flights with Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, Copland, Dvorak, Bartok, and so, so many others who have enriched my life beyond belief.

Enola Gay

2007-11-02T09:16:00.000-06:00

The man pictured in the pilot's seat of the most famous B-29 in history is, of course, the pilot, then Col. Paul Tibbets. On August 6, 1945, the first atom bomb used in war, called "Little Boy," dropped from this airplane (named for Tibbets' mother) and exploded 1,890 feet above ground zero at Hiroshima, Japan. This one plane which dropped one bomb is said to have hastened the end of World War II, avoided an invasion of Japan, and saved hundreds of thousands (or more) lives of our young soldiers, sailors, and marines. Oddly enough, I had yesterday talked to a man who had participated in the atom bomb testing at Bikini Atoll in 1945.

As I am wont to do, I engaged a man in conversation while waiting for new prescriptions at Walgreen's in Bloomington, MN. The man was obviously quite my senior, and it turned out that he had served in the U. S. Navy during WWII. As we talked, he told the story of watching his father's farm being auctioned off during The Great Depression and subsequent years of itinerant living his family endured almost to the beginning of that great war. I then learned that he had served his country, had seen the U. S. S. Saratoga sink, and had been part of the testing of the a-bomb. He hadn't heard the news of Paul Tibbet's death, and it definitely had an effect on him.

He said something I've heard many times over the years. Dropping those bombs (a second, called "Fat Man," was dropped on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945)) saved more lives than were lost in the blast and its aftermath. Given the history of our government's lies to us over the last 60-plus years, one must be skeptical of all official versions of history.

However, I come down on the side of those who say the bombs should've been dropped. Invading a country of people who thought their leader was "divine" isn't a prospect I would relish, as their fanaticism and visciousness in the conduct of the war was almost beyond belief. One interesting fact I gleaned from my casual study of my favorite period of American history is that one had a more than 30 times chance of dying in a Japanese P. O. W. camp than in a German P. O. W. camp. Of course this comparison is primarily military, but the Japanese were truly viscious.

So, my conclusion has for some time been that we did the "right" thing, if you can call such a conflagration "right." One can't negotiate with a "divine" emperor or a leader who thinks he speaks to God.

In any case, I experienced yesterday afternoon something I've experienced a great deal over the years: people will tell you a lot about themselves if you'll just listen. And more often than not, what you hear is usually interesting and sometimes exciting.

A Diamond in the Midst

2007-10-20T23:50:00.000-05:00

As I've said more than once on my blog: I don't like Minnesota. I find the people dull and withdrawn, and truly conventional. Their accents grate in my ears, and most of them, including the women, are fat. The myth of "Minnesota Nice" is just that: a myth. They put on this facade to hide the anger, repression and their assorted twists of personality. Having been here a year, however, I have found, in the midst of all this commonness, a diamond, a bright facade throwing its light to all who will come around. That brightness is the Minnesota Orchestra. And this orchestra is not only a diamond, it's a world class gem of the highest magnitude.

On this Saturday night, my wife and I attended this week's performances: Mozart's Symphony #41, followed by a modern piece with which I was not familiar (with which I'm yet not familiar), and intermission, and the finale, Brahms' Syphony #2. One thing that can be said about Mozart is that he's come to us (from?) with that perfect combination of talent, desire, humour, love,and he's lived up to all the hype. Mozart's music can make a listener feel anything that a listener can possibly feel. No one else can do what he can.

Brahms too is an excellent musician, but there aren't many who occupy the pantheon, and I'm not sure Brahms does. He is great, and the Minnesota Orchestra's presentation of the fourth movement was simply kick-ass. I like Brahms's 3rd Symphony better, as it gives me more of those musical "lifts" that I'm constantly searching for. But there are exquisite parts of the 2nd Symphony. As for the "filler" piece, the modern piece, I just wasn't with it, but the grand music of the other two composers sufficiently made up for anything which was missing.

I've often said that music is as close to God as we're ever going to get in this life. And I've heard other "talking heads" assert that music has curative powers. I'm not a scientist, and I really don't know. But music does have an effect, though it can't be quantified. Some work along those lines has been done: however, the truest effect of music is a spitirual one. The way the human body receives and interprets musical sound waves is a truly complicated and profound process And I don't have to understand the scientific process to have a great time sitting in Orchestra Hall in downtown Minneapolis listening to plainly happy men and women give us the hand of an angel and take us on one of the few true spritual flights we get to take on earth.

And the beautiful thing is that you don't even have to be a "believer" to receive each and every one of the spiritual benefits of truly great music. Take note: In two weeks we'll enjoy an evening of Beethoven. Wow, if every facet of life in Minnesota was as fine as the Minnesota Orchestra, people would be fighting to get in instead of wondering how soon they can leave.

The Constant Shadow

2007-10-19T11:56:00.000-05:00

I've finally admitted to myself that my depression is going to come and go no matter what I do. I'm just going to have to find a way to deal with it when I'm in the throes. Being so self-critical doesn't help, but that's probably part of the whole deal anyway. For the last three days I've been on the verge of and in tears for no discernible reason. Again, that's part of it. I've been on the same anti-depressant for about 10 years, and it may be time to try a new medication. I have a doctor's appointment for something else today, so I'll see about a referral.

I haven't been helping myself either with reviewing a number of terrible decisions I made in my life, decisions which kept me from having it quite a bit easier now. It's almost as if this dark thing feeds on itself, on every negative thing I can come up with about myself. It's akin to being eaten alive from the inside. This is not a matter of just complaining. This is just what is, and maybe writing about it will give me some little relief. I know that living one day at a time is the answer, but for now all the days seem to run together from past, present, and the awful projections I make for the future.

One thing I do know. Feeling this way is certainly not something I would've chosen, and if I knew how to rid myself of it all, I would certainly do so. For those of you who've never been clinically depressed, have patience with anyone you know who is.

e. e. cummings

2007-10-14T12:02:00.000-05:00

He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1894. He took a bachelor's degree in 1914 and a master's degree in 1915. Cummings served as an military officer in World War I, and he was one of very few to serve in an Ally's stockade. In conversation, Cummings was overheard saying that he didn't hate the Germans, and it infuriated the French with whom he was serving. Attempts were made to no avail to have him state his hatred for the Germans. He would state only that he liked the French very much but did not hate the Germans. As a result, he was court-martialed, sentenced, and served time in a French stockade.

When I was trying to decide what to settle on a subject for my M. A. thesis in English, I first settled on Jonathan Swift. I love satire as much as I detest pompousness. But I soon discovered that I wouldn't be able to spend much time with Swift's dark moods. I asked for advice, and one of my professors suggested E. E. Cummings. I agreed and set about my business, beginning with the complete poems. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings. And if you know anything at all about Cummings and about poetry, you can see how such an approach just might work. Not only did it work, it was nearly ready-made. And one of my thesis readers, the former Chair of the English Department, called my house and left a messsage that it was one of the best he'd read in his 25 years in the department. It's one of my proudest accomplishments.

One surprise for me in my reading of and research about E. E. Cummings was how absolutely lovely some of his lyrical poetry is, as romantic as the best of them. His iconoclasm is also to my taste. It was a period of hard work but true satisfaction. And when I came up with my then tentative approach, I found out who the leading Cummings scholar was, and fortunately for me, he was still alive. So I telephoned him and asked him what he thought about my idea. He told me it sounded interesting and asked me to send him a copy when I finished it. I did, and he reviewed it positively in Spring: The Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, of which I was invited to become a charter member, retroactively. The most pleasing thing that this wonderful scholar said about my thesis was that it is "heartfelt."

Years later, during a trip to Manhattan for my wife's company's Christmas party, I was able to visit with this man who had written the first book-length study of Cummings' poetry and who had known Cummings personally, both Harvard alums. I found it a comment on our society that such a world-class scholar couldn't later get a job at Harvard back then because he's Jewish, though he was pleased to announce that the school was actively pursuing his son, a philosopher. I had him autograph the three books he had written about Cummings and spent a very pleasant two hours or so with him. Later, I visited Cummings's long-time home at 14 Patchin Place. It was during the holiday season, and the city was decorated and festive, so lovely that afternoon of crystal sunshine, blue skies, and bare trees. And the memory shines

Happy Birthday Estlin!

Estlin

2007-10-13T23:16:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow I will write about Edward Estlin Cummings. If you'v had even a modicum of education, you'd know that that is the poet who always used lower case letters when writing his poems: e. e. cummings. But I learned after I spent about a year with him, he used that style only in poems. In any other writing, he wrote just about like the rest of us. Can you imagine writing a check in lower case? I'll return tomorrow and write the actual Cummins's Birthday Blog. The little baloon man will surely be there. And so should you.

Giddocliff

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Autumn Leaves

2007-10-07T19:13:00.000-05:00

This has always been my favorite time of year. I grew up in the southern part of the U. S., an area thick with trees, and during the months of autumn, the colors blazed so brilliantly before the leaves fell, leaving the trees bare and lonely. It's also the season of football, a season almost as important in the South as life itself. Of course that's an exaggeration but not by much. But it's truly a season that begins with high hopes that this year will be our year.

When I was a child, I lived across the street from a man who had played football for the University of Alabama in the 1940s. I found his picture once in a locker room celebration the team was enjoying after a Crimson Tide (the nickname of Alabama's sports teams) victory in the Orange Bowl. He served his country during WW II, which ended his football days. After the war, he joined the Alabama Highway Patrol and rose to become a Captain, his rank at the time of his untimely death during James Meredith's integration of the University of Mississippi.

As many of you know, Meredith's entrance into Ole Miss (their nickname is Rebels) was violently opposed by many whites, and there were riots, even deaths, during the days surrounding his matriculation. Meredith did eventually enter school but at the point of a bayonet and the barrel of a gun. When the violence broke out, the Captain was ordered to the state line in case any problems spilled over, which is not far-fetched if you knew the atmosphere in the South at that time. On the way, he was in an auto accident, and he died in hospital a few days later. I attended his funeral, as did Frank Rose, President of the University of Alabama, Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, and the entire Alabama football team, on which Joe Namath was a sophomore.

If you're old enough and a football fan, you might just have seen Capt. Tom on television. In Coach Bryant's 2nd year, 1958, the team earned a bid to the Liberty Bowl, at that time played in Philadelphia. And a Philadelphia newspaper reported on this physically imposing Alabama Highway Patrolman escorting the coach in full uniform and the traditional Smokey-the-Bear hat that many patrolmen and sheriffs wear now. Capt. Tom had become the official state escort of Paul "Bear" Bryant, a job he filled until his death. He was the first patrolman to serve in this capacity, though you see it a lot now. Imagine that! A coach who had played for Alabama in the 1930s and an official law enforcement escort who had played for Alabama in the 1940s. I can only imagine their conversations, which I'm sure they had.

During my childhood, the Captain's son and I played football together in the neighborhood. I remember one Christmas when each of us received a complete football outfit. His colors were blue and white, the colors of his favorite high school team. I can't even remember the colors of mine. But we spent that day kicking and passing to each other, even kicking field goals through a makeshift goalpost between two young pine trees. Of course we had dreams of future glory on the gridiron, but alas, we were never star athletes. We continued, however, as ardent fans of our favorite university, the Alabama Crimson Tide. And my friend's father had played for these giants of sport. Wow! Of course I was in awe of him, as any kid in Alabama would have been.

Football was a near religion in the South, and most young boys worshiped at the pigskin shrine. If a young boy was remotely capable of being an athlete, he was expected to go out for a football team, beginning long before high school. I played YMCA football, then later played as a freshman at a high school which had won several state championships in the sport. When I didn't return to the team in my sophomore year, the coaches refused to speak to me when we passed in the hallway. I shouldn't have been surprised. Football was truly that important then. To me, beer and cigarettes were more important

I continued as an ardent fan of the game, and my passion increased, if that were possible, when Paul "Bear" Bryant came to coach his alma mater in Tuscaloosa, our university. He began in 1957 to field teams which were not only respectable but which won 6 national championships during his tenure, which ended in 1982. He died 6 weeks after he retired from coaching. And at its best, the Alabama football team was championship calibre and even at less than its best, was always competitive with the top football programs in the nation.

While Bryant was coach, he could've easily become governor of the state. In fact, he was asked to run but refused. To the university's good fortune, he knew what he was good at. I remember vividly how emotionally involved I got in the fortunes of the football team. Even when I was attending college, working, and trying to bring up a family, I took the time every Sunday afternoon at 4:30 to watch "The Bear Bryant Show." I often left the University of Alabama at Birmingham (a separate institution) library in time to get home and watch Coach Bryant review Saturday's game film and charm all the mamas and daddies in the audience who might conceivably send their son to play for the coach.

To provide one last instance of Coach Bryant's popularity, he was once accused in a national magazine of "fixing" a football game with the coach of the University of Georgia. Alabama won handily, but it was alleged that points were somehow "shaved." When Paul "Bear" Bryant went on television in prime time to refute these scurrilous, false charges, nearly every television in the state was tuned in. Since Coach Bryant retired, the Alabama football program has won only 1 national championship and has turned out more mediocre teams than Bryant would've allowed. But I long ago realized that the fortunes of a group of young men playing a game truly had little true impact on my life. Oh, I'm still a fan, but nowhere close to the kind of "fanatic" that I used to be.

