Christmas is a week past and New Years is two days in the future.
This year Christmas was a mix of emotions. As with every phase of life it is an evolving process. The good and fulfilling are those present to share the experience. Then there are those missing. Some temporarily due to location, circumstance, or some other understandable reasons. Some who passed. Some whose withdrawal from the circle of family or friends is just too bad.
For me, this year was very pleasing even if my ideal Christmas is totally unrealistic or unattainable.
In my ideal world I would be surrounded by every family member and friend I've ever met from every phase of my life...whether I can still remember their names or not. Each brings memories, smiles and feelings of fulfillment.
There would be friends from my childhood who lived next door or around the corner. Friends from grade school. Friends from high school. Friends from college and graduate school. Friends from the Army. Friends from San Antonio, Fort Worth, Massachusetts, New York, Hyattsville, Northwest DC, Damascus, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Virginia, Florida, North Carolina, Washington State, Canada, France, China, Australia, etc. Friends from the newspapers (the Prince George's, Montgomery, and Fairfax Sentinels, The Washington Star, Washington NewsWorks) with whom I worked. Friends from the NRA. from various consulting and teaching jobs... Friends met at CITES meetings and a variety of international and domestic gatherings. Friends from the Washington Theater Lab. Friends from the teams I helped coach and the places I've lived. Friends met via other friends. Friends from the St. John's swim team. Friends who are doctors and nurses and lawyers and electricians and plumbers and realtors and every kind of kind human who helped me, my family and friends.
There would be my grandparents, my parents, and my son, Johnny, all of whom passed. There would be my sister, brother-in-law, their children and grandchildren. My nephews and others from relatives who no longer claim affiliation or affection. My parents' relatives from Philly and Jersey and Virginia and Maryland. Mandi and Michael and their relatives and friends in England. My cousins near and far. My friend and business partner of nearly two decades, David Wills.
And, of course, my immediate family with whom I did celebrate: Tommy, Mary, Megan, Maggie, Joel, Matt. We all pitched in and cooked the Christmas meal. Every dish was tasty. Every minute enjoyed and appreciated...even those where I mimicked my father and took a snooze after a fill of food and a glass or two of very nice wine.
I guess the reason I'm writing this now as the year is winding to and end is to simply say to all of you...Thank You. Thank you ever so much for all you've given to make my life so full, so rich, so
fun. Thank you a thousand times over.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
A Word of Advice: Never Write Anything to Anyone After Midnight
Okay, so it's nearly 3 AM and I'm wide awake. I've been trying to clean up four distinct piles of files and papers in my office for the past seven hours. The papers, I've discovered date back to the 1960s and earlier.
There are valentines from my father to my mother. From the names of my siblings he signed they had to be pre-1956.
But the one that prompted this violation of my first principle of writing, was dated 1983. It is a certificate from the Maryland State Police announcing my completion of the police firearms instructor school. For some reason that bit of memorabilia touched off a phrase that I've been asked countless times. And for an equal number of times I've been at a loss to answer, namely "what do you do?" It's a question that has intrinsic existentially defining connotations, the most important being "Who are you?"
I can tell you what people have called me - leaving out the obscenities.
Traveling in Manhattan many years ago with a Georgia State Police Officer and one of the most interesting of many interesting people I've known (whose day job in no way resembled what he really did for a living) and consider friends, I was dubbed "KGB" by a Russian expatriate as we emerged from an official looking car. The good man and his two companions disappeared as quickly and quietly as wild turkeys in a dimly lit woods. I'm not KGB.
The KGB consider me God knows what because I co-authored a series of articles on our lack of strategic Sea Lift and why it would take us six months to deploy a suitable number of troops and materiel a few years prior to Desert Storm. They also had copies of a newsletter I wrote in their archives...according to a reliable source, now deceased.
For years and to this day, my friend's sons consider me CIA. I'm not.
I had to take an early leave from a police course on automatic weapons being conducted by one of the finest teachers I've ever had - including nuns, Christian Brothers, Jesuit Priests, high school, college and graduate school professors - a former Secret Service instructor by the name of John Recknor. My classmates from a variety of departments along the Atlantic corridor swore I was a "spook." I wasn't.
Animal Rights fanatics hate me because I spent a number of years as an advocate for biomedical research and asked them at a news conference if as they claimed that they condemn medical research performed on animals because it was not relevant to humans, "did they approve of it for the medical benefits it provided animals?"
I was kicked out of the Outdoor Writers Association because as a ghost writer I refused to submit tear sheets of the articles I wrote that were published in outdoors, shooting and hunting magazines under other people's names. They said if they waived the rule for me, they would have to do it for all the outdoor "ghost writers." I asked how many were in the organization and was told "you are the only one." Ah the logic of the media.
Back before the media "sainthood" of the late Senator Ted Kennedy when he was considered by even his friends in Congress as perhaps the dumbest Member of that esteemed body, I got him totally ticked at me by publishing an analysis of one of his many anti-gun bills that demonstrated via textual analysis compared to his own published statements that the good fellow never read his own bill. It as truly interesting (and I admit gratifying) to notice his staffers pointing me out to the Senator at some function on the Hill.
Friends refer to me as something of a chef. I'm not. I cook left-overs. I did cook at my mother's restaurant for six years. I just followed her lead.
I've had street thugs claim I scared them. Must have mistaken me for someone else. Might have had something to do with the couple of individuals who tried to rob us and somehow got tossed out the door and into the street instead.
Lately I've been part of an amazing team that that developed an equally amazing technology that promises to bring some 2000 very good jobs to the Gulf Coast and reverse the trend of shipping U.S. dollars abroad in exchange for questionable quality shrimp. We've got an operating model up and running and once fully funded we'll show that premium quality shrimp can be raised at the rate of 10 million pounds a year right here in the U.S.A. I also built my son a primo bedroom, framed in the room, hung drywall, laid the tile floor, installed hardwood floors elsewhere in the house, am doing the bathroom remodel, plumbing and all, cook the meals, do the laundry and on and on and on.
So do I have an answer to that initial question or its collorary? Absolutely not. All I want to be is a good dad and soon, I hope, a good husband to a quite remarkable woman.
Told you not to write after midnight. Now I've got to get some sleep.
There are valentines from my father to my mother. From the names of my siblings he signed they had to be pre-1956.
But the one that prompted this violation of my first principle of writing, was dated 1983. It is a certificate from the Maryland State Police announcing my completion of the police firearms instructor school. For some reason that bit of memorabilia touched off a phrase that I've been asked countless times. And for an equal number of times I've been at a loss to answer, namely "what do you do?" It's a question that has intrinsic existentially defining connotations, the most important being "Who are you?"
I can tell you what people have called me - leaving out the obscenities.
Traveling in Manhattan many years ago with a Georgia State Police Officer and one of the most interesting of many interesting people I've known (whose day job in no way resembled what he really did for a living) and consider friends, I was dubbed "KGB" by a Russian expatriate as we emerged from an official looking car. The good man and his two companions disappeared as quickly and quietly as wild turkeys in a dimly lit woods. I'm not KGB.
The KGB consider me God knows what because I co-authored a series of articles