Still, when the Autumn leaves begin to fall, I still get twinges of nostalgia as I remember what fun it all was, especially when I watched a 'Bama" game on television, even more when I actually attended a game. I suppose that some of the good feelings I get as I reminisce come from the fact that we were all young and everything was ahead of us. And it was our team, representing our university, and our state.

Beethoven Continued

2007-10-01T18:05:00.000-05:00

An old friend reminded me that Leonard Bernstein conducted Beethoven's 9th Symphony at the Berlin Wall as it was coming down. I searched a bit and learned that he played it on both sides of the wall. How fitting.

I was awakened from a deep sleep on Saturday night by loud claps of thunder and saw the lightning flashing through the mini-blinds in my bedroom. On Sunday afternoon I heard the thunder and saw the lightning of the Minnesota Orchestra playing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I don't know if I've even seen a conductor work as hard as did Osmo Vanska, the Finnish born Music Director of this world-class orchestra. And I saw some of the orchestra members obviously having an absolutely wonderful time. Even some of the Minnesotans in Orchestra Hall were enjoying the music.

I'm not a music critic, and I therefore don't know the jargon a professional would use in describing this experience. What I do know is that this was one of the most wonderful musical experiences I've ever had. As my joke suggested, the timpani were busy, and I love the distinct sound of that large drum being struck by that padded stick. The fourth movement almost wears everybody out, the conductor, the musicians, and the audience. I'll have to give the audience a little more credit, as they did have the conductor and principals return for 3 bows. And the bows were well earned. What a wonderful feeling: to be sitting in a large room of like-minded, probably intelligent people and enjoying the music of the ages. Wow!

For those of you who take note of such things, Maestro Vanska and his wife live in a loft overlooking the Mississippi River.

The 9th Symphony

2007-10-01T00:54:00.000-05:00

There's little I can say tonight except, "That mutha sho' could play dem drums!" I'm too tired, too filled with music, too satiated with food, too in awe of human talent to make the remotest sensible comments, if I could ever do that. There is one thing I can say with certainy, however. If you never hear it, you will be much the poorer. Till the sun awakens me!!!

No Beethoven Tonight

2007-09-29T00:59:00.000-05:00

There's no Ninth Symphony to report on because there wasn't a a Ninth Symphony, at least not one that I could hear. Of course the performances went on as scheduled on 9 27, 9/28, and 9/29 in Orchestra Hall performed by the Minneapolis Orchestra. We couldn't attend because of work schedule, my wife's, not mine. But because of high demand, fortunately for us a fourth performance was later scheduled for Sunday afternoon in Orchestra Hall, and I switched our tickets with no fuss. This way my wife takes care of both her work requirements and her spiritual needs. She completed her work tasks on 9/27 in Mayfield Village, Ohio. And on Sunday afternoon 9/30m, we'll both have our sprits enriched listening to the music of a giant, Ludwig von Beethoven. Last year The Minnesota Orchestra with its current conductor turned out a very highly praised CD of this very same symphony, so I'm sure our time Sunday will be filled with magic.

Fly the Friendly Skies

2007-09-26T22:09:00.000-05:00

This afternoon I dropped my wife at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport so that she could wing her way to Cleveland, then drive to some town in Ohio with "Village" in its name, though its probably not a village in the strictest sense of the word. Whatever it is, it's where she'll spend Thursday working before soaring back to Minnesota to celebrate my birthday. I no longer enjoy air travel, nor does she, but it's a requirement of her job.

However, if every trip ended as the one she made last week, she probably wouldn't mind travelling quite as much. And what happened was that someone took the time to do a thoughtful thing for her, which was to return the Day Planner to she had left on the plane. If you have any kind of responsible or professional job, you probably know the value one of these magic books. My wife had both personal and professional information in it, and it would've cost her countless hours of gathering data from a range of sources to put it all back together again, if it could've been done at all.

She was close to distraught at such a loss, and our weekend began on a somewhat sour note. But on Sunday, as she was catching up on some of her work on her company computer, the phone rang. A voice asked, "Are you missing something?" She knew immediately. Someone had found her Day Planner, and that someone was a Flight Attendant for United Airlines. I could hear her talking to him somewhat animatedly, and she came out of her workspace with a huge smile. Further, not only did this United employee refuse to accept any reward, he also refused to accept payment for what turned out to be a overnight FedEx shipment.

This is a big deal for at least two reasons: the loss would have nearly shut her work down for a time; and it softened our growing belief that all civility and thougtfullness is lost in today's world. No, it's not lost. It just hides and pops up when we least expect it, sometimes when we need it most. My wife has sent a letter to United Airlines about the good this employee did for her and the good he's done for his employer. Yes, we'll try to fly the friendly skies as often as possible because one good deed deserves several others.

Take Your Choice

2007-09-20T18:07:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when I tell someone that I lived in Southern California for 20 years, he asks me if I was afraid of earthquakes. Of course I was afraid of earthquakes and "enjoyed" two pretty large ones in the Los Angeles area between 1987 and 2006. Now that I've been in Minnesota for over a year, my question to a local would be to ask if he is afraid of tornadoes, to which I'm sure to get an affirmative. It seems, then, that wherever one lives, he has to contend with either floods, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, or something else that tears hell out of things.

As I write this post, a tornado warning is just about to expire for the area in which I live. I grew up in the South, an area accustomed to tornadoes, and I remember hunching down in some part of the house believed to be safe as a tornado roared through my part of Dixie. I was a few minutes ago reminded of all these weather disturbances, as I just returned from a trip to Cub Foods, our large grocery retailer, just after someone in the store reported a tornado warning. So I finished my checkout, headed for the car, and came home with large splats of water hitting my windshield. I saw, too, a not-fully-formed funnel, and darkness all around.

As I pulled into our parking area, I heard a loud, shrill siren, a public "announcement" given when a tornado warning has actually been issued, ie.,a tornado has actually been spotted touching down in the area. It would be nice if there were an earthquake warning! In any case, the people here are practiced in dealing with storms, and this siren indicates that they should immediately go to the safest place possible, a central room or a basement.

Once I came into the condo, the television meteorologist said that a tornado had actually touched down near U. S. 494 and France Avenue, the area I had glanced at just a few minutes before. There was no feeling of fear during any of this, certainly not the fear I felt at being nearly thrust out of bed during the large earthquake that hit Los Angeles County in early 1994. I must admit that I was scared silly that early January morning. My bookshelves were emptied by the movement of the earth, and a small glass object d'art broke. I was very lucky because the building, built back in the 50s, suffered very little damage.

There are continuous reports of funnel clouds as I sit here and write, all the while listening to our intrepid weather man (no, that's not sexist; he is a man). Whew! Now I hear that the tornado warnings for my county have been cancelled. I probably won't relax too much, as it's still quite dark out. And this is a huge storm system, complete with high winds and all. Anyway, it's good we don't overthink the natural events that can come suddenly, engulf us, maybe harm us, then leave most of us unscathed and relieved, and saying thanks to whatever we say thanks to -- if we do.

I'm glad for that part of the brain that keeps the horrible at bay, lets us "forget" the last time we hurt so much, or were so afraid. Otherwise, we'd likely not be able to go about our day-to-day tasks with optimism, hope, and all those other wonderful abstracts that give life some of its flavor. And we probably wouldn't be able to live with one another more than a day or two.

Yes, I Did Make a Difference

2007-09-10T22:43:00.001-05:00

Some of us would like to think we made a difference in someone else's life, someone who was not blood or otherwise linked to us in any way. I'm very happy to report that not only did I make a difference in one man's life, he actually told me just how it happened. Over the years he mentioned it several more times, so I guess he was telling the truth.

His name was Ron B., and I use that appelation because we met in Alcoholics Anonymous. I don't mind if you know I'm a recovered drunk, but I don't have the right to tell you that anyone else is. Anyway, I used to attend a Men's Stag Meeting of A. A. on Monday nights on Radford Avenue in Studio City, California. Radford Avenue ran right beside the CBS Studios where "Rosanne" and many other shows were taped. I met Ron in 1987, the year I settled in Los Angeles and began to attend all those wonderful stag meetings, which I blogged about earlier.

First of all, Ron attracted attention because he wore many pieces of metal in his body, most of which one could see (I took his word for the others), and he had at least his fair share of tattoos. He had so many pieces of metal hanging from his ears that he almost jingled when he walked. And he was a rocket scientist, really! He worked for N. A. S. A., and his skills were such that he participated in some of the most interesting launches in the latter part of the century, such as the Mars probes. He was intelligent, well read, a curmudgeon before his time, and I grew to love him as a brother.

One particular Monday night, Ron was called on to share from the podium. As he shared, I noticed that he "downed" himself a lot, saying one negative thing after another about himself. Though I didn't know him except casually at the time, I stopped him after the meeting and asked him if he minded some observations on what he said. He agreed to listen, and I told him that if he continued to think and speak negatively about himself, he would eventually believe the negatives, if he didn't already. I explained that even as adults, we react to our own words as a child would if a parent continually criticizes and finds fault. How many children who turned out less than they could have were told as children that they were and always would be losers? My guess is that it was quite a few.

Ron looked at me as if I'd told him his name for the first time. He took this in, and I know he thought about it, as he later told me that it was one of the singlemost important comments anybody had ever made to him. Ron told me that it changed his life. I tried the false modesty route, but he wouldn't allow it. Finally, I said what I should've said right away, "Thank you." As a gay man, Ron truly trusted few straight men, and I was surprised that he asked me to be his sponsor in the A. A. program. I served in that capacity for several years. Then he stopped coming to the Men's Stag and went almost exclusively to gay N. A. meetings in Los Angeles. He also found another gay man for a sponsor, which I applauded when he asked if it would hurt my feelings. It didn't. He did exactly what he needed to do to continue in sobriety. Ron also told me later that he passed on what I said to him that night in 1987 to every man he sponsored in
A. A. and N. A.

There was something else about Ron that was immediately noticeable; one of his arms was shrunken, and he walked with a combination of limp and shuffle, the aftermath of childhood polio. Ron died in the Spring of 2004, the final result of that once dreaded disease. He had been going downhill slowly, and he knew it was inevitable, though he died earlier than most of would like. He was only 63. I missed his memorial service only because I didn't know about it. I telephoned him one day in April about getting together and left a message on his answering machine. It was his voice that greeted me when I called, so I fully expected to hear back from him. Instead I received a call from one of Ron's gay friends that he had died the month before. He said they didn't have time to call everybody, though I'm not sure what that meant.

I was angry at first, but I realized quickly (whew!) that it's not all about me. It was about Ron, and I know he knew I loved him because I told him each time we spoke. I think of him often, and I'm still saddened that he's not sharing the world with us. Rest in peace my dear, old friend.

Pardon The Interruption

2007-09-10T15:38:00.000-05:00

The title of today's posting is instantly recognizeable by you real sports fans out there. It's a daily sports talk show on ESPN at 4:30 P. M., CDT, and hosted by two actual newspaper sports columnists, Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, both of The Washington Post. I'm borrowing it today to write about the aging process as we're experiencing it, and I ask the reader's pardon because few people really want to hear about anyone else's aging aches and pains.

About 2 hours ago, I dropped my wife off at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a business trip to Kalamazoo, MI, by way of Detroit. Again, she looked frail and somewhat lost, but she's going because she has to if she wants to keep her job. She had a rough weekend, the pain from her bursitis returning with a vengeance. Recently, she tried again to take her suitcase onto whichever airplane she was boarding to see if she could lift it into the overhead bin. She couldn't and had to ask for help, but it sufficiently strained the muscles in her chest to kick in the old ailment again.

In order for us to clean our slate and depart the frozen north, we recently calculated that she needs to work at least 2 1/2 more years. I'll be truly surprised if she makes it half that. And the frustration for me is that with my spinal condition, even though most of the pain has been relieved through medication, and with my oxygen deficit, I can't work. It's so hard to know that your spouse feels like hell, both physically and mentally, as you send her off on another stressful trip. If there are any of you out there who talk to a power greater than yourselves, please post a prayer for my wife who's giving her best to keep us afloat.

I'm glad that I've had recently several positive things to write about. I'm grateful for all the good we've experienced lately. But I feel so much for her situation, and I can do nothing. You have a good week, and I'll keep you up-to-date on all of it.

My Recommendations

2007-09-08T19:19:00.000-05:00

This will be a short entry, the purpose of which is to recommend two other blogs and one domain. The person who got me into blogging is my youngest child, and you can read her work at www.southernmuslimah.blogspot.com. She is hugely intelligent and writes very, very well. The other blog I read only occasionally, but when I do, I find it quite interesting. It is also written by a very intelligent woman, and you can find it at www.dooce.com. It was recommended by my blog-writing daughter. Notice that both are from the south, as is my last recommended writer whose domain is www.veritas-anydaynow.com. He publishes each Friday, and he is my oldest friend, a man I met in college back in 1964. He, too, is intelligent. So, if you want to peruse well written, thoughtful pieces, go to any or all of these, one at a time, of course. I hope you like them all. And don't forget to continue reading mine, too, from time to time. I hope to be more regular in the future.

Birthday Month

2007-09-05T13:35:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's birthday month again, though the number is not one I ever anticipated reaching. I'll be 67 years old on the 27th of September. I've always enjoyed birthdays, and this one should be little different. On this birthday, my wife and I will go to Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis and hear Beethoven's 9th Symphony, "The Chorale." Although I've heard this work on record, tape, and CD, I've never heard it live, and it should be a treat.

Over the years, I've had some quite enjoyable birthdays, the earliest of which I remember is my 7th. There was a big party on our large back yard, complete with neighborhood children, gifts, ice cream, and a huge cake. Somewhere in all our boxes, I have a picture of that memorable celebration.

My 18th birthday was something special in that it was the first birthday I'd ever spent away from home. On 9/27/58, I was at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, undergoing training to become a member of the Corps. It wasn't special because anybody celebrated. It was just another training day, hot, sweaty, difficult.

I spent my 40th birthday in Los Angeles, visiting a friend from college who worked as an actor until his retirement a few years ago. I also attended an art opening at the Frank Lloyd Wright house on Doheny Drive, which celebrated a friend of his, a local artist whose work I really enjoyed. My friend, his wife, Sandy the artist, and I, all broke bread at a wonderful steak house on Ventura Blvd. that has since been torn down. Sandy and I shared a Chateaubriand for two. And it was during this birthday period that I had my first Haagen-Dazs ice cream, vanilla. I also ate my first sushi and sashimi during this visit.

The last memorable birthday I can recall is my 55th. My wife and I were working at a pharmaceutical research facility in Los Angeles, and she surprised me with a party that day at work. Some of my co-workers bought me a very nice gift, a briefcase, also a surprise. There was and is a specialty cake shop in L. A., and my wife bought me a quite appropriate birthday cake, one topped with a set of rather lovely female breasts. The cake was tasty, too.

It will be one more year to add to my total so far. It will be a night of tremendous music. It will be another birthday with cake and ice cream. And whenever each of yours is, Happy Birthday.

Hunters Be Damned

2007-08-25T06:57:00.000-05:00

The page one headline below the fold in the Star-Tribune was as follows: "New target: Famale hunters." Yes, and if I were looking for a companion, girlfriend, mate, or just plain sex buddy, I would certainly demand that she be able to kill, for no reason, at least one, probably more, of the sundry creatures besides humans that "share" the earth with us. Yes, she'd have to be able to trap, shoot, stab, hook, or even kill with an arrow some gentle creature covered with fur. Maybe she could start with cats, since there are so damned many of them!

When I saw that headline, I was disgusted. I know I live in macho-man, hunter country here in Minnesota, but do we need more killers, more takers of life of any kind, than we already have? I don't think so. Today we need more people in this country who don't want to kill anything. This headline took me back to my childhood in Alabama, from where each summer, my grandmother and I would drive to where my grandfather was working as a brickmason supervisor repairing blast furnaces in steel mills all across this nation of ours.

One particular trip took us to Lynchburg, Virginia, no doubt the home of many hunters bumping into each other. My grandmother and I went to the movies one night, as my grandfather was much too tired after a day of hot, difficult work. And the movie we saw was Bambi. I was 7 years old, and I probably don't need to tell you how much it affected me. But I will anyway! Afterwards, as she and I sat across from each other in a booth in a drugstore (do you remember soda fountains in drugstores?), she noticed I was very quiet. When she asked what was wrong with me, I burst into tears and blurted, "They killed Bambi's mother." And I didn't become a hunter. I recently saw a "personality" in this country say the same thing, that Bambi kept him from killing animals for sport. Good for him.

I have two cousins, decent human beings, who live in North Alabama and whose mother was my favorite aunt, my biological father's sister. I was in the older cousin's home many years ago, and I noticed a book of Bible stories for children sitting on an end table. Then I looked up and saw one of the several deer heads he had mounted and hanging on his wall. To me it was incongruous, to say the least. Just after I moved to Los Angeles in 1987, I was taking a course at The American Film Institute titled "Writing About the Movies," a course designed to help us evaluate books and movie scripts, to learn which ones (we hoped) to recommend for a film. Much to my great pleasure, one of the speakers' father had produced Bambi for Walt Disney, and I was able to tell her just how much the movie had meant to me. It was one of those magical moments that we need more of.

The number of hunters, however, does not need to increase! Hunters be damned!

Coming Attractions

2007-08-24T13:06:00.000-05:00

At 4:17 A. M., on Friday, September 27, 1940, I was born in The Holy Name of Jesus Hospital in Gasden, Alabama. My mother later told me that she laughed out loud when she first saw me. I'm glad that she got at least one laugh because of me.

And it takes only minimal skills in arithmetic to see that I'll be 67 years old next month. This comes at something of a surprise to me, as I never really thought about, or believed I would ever be, this damned old. But here I am, a certified senior citizen, though my head doesn't believe it. Further, at this age, when one's head won't tell the truth, one's body certainly will. I am today, all things considered, at least grateful to be on this side of the great beyond.

This birthday will definitely be celebrated. Though my wife doesn't know it yet, I'm going to purchase an ice cream cake for myself, not only to celebrate my birthday but to celebrate losing over 30 pounds in the last few months. Sensible, huh? Well, it makes sense to me; besides, I can rationalize darned near anything. No gifts, please, just ice cream.

But the largest part of our celebration will be another trip to Orchestra Hall in downtown Minneapolis to hear the Minnesota Orchestra entertain us and itself with Beethoven's 9th Symphony. Standing alone, this work is magnificent. I'm further awed, however, with the knowledge that Beethoven never heard this symphony performed. He was totally deaf when he composed it. And when he conducted it, he had to be turned around by an orchestra member to "see" the waves of applause that the audience gave back to him. It truly is an "Ode to Joy."

I wrote in a previous post that the music on my first Orchestra Hall trip didn't lift my spirits as I thought it would. But the fault wasn't in the music; the fault was in me. My mood was dark, and truthfully, the seats in Orchestra Hall are some of the most uncomfortable theatre seats I've ever sat in. Now that my physical pain is being relieved, I'll surely enjoy the music more. I'll also take my own, special ordered seat cushion, the one I'm sitting on now as I write. This is a world-class orchestra, and I look forward to sharing my birthday with them. I plan to talk about music more in later postings, and I thank you for being here!

Rational-Emotive Therapy

2007-08-21T19:05:00.000-05:00

Albert Ellis, PhD, co-author of the book A New Guide to Rational Living, says "...almost the only sustained and 'unbearable' misery that we accept as legitimate or justifiable results from prolonged and undownable physical pain. You needlessly manufacture virtually all other prolonged agony." While I accept physical pain as a legitimate basis for misery, there may also be one or two other reasons for misery, though that's for another posting.

What happened to me during the recent very dark period in my life was that I was suffering from untreated chronic physical pain, which compounded the depression I already had. And when I found a pain clinic with professionals who listened and prescribed medication that actually relieves, the darkness began to lift. Another reason that the darkness began to lift is that my son telephoned me and offered to be my sounding board if need be. He also suggested that I go to A New Guide to Rational Living, as it spoke quite clearly to other aspects of my discomfort. I had read it years ago, then again later, during difficult emotional times, and it had helped then. So I ordered another copy (I couldn't find the copy I had had for over 20 years). And he was absolutely right -- it helped. As I mentioned some weeks back, my son recently took a Master of Science in Psychology, and as his second (after himself) "patient,"I am quite pleased.

It helped that he called to see how I was doing and to suggest the book. It further helped that he called a second time last week to check up on me. I'm certainly not suggesting that this one book is "the answer." But it's an intelligent, rational approach to human behavior which I needed to peruse again. And between the medication and the rational thinking I've been exposed to these last few days, I feel better than I did when I wrote what I thought might be my final blog posting. I go again Thursday to the pain clinic, where my medication will probably be adjusted. And I'm so grateful that I don't feel so damned lousy today, for several days, actually.

Thank you to my M. D., my C. M. T., and thank you to my son. I know I have other work to do on my depression, but thank you all three!

Prescription

2007-08-19T13:44:00.000-05:00

Had I remained in the black hole I found myself in, I wouldn't be writing this. But I didn't. I found some relief, some relief for the constant, battering physical pain I was in. I actually found a physician in Minnesota who believes in getting patients in as soon as possible and also believes in prescribing medications that have a good probability of relieving pain. And so he treated me. I now have 2 prescriptions for medications that don't contain Tylenol and thereby don't damage my liver. They are, however, medications that no other doctor I've been to or spoken to was ready to prescribe, and they work. The relief is palbable. And it so lifted my spirit that a physician I was talking to truly understood the debillitating effects of chronic pain. I can't express how relieved I am. After years and years ...

Last Post

2007-08-05T12:54:00.000-05:00

This is my last post. I no longer labor under the illusion that there's anything left to be happy about. I feel no contentment, and I certainly feel no joy. Not even Mendelssohn and Mozart last Friday eve could ease the pain. Angels' wings should be able to balm and console, but they could not. At the risk of being a second-hand plagiarist, I leave you with a quote from Franz Kafka, taken from a newspaper article about a woman who posted it on her blog just before she eliminated all her pain: "We are as forlorn as children lost in the wood. When you stand in front of me, what do you know of the grief that is in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful?" Thank you for reading.

Orchestra Hall

2007-08-02T13:12:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow night my wife and I will be at Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, provided we can get there from here after yesterday's bridge collapse, to hear the Minnesota Orchestra and its soloist, a woman I'm not familiar with, entertain us with Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto, his only one. If you haven't heard it, listen carefully and fully -- and be swept away by its sheer Romanticism. That's always a good way to be swept away. I'll write more about this night out afterwards. As for you, dear reader, go listen!

July is Finished

2007-08-01T11:06:00.000-05:00

Whew! I got through July alive. For a tiny while, I wasn't so sure. The depression comes in huge waves and more often than ever in my life. The medication isn't working very well. And I'm not sure all the talk in the world will help, but then, neither are the people who are licensed to talk to me. The way out appears obvious. God, I feel awful. Going to Birmingham didn't help.

Loathing Without Fear

2007-07-23T17:11:00.000-05:00

It's very difficult for me to write about something I truly dislike. And since I truly dislike Birmingham, Alabama, I may never write about my recent visit there except to say that I really enjoyed seeing my youngest child and her four children. That's it.

Thank You, Dr. Freud

2007-07-22T13:28:00.000-05:00

It's a quiet Sunday in Bloomington, Minnesota, and I'm very, very tired. I travelled to Birmingham, Alabama, on 7/16/07 to visit with my youngest child and her four children. I'll write about that trip later.

But yesterday, 7/21/07, I attended the graduation of my only son from Walden University at Walden's Thirty-Eighth Commencement Ceremony. He took an M. S. in Psychology, a very nice complement to his B. S. from Auburn University. The title of his M. S. thesis is Effects of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Gambler's Anonymous on Pathological Gamblers. The ceremony was held in Northrop Auditorium on the East Bank Campus of the University of Minnesota, and it's a good thing not all graduates listed in the graduation program showed up. The Northrup wouldn't have held them. Northrop is a lovely, old theatre which looks as if it was built during the W. P. A. It's being prepared for remodeling and will lose the incredible pipe organ on which a woman played the relevant graduation music during the afternoon. A recent article in the Star-Tribune lamented this loss, which apparently can't be avoided if the remodeling is to be completed properly.

My son turned 45 years old on 6/29/07. When I celebrated my 45th birthday in 1985, I had had my M. A. in English for only about 20 months. I guess you could say that we're late bloomers, but we're persistent. I remember that after finishing my thesis in November 1983, I went to bed for about 2 days, alone. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings, and what's interesting to me is that when I was an undergraduate, I took all the core courses to prepare me for graduate work in Psychology, which I first entered before returning to the study of literature. And my son writes well above average poetry. What does all this say about genetics? I don't know, but my son and I obviously have similar interests. And now we both have advanced degrees, though he has a decade + experience working with disturbed youth.

I remember a Psychology professor telling our huge class at the University of Alabama at Birmingham many years ago that other than psychology, a quite effective method of studying human behavior was the study of literature. And I learned over the years that if one wants to find out what really happened in a particular society, he should read that society's fiction, not historians. In any case, yesterday was a wonderful , blue-skied day for graduation, and my son strode across the stage, all 6' 3", 240 lbs of him, as if he were striding across the world. Congratulations, young man!

Finally, if this post seems somewhat disjointed, so am I! Have a wonderful work week!

Turn Your Clocks Back 100 Years

2007-07-15T22:13:00.000-05:00

I'm going to Birmingham, Alabama, tomorrow. If it weren't for the fact that my youngest child is visiting from the Middle East, I wouldn't even consider it. I look forward to seeing her and her 4 beautiful children, as it may be the last time I see them in this life, but I am near nausea thinking about being in that city. I hope you had a Happy Bastille Day.

Fatboy

2007-07-13T22:05:00.000-05:00

Before I began Nutrisystem, I was weighed in at 280+ lbs by my primary physician's nurse. Recently, I was weighed in at 255, again by my primary physician's nurse. When I began this change of course, I could hitch my size 50 belt only to the first notch. After two food deliveries from Nutrisystem, I can now go to the very last notch. I've not kept a close eye on my weight drop but rather allowed myself to feel the differences in my life.

A quite noticeable difference is the reduction in pain in my lower back and legs. After I had spinal surgery in December 2005, I couldn't consistently keep the pain down no matter how much medication I used. Now, though the pain isn't gone and probably never will be, it's less than it's been for a very long time. And tonight I bought a size 46 belt at Macy's, a Perry Ellis on sale for $9.99. It won't be long before I fit into my old size 42 belt, and if I don't do something monumentally stupid, I could eventually fall below 200 lbs again, a weight I can carry well even though I'm not Wilt Chamberlain.

Another difference is the general increase in energy. At my age, I need all the help I can get keeping my energy up. I now find myself looking for excuses to get out and about instead of excuses to remain in my recliner. It's something like a rebirth of the senses. A contributory to this rebirth could very well be my recent titration from Prednisone, initially prescribed for me because of my lousy lungs. My pulmonary physician at the University of Minnesota recently examined the slides that were made during my lung biopsy in 2006 at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, and with all the other information he had gleaned through examination, decided that I didn't need steriods anymore. Good for him!

In addition to the steroids, I had done a huge amount of emotional eating after my back surgery and respiratory failure. It's not difficult to put on weight when one eats a pint of ice cream at a time, stuffs chocolate down his throat almost non-stop, avoids anything green except money, and inhales pastry like a drowning man. On top of all that, I found myself adrift in Minnesota, surrounded by blonde-headed people who talk funny. It all seemed like a good idea at the time, and most of it tasted good, too. But now, I'm on the road to another recovery, thanks to Dan Marino and all the other athletes who advertise for Nutrisystem.

Way Back When

2007-07-12T16:11:00.001-05:00

I had actually begun a blog entry about my first car when I stopped to watch a 2-hour "Secret History of the Klu Klux Klan" on The History Channel. How easy it is to forget or suppress or put aside unpleasant feelings about the past. I know that we all have selective memory, but this documentary stirred up old anxieties, old fears, old queasiness. It's especially discomforting today, since I'm going to Birmingham, Alabama, next Monday, a city I miss about as much as I'd miss skin cancer.

When I was hired as by the U. S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission in Birmingham in 1971, I asked one of my superiors for the name of a photographer to take my official government I. D. picture. I was given the name of Chris McNair. The name didn't immediately ring my bell, though I realized who he was before he took my photo. His 11 year old daughter, Denise, had died violently when the 16th Street Baptist Church exploded on September 15, 1963, dynamited by Klansmen Robert Chambliss, Bobby Frank Cherry, and two others, cowards and terrorists who slithered through Southern nights in their many attempts to stop the march of freedom of former slaves and their descendants.

When the news of the bombing was announced, I simply couldn't believe it, even though I had lived much of my then 23 years in Birmingham. I had grown up in a racist society, but even this surprised, shocked, and truly saddened me. In later years, my work with the E. E. O. C. and other federal agencies was particularly medicinal, though not a complete antidote to the hatred I had seen around me and that I can still feel even over so much time and distance.

I don't know what I expected when I walked into Chris McNair's photography studio. I just didn't expect him to be so pleasant, almost soft spoken. He was a real man, have no doubt, but he exuded kindness, gentleness even. I suppose I expected an angry facade, a man still seeking revenge for what had been so unfairly taken from him and his wife, for nobody had yet been put on trial for the murders of four little girls that awful Sunday just outside downtown Birmingham. Because I'm white, I really expected him to view me with at least a hint of suspicion. But he met none of these expectations.

On the day they lost their child, both Chris McNair and his wife were at worship. I suppose faith is the only way out of that awful place that the death of a child puts the parents in. It took years for anybody to go to trial for these awful murders, the last one just into the 21st Century. But not only did Chris McNair continue his life as a photographer, he also served a public which had allowed such an atrocity. He was later elected to the Alabama State Legislature and the Jefferson County Commission, retiring from public life in 2001.

I met Chris McNair in life that one time only. But I'm still awed and amazed. You can meet him, too, as I did again many years later, in a film entitled "Four Little Girls," a heart-wrenching documentary by Spike Lee, which should've won the Academy Award the year it was eligible. Watch it, please, and you might gain a better understanding and a bigger heart.

Medic!

2007-07-11T22:16:00.000-05:00

I don't know if it's a permanent change, but it's been with me for a while now. Actually, it's been over 18 months. The change is that I don't see the world in any way similar to how I saw it in the past. The world seems foggy, out of focus.

When I went to the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles in late January 2006, for the second time in 3 days, I was about to die. The ER doctor put me on oxygen almost immediately and prepared to admit me with a horrible lung infection. As I lay in a room near the ER, I went into respiratory arrest. The staff knocked me out and intubated me as I lay in the dark, so to speak. The next thing I remember is going in and out of consciousness, finally awakening some days later with my wrists tied to the hospital bed and a respirator doing my breathing for me. I was told that after admission to the Pulmonary Critical Care Unit, I had experienced critical care room psychosis and had tried to pull all the tubes out of my body.

I stayed in the unit on a respirator for about 15 days. Obviously, I survived, but everything has been different since. It's almost as if a thin, gauze screen has been erected between me and the world. The emotional pile up has had me often feeling disconnected and anxious, then later, depressed, then briefly whole, but not for long, only minutes. For now, I'm going to chalk it up to coming face to face with my own mortality for the first time in my 6+ decades of life. I never felt anything like this before, and though I'll chalk it up, as I said, I'm not absolutely sure just what it is. All I'm certain of is that I wish it would go away.

The Caboose

2007-06-30T12:30:00.000-05:00

It was a regular comment where I grew up that the last child born to a couple was called "the caboose." My fourth child was just that. But she will be 35 in July, and I feel a little old. She was, as all my children were, a surprise, as her mother and I didn't have the sense to plan a family. Also, the things that are discussed openly now simply weren't discussed back then. So, approaching 32 years of age, I learned I was to be a father again. And there was no thought of anything but bringing this child into the world.

I learned that my fourth child was a girl only when she was born. Again, at that time, couples simply didn't find out until until the baby arrived. I was waiting in the wee hours of the morning when a nurse came out with this beautiful newborn and said she was sorry, it's a girl. And I said that was fine. I suppose she thought because I had 2 girls and 1 boy that I had wanted another son. In truth, it didn't matter to me. She was absolutely beautiful even before she was cleaned up. She was born 17 days shy of my one year anniversary in Alcoholics Anonymous.

Part of the joy I felt came from the fact that I was going to get a chance to be a sober father, something my three other children hadn't enjoyed in their early years. She never saw me drinking or drunk. For the first 7 1/2 years of her life, I did a pretty good job overall. She attended a private Episcopal kindergarten, then school. She was an open, laughing, happy child whom I took with me everywhere I could, even to the grocery store. Then came the divorce, but that's another story.

My beautiful daughter later graduated from high school with honors, then graduated from university Magna Cum Laude. She has completed almost all requirements for an M. A. degree, and she has been a teacher both in the United States and in Jordan. While she was working her way through university, she met a man from Amman, Jordan, who had come here as a student. They were both working at a barbeque joint in Birmingham, Alabama. He is a Palestianian, one of many whose family was forced off their land by the Israelis many years ago. He and my daughter fell in love and married.

My son-in-law is a handsome and intelligent man who is a good husband, provider, and father, and who, with my daughter, has brought into this world four of the most beautiful children I've ever seen who love their "Baba." Some years ago, my son-in-law decided to return sincerely to the religion he was born into, Islam. He quit working in an establishment that sold alcohol and went to work at the local mosque. He later became a successful automobile dealer, which work he continues in Jordan. And he continues to be a good husband, provider, and father.

On her own, my daughter converted to Islam and is today a person whose life is guided by the precepts of her religion. Out of the home, she dresses in traditional Muslim clothing for women. But thank God her beautiful face is still uncovered for all to see. I would love to post a picture of her taken in a Japanese restaurant in Los Angeles when I was hospitalized near death. But obviously, for privacy's sake, I can't do that. At present, she lives in Amman, Jordan with her family, and I miss her.

She's visiting in Birmingham now, and I plan to go down as soon as I can. She has two small children whom I've never met, and they need to meet their "Giddo" but not nearly as much as I need to meet them. Parts of my life have been absolutely wonderful, and I've just written about one of them.

California Dreamin' Two

2007-06-19T19:47:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the elephant sits in the room for months and months before anybody says anything. That's what happened with me and my wife once it really hit us that we really are living in Minnesota. Today, after my physical therapy, I came home to pick her up and take her to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a flight to Cleveland for her company. I'd been fighting back tears all day, not exactly sure why, so when she sat down on the day bed across from my favorite chair, I just lost it.

After I let the pressure out, I said, "I hate it here." She replied immediately, "So do I." Finally! Both of us had been feeling this for quite some time, but neither wanted to say it, so as not to cause the other to feel bad or worry for the other. Now we were able to talk about it. We both agreed that almost everybody we know and love is in Los Angeles, where we lived for almost 20 years and left a year ago. We came to Minnesota for good reasons and with all the information we could've had at the time. But this isn't home and never will be.

Regardless of all the negatives you've probably heard about the City of Angels, it's a fascinating place to live. There's so much more to do in L. A. than most of its citizens ever get around to. There are restaurants of every variety and price range. And the A. A. in Los Angeles is the best in the world, not to mention that our oldest and dearest friends are there.

I don't know what we're going to do, at least for a while, as my wife's very good job is only three months old. Lucky for us, her multinational employer also has locations all over the United States.

For now, we'll take it one day at a time, do what's in front of us, and let the future unfold as it will. Wish us luck.

The Day After Fathers' Day

2007-06-18T08:12:00.000-05:00

When I look back on my childhood and adolescence, there is one constant: baseball. The only significant man in my youth, my grandfather, told me stories about the baseball players he had seen as younger man, such as Dizzy Dean. And one of the places we went together was Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Alabama, where the Class AA Birmingham Barons played. This was back when major league baseball wasn't so watered down and also a time when many, many cities and towns supported a minor league team, Class AAA down to Class D. Rickwood Field, where I spent so many happy hours, is the oldest baseball stadium in the United States, opening in 1912, days before Wrigley Field in Chicago.

There were only 16 major league teams then, so few of the thousands of minor leaguers could ever hope to spend time in the majors. But we pulled for our minor league players because they were our own, and the Birmingham Barons usually fielded a respectable team. They were in the Southern Association with the New Orleans Pelicans, the Little Rock Travelers, the Memphis Chicks, the Atlanta Crackers, the Chattanooga Lookouts, the Nashville Vols, and the Mobile Bears. The pennant winner played the Texas League pennant winner in a mini-World Series each year.

Going to Rickwood Field with my grandfather is one of my fondest childhood memories. He and I went to the Southern League All-Star game one year, and I saw Jim Lemon hit 4 home runs and barely miss a 5th. Lemon, of course, made it to the major leagues and stayed for a while. Also at Rickwood, in later years, I got autographs from Hank Aaron, Andy Pafko, Eddie Matthews, and Mickey Mantle. Mickey and the Yankees were coming off the field after an exhibition game with the Barons, and I reached through a metal fence and asked for his autograph. He just grumbled. Then Yogi Berra said, "Aw, come on, Mick, give the kid your autograph." And he did. Mickey wasn't much more than a kid himself then. How I wish I had all those autographed scorecards that I kept for years.

Jim Lemon wasn't the only future big leaguer I saw in Class AA baseball on his way up to "the bigs." There was also Bill Virdon, who later played for and managed the St. Louis Cardinals. There, too, was Gus Triandos, who played for the Yankees after his stint in Birmingham. But the last great player I saw during his minor league days was Reggie Jackson. The Barons were associated with various major league clubs during those years, a farm team of the big team. And I saw many of these wonderful players because several major league teams would, upon breaking camp after Spring Training in Florida (they all went to Florida then), play exhibitions with various minor league teams on their way north to their major league home cities. I saw a Baron pitcher strike out Ted Williams twice in one of these exhibitions. If that pitcher is still alive, I'll bet he's telling his grandchildren about it even now. And even striking out, Ted Williams had the sweetest swing I ever saw, before or since.

In those days, I listened to Barons' games on the radio. On a good night for the team, I can still hear the announcer saying when the bases were loaded, that they were F. O. B., Full of Barons. Road games were also broadcast but with a twist. The announcer wasn't actually with the team! He was calling the game in a Birmingham studio from a ticker tape that tap-tap-tapped each play as it happened. His obvious embellishments made it seem almost as if he were there, but our love for baseball was such that we didn't really care. My love for baseball carried into my teen years, and I still have a copy of the 1954 Mutual Baseball Almanac that I ordered through the mail. It cost a dollar, and it's in pristine condition still. Mutual Radio carried the Game of the Week. Television broadcasts were quite rare, though the World Series was televised.

One last, very important thing. As kids, most of us didn't join any formal leagues. We just got a team together and challenged another group of kids. We played baseball for pure fun. There were few, if any, adults around to mess things up. If we won, fine. If we lost, we still got on our bikes and pedaled to the nearest store for a cold drink (that's what we called soda pop back then) to take the edge off the hot Alabama summer.

It's been said that it was a more innocent time. I think it was for most of us. And baseball was a part of my innocence and my life with my sweet grandfather. What more could a kid ask for?

An important social footnote should be added to this near idyllic description of my life growing up in Birmingham, Alabama. It wasn't an innocent time for everybody. Until I was an adult, there were never any black faces in the stands at Rickwood Field when the Barons were playing. There was another team back then, the Birmingham Black Barons, a team that Willie Mays played for on his way up. He's from a little town, Fairfield, Alabama, where the steel mills roared and belched, not far from where I lived. Further, in the early sixties, as blacks demanded their freedom with marches and demonstrations in Birmingham, there was no baseball at Rickwood. The locals thought it better to shut down than to risk that they might have to attend games with blacks. Fortunately for everybody, Rickwood Field opened up again, and it was after the re-opening that I saw Reggie Jackson play for the Barons. But today Rickwood is empty to professional baseball. The new stadium is located in Hoover, Alabama, across Red Mountain, in a white neighborhood. The area around Rickwood Field is now peopled by black folks.

Fathers' Day

2007-06-17T15:24:00.000-05:00

The phone rang about an hour ago, and my only son said cheerfully, "Happy Father's Day." And I told him it was. He's one of those people who would rather call than send a card, but I like to hear his voice. A lot of men aren't good at cards. I, however, am one who is. I love sending cards of all kinds. In both my marriages, I've sent out most of the Christmas cards. In fact, I've been sending them out for almost 45 years. I send out cards on almost any occasion I can find.

My son had his only child, also a son, with him today down in Alabama. The divorce decree allows limited visitation, with more time in summer than during the school year. My grandson, who's 5 1/2 years old, had attended Vacation Bible School last week, which truly rang a bell with me, as it was one of the activities I enjoyed back in Alabama in the late forties. The religious instruction didn't take with me, but I remember the experience of Vacation Bible School as a positive.

I never got to give a card to my father, as he left my mother and me when I was about 5 years old. I never saw him again. He died alone, an unrecovered alcoholic, in a small apartment above a grocery store in Sacramento, California, in 1981. He was found on the floor of the apartment by the grocery store owner. His sister, my favorite aunt, told me he had cut his drinking down to a few beers. I never could do that, so if he did, I salute him. I missed him for so many years and was angry, but when I found out about his alcoholism, I at least understood his behavior, for I was one, too. It didn't excuse what he did, but it certainly made it comprehensible to me, and I was no longer angry with him.

Fathers' Day may be one of those holidays made up by card companies, but so what? I enjoyed hearing from my son.

Easy Rider

2007-06-08T11:22:00.000-05:00

In the most recent issue of Newsweek, Sir Paul McCartney said that he felt it hard to believe it's actually he who is approaching the age of 65. I certainly understand the sentiment, for I, as most who live this long, still feel in our minds that we're much younger. Also, for most, all we have to do is look in the mirror to confirm the reality we sometimes just don't want to face.

With aging, for me, has also come a degenerative spinal condition combined with arthritis and stenosis, the surgery for which left me in about as much pain as I experienced before the surgery. It's difficult for me to walk more than ten feet or so without stopping to allow the pain to ease, even with my cane or walker. As a result, our outings are always taken with any walking distance in mind, such as our last Sunday on the banks of the Mississippi River. Had a bench not been relatively close to the parking, I simply would've missed the duck show I described in a recent blog.

But there is a solution, though not physiologically. Have you ever seen those commercials for The Scooter Store? They've probably been showing for years, but of course I never paid much attention until I couldn't walk very well. So I sent for literature and came to find out that they fold up such that I could get one in the back of my PT Cruiser if the back seats are down. And I'm no novice. I've had a little scooter driving practice at such places as Cub Foods and Home Depot, which are huge buildings that I couldn't walk around if I wanted to. Of course I used a scooter at the Mall of America. Actually, I look pretty cool zipping around.

It's just another one of the adjustments to aging and physical deterioration. But it is what it is! Hell, all I need is a Captain America motorcycle helmet and people will think I'm Peter Fonda!

Back to the Future

2007-06-04T07:42:00.000-05:00

Even after the wonderful Sunday my wife and I had on the banks of the Mississippi River, one of my first thoughts this morning after waking before sunrise (not by choice) was how much I still miss Los Angeles. I love the beauty of nature, but I love a city more. Sitting beside the Mississippi yesterday reminded me of the canoe/camping trips I'd taken as a boy on the Tennessee River near Chattanooga, Tennessee. I went to a summer camp for six weeks in each of four summers, and that was one of our activities. I was as much an outdoor kid as any. But somehow over the years, I fell in love with the idea of a city, and every visit to Los Angeles only confirmed what I felt.

So, when I moved to L. A. in 1987, I felt at home. Of course, when my wife and I decided to leave Florida, we could've gone other places. But as I obliquely mentioned in an earlier blog, the deciding factor for us was the quality of the Alcoholics Anonymous program as we saw it in the city on a visit six years earlier. Because we have a daily reprieve from our disease, we knew that it was important for us to be in a place where our recovery program was strong. It was strong in Los Angeles and still is. As for anonymity, I break no traditions in revealing my own membership in A. A. My wife allows me to identify her as a recovering drunk, too.

Just after we arrived in our new home, I returned to a place where we had attended meetings during our 1981 visit, the Radford A. A. Clubhouse on Radford Avenue, adjacent to the CBS Studio in, of all places, Studio City, California. I soon discovered a Monday night Men's Stag meeting at Radford, which I attended each week for years after. What I found in this gathering was a fellowship of men which I hadn't felt since the Marine Corps. The Men's Stag at Radford was a sometimes racous, sometimes somber meeting of men who wanted to recover. There were laughter, tears, and sharing with one another at surprisingly deep levels, and there was that wonderful feeling of belonging, of family.

The Radford Clubhouse has since been evicted from the old location because some of our members couldn't respect the neighbors sufficiently. Their noise and other infractions caused the city to force us to leave after people living nearby complained, and even with free legal help from one of our members, it was a lost cause. There is a new Radford Clubhouse on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. It's nice but doesn't have the history, the feel I used to get just walking into the old place. And there is a Monday night Men's Stag in the new place, but the bulk of the men who used to populate the old meeting now meet in a church in Sherman Oaks, which I attended regularly before I moved to Minnesota. I miss it mightily, and even though it's not what we once enjoyed, it's still the best meeting in town.

Now you know. My wife and I are recovering alcoholics. It's been many, many years since I was an active drunk, my wife, too. Today I'm especially grateful to A. A. for always being there for me to use, participate in, and occasionally, do some good outside myself. And when one of us goes to a strange town, he or she automatically has a temporary "home" to go to. Last weekend, my wife and I attended the Gopher State Roundup, a huge gathering of members and friends from all over Minnesota and nearby Wisconsin. One of the speakers we heard share his story was from Covina, California, just outside Los Angeles. It was almost like being truly home again.

Old Man River

2007-06-03T16:33:00.000-05:00

This afternoon my wife and I spent some quiet time on the banks of the Mississippi River as it slowly wound its way through Minneapolis. There are many parks along the banks on the edge of the city, and this one allowed us to be close to the river. We just sat and listened to the silence. Then my wife turned and said, "Look at the Canadian Geese." I turned to my right, and about twenty yards from us were a number of adult geese and many fuzzy ducklings walking and feeding in the grass. They were headed right toward us. The adults were larger than I would have thought, never having seen one so close to me.

As they got closer, I counted 17 little ones walking with two adults. They continued their path toward us, got on the sidewalk in front of our bench, and walked right in front of us, almost within touching distance. The two adults, as they passed by with their babies, lowered their heads, extended their long necks foward, and gave out a little "honk." We were both just flabbergasted. I had never been so close to untamed animals living their lives as animals do. Wow!

Then two more adults with seven ducklings a bit older and larger did the very same thing. And each lowered its head, stretched its long neck out, and give out a little "honk" as it passed. It was all so beautiful. The third group with two adults and several older ducklings, however, got almost to us, when one adult gave a sharp "honk," and they turned and went behind us. She obviously was not as trusting as the others.

As the ducks moved slowly away, feeding as they walked, my wife and I just looked at each other with smiles of amazement and wonder at the beauty all around us: the ducks and their babies; the river; the lush greenery of a Minnesota Spring. I'm so glad we went out today.

Memorial Day -- Part II

2007-05-28T11:51:00.000-05:00

As you enjoy your holiday activities this Memorial Day weekend, please take time to remember those who died in defense of our liberties. I joined the U. S. Marine Corps during my senior year in high school on what was called a delay basis. I arrived at Parris Island, South Carolina, for basic training on August 1, 1958. In many ways I was fortunate in that there wasn't a war for me to fight at that time. And nobody started one during the three years of my military service. But many were lost in war before I arrived, and many would be lost after I was discharged. So I ask you to remember them today, not as a publicity stunt or a photo-op, but as a sincere prayer for those young men and women who never got the chance to fulfil their dreams, to grow old, to live a full life as I've done.

It's difficult to talk of politics in these times, as our leaders have no sense of shame and no connection, however tenuous, to reality. On the worst day of life loss in Iraq, we can easily be told that the situation is improving. On a day when a normal man would be completely embarrassed by his past actions, our president can voice support that this man keep his job as our top law enforcement officer. In a period when science offers us an opportunity to cure some of the most insidious diseases, our president ensures that stem-cell research is thwarted. And the world is about 6,000 years old!

Send your prayers wherever you send them, but remember our fallen troops of all our wars, both necessary and misguided. I'm just so sad and angry that I can hardly write without falling into polemic. Enjoy this holiday, but remember.

Memorial Day - Part I

2007-05-24T13:36:00.000-05:00

It pains me to know that we're going to have so many more young men and women to remember this Memorial Day than last. And it pains me to know that George W. Bush will be participating in nothing more than a photo-op as he puts a wreath on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. Bush doesn't honor our fallen military when he shows up on Memorial Day -- he dishonors them. "Cut and Run" was his modus operandi during the Vietnam War, and his political murder of so many thousands since we invaded Iraq is unconscionable. George W. Bush is not only a coward, he's a war criminal. Jimmy Carter was right when he described Bush's foreign policy as the worst in history. And to compare Carter's administration, as bad as it was, to today's Republican gang of thugs is vile. God Bless our men and women who serve, even if their "leader" is a dim-wit.

Springtime in Minnesota

2007-05-19T14:04:00.001-05:00

Since I lived in Southern California from January 1987 to June 2006, I simply wasn't used to Spring. There are no seasons to speak of in SoCal, unless you count Fire Season and Rainy Season. So, I wasn't ready when everything here turned green, another thing sparse in SoCal, greenery. I went to bed one night here in Minnesota, and everything was brown. When I awakened the next morning, everything had turned green. Spring had announced itself boldy and beautifully. Since then there have even been frosts in parts of the state, but the green proclaims intself loudly, and I'm enjoying a real Spring, however long it lasts.

Thoughtfulness and Civility

2007-05-16T20:21:00.000-05:00

Because of my degenerative spinal condition, the screws in my spine, and the probable nerve damage done during my surgery, I can't lift anything heavier than 5 pounds. The constant pain I feel actually gets worse when I lift almost anything. And I walk with a cane.

So, I just returned from buying two 1-Liter Diet Cokes and two 1-Liter Aquafina waters at the Shell Service Station near our condo. One of the clerks, after I asked if there were any 2-liter sodas available, walked back to the cooler, and pointed out the largest they carried, 1-Liters, which happened all to be on the bottom shelf. When I told him I couldn't bend down that far, he retrieved the 2 Cokes for me and also carried them up to the cash register. I carried the two bottles of water. This clerk had been solicitious from the time I hobbled into the store on my aluminum cane.

As I approached the counter to pay, after I picked up a king-size Kit-Kat bar, there was a young, Nordic looking lad, as there are nearly everywhere here in Minnesota, standing at the counter getting ready to pay for his gasoline. He moved back to let me go first, but I said I was in no hurry. So he paid his bill and walked out the door. Then I paid my bill, and the clerk put the four 1-liter bottles in a paper bag. As I started to try to pick them up, the young Nordic man walked back in the door and asked me if he could carry the sack for me. Wow! I accepted as graciously as I could, thanked him, opened the trunk for him to deposit the sack, thanked him again, and got into my car. He walked to his green Chevy truck and got in. And we drove away, both of us, without a doubt, better for the experience

What a nice evening!

The Way We Were

2007-05-15T19:51:00.000-05:00

I'm not a nostalgia buff. Really! But the world was, in many ways, a better place when I was growing up than it is now. At the very least, the war I was born into had a real purpose: to save civilization

But there were other aspects of life, too, that were better. Even as a kid of 10 or 11, I could get on a city bus alone, or with a friend, ride to downtown Birmingham, Alabama, go to a movie at the majestic Alabama Theater, eat at The Krystal or Krispy Kreme, or both, visit the magic shop, just spend the day in fun, and arrive home safely.

I'm sure there were people dangerous to children then, as always, but I just don't remember hearing much about it growing up. Was it not reported to the authorities? Were there not newspaper articles about it? Of course, my family had no conversations about such things. We didn't talk about much of anything important, though my grandfather gave me wonderful life lessons that I still remember, but probably applied too little in my life.

Schools, too, weren't the cesspools so many of them have become. You went to school, you obeyed the teacher, and you did your lessons. If you didn't to these things, you found yourself in the Principal's office, and maybe later facing an even sterner parent or grandparent. Being a drop-out was a sign of cataclysmic failure in the eyes of most kids back then. I'm glad it was. I didn't think about quitting school until I was a senior in high school. But school certainly wasn't a place to be a smart-ass or a trouble-maker, not unless you wanted to find yourself in juvenile hall. School was quiet enough to learn, and I'm thankful for that. And I'm grateful for the teachers who gave me a good foundation and didn't put up with any crap from me.

People were definitely more polite back then. There wasn't the rampant anger I've seen grow over the last several decades. There was civility, an accepted standard of civility which has been lost. People today are often rude, sometimes angry, and occasionally downright dangerous simply because they've not been taught any manners, any restraint, any ability to postpone gratification, and any concerns for the rights and welfare of others. They want what they want, and they want it RIGHT NOW.

We might, too, have had one student in school whom we labelled a "bully," but we didn't have gangs of worthless punks who terrorized us. And usually even the "bully" eventually got his ass kicked by somebody. There was, on top of this, a decidedly lower pregnancy rate among teens in the post-War forties and the fifties. I don't think that was such a bad thing, though my guess is that I came into this world unplanned in that way. I'll allow this one exception.

No, I'm not some old fogey who looks back on the "good old days." Hell, these are the "good old days." These are the days we're living now, looking forward to a few more. And today I'm at least not unhappy about being here.

Mothers' Day

2007-05-13T12:04:00.000-05:00

My mother died on June 1, 1987, in Florida. She was in a hospital at the time, and when I talked to her the phone from Los Angeles not long before her death, she told me that she didn't want to go home. That is still the saddest statement I've ever heard a human being utter. And she didn't go home. She just died.

My memories of my mother are mixed, to say the least. I don't think I ever saw her truly happy. Oh sure, she laughed and appeared to outsiders to be living a normal life. But she was never truly happy. I was born in 1940; my mother was 19 years old at the time. By the time she was 26, she was divorced. The two of us lived with her parents, and early in our stay, my grandmother made a concerted effort to take legal custody of me. In fact, my mother was on the way to sign the papers when she changed her mind at the last minute

My mother and grandmother never got along. What I remember from my childhood are terrible screaming matches and my grandmother making every attempt to supplant my mother in my eyes. There are periods in my memory when my mother isn't even there, though I'm not sure why. My grandmother doesn't disappear when I think back. I still wonder what happened.

My mother worked at several low paying jobs until she was hired as a timekeeper at Tennesee Coal and Iron Company, later U. S. Steel, the largest employer in our city. It was a job that would allow her to be indepedent; however, she remarried in the spring of 1954, to a man to whom she was married when she died. Oh, she didn't stay married to him for 33 years because it was a match made in heaven. She had another son in 1956, then a daughter in 1958. Staying busy raising them probably allowed her to remain relatively sane for more years than she would have. And she was a good mother to them.

Although my mother and step-father were married for over three decades, I remember driving her away, pulling a U-haul on at least two occasions after she had ugly fights with my step-father. Of course, we headed back to my grandparents' house. I don't know which was worse. My grandmother was totally self-centered and manipulative, and my step-father was one of the most horrible men I've ever met, more self-cented and manipulative than my grandmother. He also had a girfriend outside his marriage during their entire married life. And he married my mother only after his son had picked her from several girlfriends to be a step-mother. He was a rat, to say the least.

When my mother had options to make decisions that would've benefited me, she simply didn't do it. When I was in grade school, I was doing so well academically that they wanted to double-promote me on at least two occasions. My mother wouldn't allow it. And when I got the opportunity to attend a private school in another state through the largesse of my grandfather, my mother wouldn't allow that either because she said it wouldn't be fair to my step-brother. And my mother never comforted me because she didn't know how.

My children have often told me how wonderful a grandmother she was to them, and I'm so happy that's true. We lived near her for twelve years before her death, and my children loved going to her house and talking endlessly and eating her wonderful cooking. I'm very happy that they had a grandmother such as she. I often wish I'd had a mother like that. I know that some of it is my fault. When I became an adult, I should've acted like an adult and embraced her for what she was. But I didn't. And we never truly connected. I'm so sorry for that.

She died by choice, not suicide, on June 1, 1987, nearly 20 years ago, as she couldn't spend one more minute in that horrible atmosphere with that horrible man. How I wish I had one more opportunity to wish her a Happy Mothers' Day.

Fortunate Son

2007-05-05T08:35:00.000-05:00

For those of you not old enough to remember, the title of this piece is taken from a song sang loudly and angrily during the Vietnam War. It refers to young men whose fathers were lawmakers themselves, which spared the sons the opportunity to get killed in the muck of Vietnam. The rest of us had no such protection, though some, like the coward Dick Cheney, managed to get, I think, 5 student deferrals. He said he had other priorities. I'm sure the 50,000 plus listed on the Vietnam Wall had other priorities, too. Not one of the architects (which falsely implies an actual structure) of this senseless war in Iraq served his or her country.

Republicans are good about that, about asking someone else to do the fighting and dying. George W. Bush hid behind an Air National Guard commission, which his influential father had arranged. Cheney, of course, simply hid, as he continues to do. Karl Rove avoided military service, as did Paul Wolfowitz. This is nothing new, I know. But when are the American people going to stop allowing their sons and daughters to be sent to slaughter without demanding the same sacrifices of our leaders and their children? It isn't patriotism to swallow the propaganda of selfish, short-sighted, power-hungry, moral dwarfs. In fact, it's patriotism to question constantly, to challenge the official pronouncements of such men, if they can be called such, as Bush, Cheney, Rove and Wolfowitz.

And it would be nice if our fellow citizens who work in the Fourth Estate gave us a little help for a change instead of parroting the latest White House press release. The media helped get us into the quicksand; they should help get us out.

Working in America

2007-04-29T13:27:00.000-05:00

If you've ever had to take a job you didn't particularly want just to survive, this might interest you. Back in May 1984, I walked across the stage at Stetson University Commencement and took an M. A. degree in English. I was sufficiently impressed, but after the ceremony I still had no job! I counseled with an older and definitely wiser friend, the result of which I became willing to take what I could get in order to contribute my fair share. There was no room for choosy at this point.

I don't why I applied at Yellow Cab of Orlando, Florida, but I did, and they hired me. I worked for a division of the company, Winter Park Cab, which I thought would provide a slightly higher level clientele, as Winter Park is a very upscale neighbor of Orlando (snobbish even when out of work). Thus began one of the most interesting work segments of my life. Twelve hour shifts were the norm, as one simply couldn't earn enough money to make it worthwhile if he worked fewer hours, and I arose at 3 or 4 A.M. each day so I could have a choice of cabs before everybody else on the day shift got to work.

Each driver was considered an "independent contractor," which meant a couple of important things to the worker. First of all, he rented his cab for a fixed amount of money per day, paid for the gasoline, and kept what was left. On a good day back then, it could exceed $100.00, the emphasis on "could." An "independent contractor" also received no benefits whatsoever. So the family that owned the largest taxi company in Orange County, Florida, made piles and piles of money while the drivers toiled for what was often pennies. Nothing new here.

Now here I was working out of a very well-to-do little town, expecting to receive tips that reflected the affluence all around me. I would carry suitcases up stairs, help old folks in their walkers and wheelchairs, anything I could do to not only be of assistance, but generate a decent tip. One trip I still remember which was filled with difficulty resulted in a tip of ten cents, a dime! What I learned in this job was that the people who seemed to be doing well were no better tippers than the people who weren't.

One enjoyable part of my job, however, was talking to people, drawing them out, then letting them tell me about their lives. The older people, in particular, loved having someone to whom to tell their stories. It was living history for me and a chance for them to be recognized. One couple I remember clearly had lived all their working lives in Manhattan during the '30s, '40s, and '50s. They were theatre goers and had seen all the great actors of their day. They talked of their former lives with warmth and not a little bit of nostalgia.

So, because of my work as a hack, I always tip well when I get good service. Even if the service isn't sterling, I still tip. Only when it's truly horrible will I forgo leaving a respectable amount. Once, at DuPar's Restaurant in Studio City, California, I left one cent, a penny. I'm not proud of it, but that meal was the worst instance of lousy service I had ever encountered up until that time. But I know what it is to work for tips. So I rarely forget those who do. And you shouldn't either!

Advice From A Usually Inept Consumer

2007-04-26T15:45:00.000-05:00

Although I ordinarily wouldn't shill for a product of any kind (unless, of course, I was paid huge sums of money), I must share this with the average guy and gal who doesn't have a lot of discretionary income. An extended warranty on an automobile is a great idea!

Many products offer extended warranties, but most of them are simply cash cows for the seller. The products on which they're offered simply last, obviating the need for extended coverage. Take my vacuum cleaner as an example. We've been using it for years and years without problems, yet I was "talked into" an extended warranty by the salesman. It was money wasted, and most products fall into this category.

An automobile, however, is a different animal altogether. Years ago, in 1991, I bought a 1990 Toyota with about 16,000 miles on it. I also purchased an extended warranty. I drove that car over 120,000 miles, and my extended warranty saved me over $1000.00 when the entire radiator system had to be replaced. I know the warranty didn't cost that much.

And today I drove home from a Chrysler dealer's service department in my 2003 Chrysler PT Cruise Turbo, bought new in October 2003 and covered by an extended warranty. The repairs to the rack and pinion steering would've cost me over $900.00, but my warranty reduced that to a $50.00 deductible. Opting for extended auto warranties is one of the few consumer options in my life for which I made the right decision.

I hope this small piece of wisdom will help one of you out there as you try to navigate our sometimes overwhelming consumer culture.

All The Help I Needed

2007-04-25T23:34:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I accidentally deleted two posts on my blog. Being the
technological retard that I am, it wasn't surprising, just irritating. However, I
went to the Help section of this system, posted my question, and received a solution
in a very short time. Thank you, whoever you are, as I also lost your address later.

The Golden Years

2007-04-25T23:10:00.000-05:00

As people age, the most striking and disturbing aspect of the process is, for some, the usually slow, but sometimes sudden, loss of independence. And a person simply cannot understand what that means until he or she experiences it.

In 1962, I started college as a married father of two, soon to be three. I had completed my military obligation and was working for the U. S. Postal Service. I attended college at night. My grandfather, born in Southwest Georgia just before the turn of the 20th Century, was slowly fading, approaching that long night we all face. His health would never improve, and he would die in his own bed during one of my infrequent visits with him.

During his decline, I contributed little to his comfort, ran no errands for him, took him nowhere. I did take some of my precious time to visit him during his last hospitalization at the Veteran's Administration Hospital. It was convenient, as the hospital was within walking distance of the University of Alabama Extension Center, which I attended. Later I went to the house which he built and I grew up in, and I shaved him, as he simply couldn't do it for himself. With no tone of anger or reproach, he asked me if I could visit him more often. I said yes, of course. But I didn't visit him more often. I spent more time with Chaucer and John Keats than I did with the man who had given me so much and had tried to teach me how to be a decent human being.

I look back on all that now with some added clarity, for my own world has grown smaller as my health has begun to decline. I'm in no way as sick as my grandfather was, but my degenerative spinal condition and my lung disease have definitely made me more dependent on others than I ever thought I'd be. It would be very difficult for me to live alone today, and my wife does things for me that I used to not even think about as I went about my daily life. At the time of my grandfather's death, I was healthy, robust even. I often worked 50+ hour weeks in a physically demanding job and attended college, too.

There is nothing I can do to change the way I acted in the past. I can only hope that my grandfather somehow knows how much I regret my selfish behavior. I still say to him how sorry I am.

As W. B. Yeats wrote, " 'All that's beautiful drifts away/Like the waters.' " Yes, it does.

I Still Miss Los Angeles

2007-04-25T22:50:00.000-05:00

I know L. A. is crowded. I know that the traffic is horrible. I know that people aren't friendly, sometimes even rude. I know the city is fueled by narcissism. But I still miss Los Angeles.

My wife, Jane, and I were living a regular, mostly pleasant, life in Winter Park, Florida, in 1986. We had friends. I had a tenure-track teaching job at Valencia Community College, and my wife was employed in alcohol-drug rehabilitation. We could've easily gone on like that until retirement. But in our mid-forties, we wanted a new adventure. The place we chose to have it, after some serious consideration, was Los Angeles, California.

I had been to L. A. many times over the years, and I had enjoyed each and every visit. Without being able to explain exactly why, I always felt better there. I always enjoyed the atmosphere in every sense of the word. And I had wanted to live there for a very long time. In 1981, before we married ourselves, we were invited to an old friend's wedding, a man I had known since 1964, when we were poor college students in Alabama. He had come to L. A. to become an actor, which he did. Having just received a small inheritance, Jane agreed that we should go. So we did.

My old friend and his lovely bride were married on the beach as the Pacific Ocean gently slapped the sand. It was a lovely ceremony, and the restaurant facing the beach housed the reception. Sorry to say that this nice beachfront eatery was destroyed by one of those awful Pacific storms which occasionally threatens everything on or near the water. Anyway, on that wedding day, a good time was had by all. Jane loved Southern California, and we subsequently talked often about returning. We finally made the decision in 1986.

We drove into SoCal on January 6, 1987, under a double rainbow that arced over Indio, California. It seemed like a good omen, if you believe in stuff like that, and what followed was almost 20 years of the best and worst times of our lives. In Los Angeles, my wife's professional life simply soared. She serendipitously entered a very special field which not only paid well but was very interesting, too. I was able to experience the best years of my work life teaching at several community colleges and universities in the area. I also worked a couple of years at Paramount Pictures, where I saw things I never dreamed I'd see. The worst times need no description, as they were far outweighed by the best.

However, one very, very important reason for our going to Los Angeles had to do with our ongoing abstinence from alcohol. My wife and I have been members of a well known "self-help" group since the 1970s. Becoming a part of that group saved our lives, as it has hundreds of thousands of others since its founding in 1935. So, when we attended my friend's wedding in 1981, we, of course, attended some meetings of this group in the city, and what we found figured prominently in our decision to move there. It was the best we had seen in our many years of affiliation.

Even though the principles and guidelines for living that this group espouses are the same all over the country and in the many nations in which it is also active, some areas are simply stronger, in a word, better. We're still members of this wonderful organization as we live in Minnesota, but we both miss the way it's done in L. A. We always will.

An Apple A Day-Part I (Originally Published 3/23/07)

2007-04-25T22:05:00.000-05:00

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I enjoyed nothing more than teaching, which I worked at for only about 20 years of my working life. I came to it late in life, at the age of 43, but I came to it with a passion. There were several reasons why I finally chose the path that I had been thinking about for years and years.

The first reason is probably the fact that I, myself, loved going to college and graduate school. I was lucky, too, in that I had almost 100% excellent professors and instructors, no matter the subject. I was an excellent student when I wanted to be, which was most of the time, and I had always been intellectually curious. Another reason is that as I worked in other fields, I missed the give and take which had always been a part of my classroom activity as a student. Finally, I wanted to continue learning in an active way. And I did learn from my students, at least as much as they learned from me.

After a tour in the U. S. Marine Corps, I returned to Birmingham, Alabama, and went to work for the U. S. Postal Service. I was 21 years old, and it was the best job I'd ever had. But early on I knew that a career in the post office wasn't for me. So I took the requisite tests to enter the University of Alabama Extension Center on the southside of the city. This was several years before it all became The University of Alabama at Birmingham (U. A. B.), which was to become my alma mater. I entered the Extension in September 1962. I graduated in the second graduating class at U. A. B. in 1971 with a B. A. in English.

When I entered that first English class in the Fall Quarter 1962, I met a woman who would change my life, Elizabeth Brock, PhD. Dr. Brock was a formidable intellect, a great teacher, and the first truly liberated woman I had ever seen. Any student could see that she believed without qualification in what she was doing, so it was easy for me to believe in it. She encouraged me in my writing, pushed me to keep polishing it. Things she said to the class I still remember clearly, and I decided that if majoring in English could develop such a person as she, then it was for me. Someone once asked me what I was going to do with a major in English. My reply was simple, "Enjoy it." I was able to contact Dr. Brock a few years ago at her retirement home and tell her what she had meant to me. We both enjoyed the conversation very much.

In the summer of 1964, I transferred to a well-respected, private, liberal-arts college, Birmingham-Southern C0llege. Once I adjusted to the pace of the place, I even made the Dean's List while working full-time and trying to support a family. However, I also partied too much, lost my job, and left school. In the Fall of 1969, I returned to U. A. B. with a resolve to finish, which I did. In June 1971, with my wife, 3 children, and grandmother present, I walked across the stage and took my degree. I was worth every late night study session and every sleepy day.

After getting a job in the federal service, I began graduate school at U. A. B. on a part-time basis in the Fall of 1972. Again, I loved the study, and I loved the academic atmosphere. I studied on a graduate level until I transferred in my work to Florida in December 1975. Of course, my graduate study was interrupted -- until September 1976, when I began a course of study at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, another well-respected, private, liberal-arts university. I finished my course work in 1979, but due to family problems, didn't submit my thesis until November 1983. It was quite well received, and I was quite relieved. My grandmother attended that graduation, too. And the M. A. led to my first teaching job in September 1984 at Valencia Community College, Orlando, Florida. I walked into that first class scared out of my mind, but a few sentences later, I was right at home, happily at home, feeling that I should've been there all my working life.

Help!

2007-04-25T20:13:00.000-05:00

My total technological ineptitude resulted in the deletion of two posts to this blog: "I Still Miss Los Angeles" and "The Golden Years." Although I know that my blog is read by few people, if anybody made a copy of either or both, please leave me a note in Comments. These two posts were pretty good, I thought, and I don't know what else to do but ask for help.

Pain

2007-04-14T07:37:00.000-05:00

I can't remember when I lived without pain, daily pain. It was just a few years ago, I'm sure, but it's difficult to be clear when your every day is begun and ended in pain. I have a degenerative spinal condition, probably genetically passed on, and arthritis, but the pain used to come and go. When it decided to stay, I opted for surgery. Although the specific kind of pain I had before surgery was relieved, another kind has taken its place and restricts my life immeasurably.

There was a time when I didn't understand why anybody would want to take his own life. I no longer feel that way. Although I don't want to check out right now, I'm beginning to understand why people would. As one's world gets smaller and smaller, it's not much of a life. Add almost seven decades of living to it, and looking ahead seems almost ridiculous. So, if you're young and healthy, stop a moment and savor it. You will surely age, and you may break down.

Have a good weekend. If only I could get rid of this damned pain!

Minnesota

2007-04-09T15:56:00.000-05:00

Even though I live in Minnesota now, I've blogged about nothing but Southern California. After 20 years in Los Angeles, it's hard to shake the dust off and clear the lungs from foul air. So, let me tell you about the most noticeable thing in this area -- it's called "Minnesota nice." It's an actual, living phenomenon, such that newspaper columnists here use it on a regular basis to describe local behavior. It's not that there aren't gangsters and other assorted bad apples, but the majority of people here are so nice that I would almost love to hear someone honk his horn and hurl epithets at me as I cut him off on the freeway!

Actually, after my two decades in L. A., I was taken aback by the politeness here. I hadn't experienced it in years, since I left the Deep South. I was raised to be polite, to say, "Yes, ma'm," "please," and "thank you." But after all that time in La La Land, I almost forgot what manners are really all about. The people here are truly well-mannered and polite. But they're also rather reticent emotionally and one has to reach to find a real sense of humour. Yes, they're much too earnest. But if I had to choose this attitude over the one prevalent in SoCal, I'd take this one every time. If I could only bring the L. A. weather here! It snowed April 3, 2007, my 25th wedding anniversary. And we're expecting 2-4" of snow tonight on April 10.

If you're looking for a nice place to live, full of very nice people, Minnesota is the place to come. But bring some sunshine with you.

An Apple a Day-Part II

2007-03-27T03:59:00.000-06:00

My first class as an English Instructor, at Valencia Community College, Orlando, Florida, was Introduction to Literature:

1/3 poetry; 1/3 prose; 1/3 drama. And I did the very best I could to keep an even distribution. One of my surprises during the semester was how well the class responded to Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller's classic comment on modern life. Since Valencia is a community college, many older students come back to school, and there's always a good mix of ages and opinions, one of the reasons I like the community college setting. The night I went home after the final exam, I wept because it was over, as I wasn't prepared for the kind of bonds that can quickly form in a classroom, but my grief was shortlived as the assignments for the next semester were quickly given out.

I was hired over the telephone, sight unseen, given my textbook the night of the first class, and wished good luck. It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings, but I got through by doing what I always did -- being myself. A class can spot a phony a mile off, so just be yourself.

I stayed at Valencia Community College as a adjunct instructor, then was hired on a tenure track, full-time position in 1986. By this time I had also spent a year teaching the the University of Central Florida. We part-timers couldn't have enough jobs. A laugh-out-loud thing happened in one of my Valencia composition classes after I told the class to write about anything they wanted. One young woman asked, "Anything?" I said, "Anything." I should've known better. Her paper turned out to be a detailed description of a birthday present she had given her boyfriend -- a threesome. If you don't know what that is, it's okay. Suffice it to say that I never let my classes write about "anything" again.

I left Florida for California in December 1986, and I didn't get another teaching job until 1990, when I was invited to work as an adjunct at Los Angeles City College. This was truly the Los Angeles teaching experience, as I had students from all over the world, all struggling to get a foothold in the land of opportunity. My first class was a remedial English class that from a teacher's point of view was almost perfect. They were hungry to learn, to "do it right," and they worked hard, listened intently, and joined in every discussion. When this wonderful class was over, they gave me a teddy bear and a Lakers' shirt. Of course I still have them.

I would've stayed at City College forever but for the exigencies of working as a part-timer during budget cuts in education.

It was also at City College that I received my all-time favorite student essay. It was entitled "The Village We Left Behind," and it was as sweet a posting as I had ever received before or since. A young Vietnamese woman had had to leave her homeland as the Americans left, and she wrote about it in an honest, evocative way that still brings tears to my eyes. It's good that she wrote it before some idiot writing instructor had ruined her naturally beautiful style forever! I liked the Vietnamese women in my classes, one of whom had been born in an underground shelter in Hanoi as U. S. bombers blasted the earth above them.

One of the things that Chair of the English Department told me when I was first hired was that most of my students will have never been told they can succeed, will have never been encouraged. Part of my job was to convince them that they could. I worked hard at teaching them both English and an attitude, the attitude that they could go out in this big world and have a life. It was difficult at times, especially when their own parents had discouraged them from pursuing higher education. I'm sure that some of them heard me, and I miss them still. It's too bad that intellectual achievement isn't revered in all cultures.

Good news on the education front today is that my son's M. S. Thesis in Psychology has just been appoved by the Provost of his university. He's 44 years old and has earned this degree while working full-time and being a father and husband. I received my M. A. in English at the age of 43, having worked full-time and having tried to be a husband and father. I'm really proud of my son because I know how hard it is. Way to go!

Who's Your Daddy?

2007-03-21T18:14:00.000-06:00

If President Bush really wants to commit to Iraqui freedom, he should send those two useless daughters of his to Iraq, if he can sober them up, that is.

Your Table Is Ready

2007-03-21T16:10:00.000-06:00

One of the things I miss most about Los Angeles is the food, any kind of food you could possibly want. Since there are over 90 languages spoken in L. A., one can rest assured that the choices in cuisine are many. But it wasn't haute cuisine that gave me the most joy in this multi-cultural city

First of all, I'll address the obvious. There aren't many American cities that can offer the quality of Mexican food that Los Angeles can, and one of my favorite meals was in East L. A. at a mom and pop restaurant the name of which I can't remember. They spoke no English, but fortunately I was brought there by a good friend whose surname was Ruiz. It was a fine meal in an authentic atmosphere.

Another spot for Mexican food is a chain called Baja Fresh, one location of which was only minutes from my home, on Sunset Blvd. near Crescent Heights. The food was prepared as one waited, and it was not only fresh, it was delicious. I enjoyed taking the food home, as there were just simply too many Hollywood "wannabees" any time I went in.

Let me not forget the best individually owned Mexican restaurant that I patronized, El Coyote on Beverly Blvd. The crowds speak for themselves, as the quality is excellent, and the portions are large. If you go during the dinner hours, you'll probably have to wait for a seat. A friend of mine once celebrated a 20th anniversary here, and he paid for everybody's meal! Great food, great friend.

An institution in Los Angeles is Pink's Hot Dogs. There's always a line around Pink's, which has been serving the public for over 64 years. My favorite was a chili dog with cheese. You can see Pink's in a new Volvo commercial and in a commercial featuring the guys from "Entourage."

Of course there was quite a variety of seafood in this port city. One famous place, Gladstone's, was located on the beach at the very end of Sunset Blvd on Pacific Coast Highway. It's worth the trip, especially if one can be seated at one of the windows overlooking the beach and the Pacific Ocean. The food is well above average and priced within the reach of working folks. The portions are large, so prepare to take something home with you.

Just north on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu is a smaller, less fancy place called The Reel Inn. I prefer it over Gladstone's, as the food is better and no more costly. You order, wait, then take your basket to a seat inside, or outside on the patio. I could eat here at least once a week. It looks like a shack from outside, but don't be fooled.

Deli food is also easily available in this food heaven, The City of Angels. Canter's Delicatessen, in the Fairfax District, is open 24/7 and has been satisfying local palates since the 1930s. I simply adore their Reuben sandwich. It's so large that it's hard to get my mouth around it. Add some cole slaw or potato salad as a side, and slide into a kind of fugue even better than drugs! This is one of the reasons I'm "slightly" overweight.

I'm adding another deli, Jerry's Famous Delicatessen on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. I must, as it served the best Cobb Salad I've ever had and also provided desserts that were truly magnificent. I'm sure you can get a good pastrami sandwich, too.

Being a southerner, I love good meatloaf. And the best place I found for this was Kate Mantalini's, an upscale eatery on Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills. Add the garlic mashed potatos, and feel true southern comfort. After the world premier of "Driving Miss Daisy," which I attended, at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, I tasted Kate's food for the first time. A close friend who worked for the producer of the film, Richard Zanuck, invited me to one of the most enjoyable evenings I had in my time in California. When one of my old college professors from 1970 came from Alabama to visit his daughter, a local attorney, I picked Kate Matalini's to break bread with him.

To complete my tour, I take you over Laurel Canyon Blvd. from Hollywood into Studio City. At the corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon Boulevards is the home of the best pancakes in the world, yes, in the world, DuPar's Restaurant. Add a side of "crisp" bacon, and you know that God is a chef. I had my first DuPar's pancakes in 1980 during a visit to one of my oldest friends who had left Alabama, my early home, to become a professional actor, which he did. When I could think of no place I really wanted to eat, DuPar's was always the answer. When I first enjoyed these wonderful pancakes, I could eat a full stack, 5 pancakes. When I left L. A. in 2006, I was able to finish only a short stack, 3 pancakes. But it wasn't for lack of trying.

How I miss the good eating in Los Angeles! An addendum to the variety of food in L. A. is the fact that one could order almost anything delivered to his home. What wonderful culinary memories I have.

First Date

2007-03-20T23:21:00.000-06:00

On December 1, 1980, I picked her up right after she finished a 3-11 nursing shift. We went out to eat at T. G. I. Friday's. We laughed. We've been together ever since.

Our 25th wedding anniversary is now fast approaching, April 3, 2007. It has been a not always blissful 25 years, normal I'm sure. However, there's been one constant in our time together -- our love for each other. Even though each of us split for a short period, the love was there, even without the understanding.

The understanding has come rarely quickly, most of the time slowly. One of the things I learned during our early years was that being right is highly overrated. Most things people argue about aren't worth the time or energy it takes, anyway. But I know people who would rather be right than be happy. I'll take happy anytime.

I've also learned that if one does the loving thing, no matter what the other person does, he can't lose. That came to me in the shower one day, and though I admit I'm not perfect at it, I try to do the loving thing when the opportunity arises. One can always walk away from the situation knowing he did the best he could.

Another important lesson for me has been the realization that if another person wants to argue, I can choose not to participate. What a shock that is for the one who wants to argue. It can't happen if his target doesn't join in. It makes me chuckle to think about it.

I've learned, too, that my wife's day-to-day behavior is pretty much none of my business. I'm not her daddy; I'm her husband and partner. Of course I have a responsibility to prevent harm to her, but she was an adult when I met her. And she doesn't need life lessons from me, especially from me. If she needs those lessons, there are professionals who'll be glad to take her money.

Finally, it hit me some years ago that 99.9% of what happens in the world doesn't require my attention. And I'm not sure about the other .1%. Nobody really cares about my opinion anyway. My opinion is usually least valuable to my wife! So unless I'm asked, I just don't give it. Keep your mouth shut. Try it. It's not that hard.

And by the way, we've laughed a lot together since December 1, 1980.

Truth

2007-03-14T16:10:00.000-06:00

It seems that Republican has become a synonym for liar. These people simply can't tell the truth about anything. And they try to smear, even destroy, anybody who does tell the truth. If there were a burning hell, each of these despicable right-wing nuts should roast in it slowly, on a spit, like a turkey, whether feathered or suited.

Sea World Right At Home

2007-03-12T05:45:00.000-06:00

I'm a cat lover now, have been since I last married in 1982. It wasn't so much a conscious choice as just going along with the program. It has turned out to be such a wonderful program.

Have you ever heard of a cat named Shamu? Well, we had her for 14 years until the day she died with her head in my hand on December 14, 2004. It was as bad for my wife, Jane, and me as either of us could have expected. I howled in grief as Jane's tears fell somewhat quieter.

Shamu had been named by her original human, Dotsie, a nurse with whom Jane worked at a clinic which specialized in H. I. V. and A. I. D. S. patients. That two years for my wife is another story to be told at another time. Our Shamu was born about the time that a real baby Orca was born in San Diego. Dotsie said that the kitten looked like a tiny gray and white Orca that could be held in your hand. When Shamu was about a year old, she was given to us, as her first human decided that she could no longer take care of an animal.

We had one cat at the time, Flower, who was rescued off Ventura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks, CA. Flower was content enough to be in a home, but she was never the holding kind of cat. In fact, she'd howl if you picked her up, so we just let her go her own way, as if we had a choice.

But Shamu was the most loving cat I'd ever seen before or since. She loved any kind of contact: laptime; being slung over my shoulder and worn like a folded coat; being rubbed behind her ears; being scratched on top of her head, all while I listened to the steady rhythm of her deep, contented purr. And both of us gave her all the attention that she seemed to want. Flower desired little contact, so she missed out on a whole lotta love.

One of Shamu's delights was shrimp. As if I were talking to a baby, I'd raise my voice and say, "Does the baby want some shrimpies?" Almost immediately she reacted to the first few words of my baby tone. Her response was loud and clear, and very excited. We bought those tiny shrimp just for her, but we'd cut up larger ones if she needed a treat. And she ate her shrimp as if she'd just come off a long diet.

Her eyes were so special. She looked at both of us as if she knew us well, which she obviously did, but she looked at us with genuine affection. She was as much a member of our little family as anyone could have been. And for over 14 years it was Jane and I, Flower and Shamu. We lost Flower first, almost two years before Shamu died, and so for a time there were just the three of us.

As we all do, Shamu finally began to go downhill. Our wonderful vet in Beverly Hills told us it was normal for a cat's kidneys to finally just wear out, and that's one of the ailments Shamu had to fight. She lost weight, had a difficult time eating, and often simply missed the cat box. On the final afternoon of Shamu's life, Jane wrapped her as gently as possible in a thick towel, held her close and I drove us to the vet's office. There was no postponing, no miracle cure, just that last, awful act that would relieve her suffering. But of course we asked if anything else might make her better.

It was very quiet as the vet filled the syringe. Shamu put her paw over onto my hand as she waited, and she looked me right in the eyes. I could see her pain, her fear, and her desire for relief. Then it was all over.

We had her cremated and her remains will stay with us until the end of our time. I miss her still. In fact, last night the picture of her last look came into my consciousness, and I wept once again. Was it all worth it? Absolutely.

Colored

2007-02-24T16:56:00.000-06:00

I don't remember how old I was when I first noticed the signs. But they were everywhere: if not "Colored," then "White Only." I spent most of my youth and young adulthood in Birmingham, Alabama, once described as the most segregated city in the country. Hyperbole perhaps, but if so, only slightly.
Years later in Southern California, it was hard for my students to believe what everyday life was like where I grew up. They were incredulous when I explained that a co-worker and I couldn't sit down in a restaurant and have a cup of coffee and conversation because he was black and I was white. The least that would've happened was that we would've been asked to leave. I don't need to describe the worst.

My co-worker at the United States Postal Service, Charles, told me that his father had had to sit down and have "the talk" with him, "the talk" that would help him avoid the wrath of the redneck. There were things black folk couldn't do, places they couldn't go. I myself remember that only on the last day of the Alabama State Fair, Saturday, were black families allowed to enjoy what whites been enjoying all week. As hard as it is to be a decent father under any circumstances, imagine what it would be like to have to tell your children that they aren't as good as children of a lighter skin color.

I remember going to the movies many times as a youngster, admission one thin dime. The black patrons sat only in the balcony if they got in at all, and I never saw a black person at the refreshment counter or in the bathroom. It was "normal," just as it was "normal" to see all the black people crowded into the rear of a city bus even if the front seats were unoccupied.

Thank God Charles and I lived long enough to see all this change. We lived long enough to share a meal in the restaurant of our choosing in Birmingham, Alabama. We lived long enough to attend together a Stokely Carmichael speech on the campus of an all-black college in Birmingham, Alabama. We lived long enough to see all those ugly, dispiriting signs come down. But Charles is gone now, and I haven't lived long enough to see the hatred disappear that put those signs up in the first place.

George W. Bush Should Go to Hell

2007-02-24T12:05:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid there was something called a Cold War going on. As a result, we used to have regular air-raid drills at our schools. This meant going to the floor, squatting, wrapping arms around legs, and putting heads down on knees to protect our pretty little faces. Never mind that if an atomic bomb had actually exploded, we might as well have been kissing our asses goodbye.

The politics of fear is nothing new. It's been around since somebody decided he should be in charge of somebody else. During the Cold War, our leadership was able to convince us that the Soviets had so many nuclear weapons that we just had to keep pace, bomb by bomb, until we could've destroyed a hundred worlds over. And it was all one lie after another, just as the justifications for our current war are all just lies.

The Vietnam War was also based on a lie, the lie that one of our naval vessels had been attacked by the Communists in the Gulf of Tonkin. And off we went for over a decade of killing and the loss of over 55,000 Americans. The lies fed to the public during the Vietnam War were even more egregious than the lie that got us into it; it's a list too long for this brief commentary.

Finally, the lie that got us into Iraq was simply another example of political fear-mongering: Iraq had weapons of mass destruction; better to attack Iraq now than to awaken to a mushroom cloud, a lie quite similar to the one used all those years ago to fuel the Cold War. And it's probably the lie that will be used in the future as an excuse to murder people of color around the world and to keep our local body bag industry afloat. But are the body bags even made in America anymore?

Semper Fi

2007-02-19T20:46:00.000-06:00

More years ago than I'd like to admit, this is who I was. It's a silly pose I struck, but what I had just learned during 13 strenuous weeks of boot camp wasn't silly at all. Although I joined during peacetime, our training was a preparation for war.
I joined the United States Marine Corps when I was a senior in high school. I arrived at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, just after midnight on August 1, 1958, on a Greyhound bus filled with young men who were nervous or in complete denial.
When I joined the military, the Commander-in-Chief was neither a coward nor a moron. My Commander-in-Chief had led the largest military invasion in world history on June 6, 1944, D-Day. And as President of the United States, he didn't plunge us into war; he removed us from one. He truly knew the ramifications of sending young men into combat.
I ache for my young Marine brothers today because their civilian leadership, if it can be called leadership, is probably the worst in the history of our great nation. And our current civilian leadership has the audacity to denigrate the accomplishments of those men and women who have had the courage to serve when the bullets were flying, in Vietnam, in the Persian Gulf, in Afghanistan, in Iraq. Our current civilian leadership is without courage, without shame, without conscience, without souls.

California Dreamin'

2007-02-19T11:54:00.000-06:00

My first trip to California was in 1949. I was a kid from Alabama who had never been anywhere but Panama City, Florida, the Redneck Riviera. I spent most of that summer in Fontana, California, about 50 miles east of Los Angeles, and I never recovered. Southern California entered my bloodstream like an invisible parasite, settled in, and waited.

Later, I was to spend almost 20 years in Los Angeles, entering the Golden State through a double rainbow arching over Indio, California, then never living more than a mile or so from Sunset Boulevard. Though born and mostly raised in Alabama, I spent more years of my life within walking distance of the Sunset Strip that at any other place on this green earth.

Even in 1949, California was excess compared to Alabama. During this visit, I saw for the first time all day movies and cartoons on Saturdays. The children around me seemed happier than those I knew back home; at least they seemed to be having more fun. Excess! What a concept! I embraced it without knowing exactly what it was, and I've never looked back.

I yearned for California for years and years thereafter until I finally arrived for what I thought would be forever. However, I realize now that it wasn't so much excess that attracted me. In fact, I probably mislabeled what I felt in the moisture starved air of the Los Angeles Basin. It wasn't so much excess as it was total freedom, the freedom to be left alone, the freedom to be whomever I wanted to be with little or no interference.

And that's what I miss today as I look out over the Minnesota snowpack, the sun glaring off the frozen white canopy that covers the cold ground around me. I miss the freedom.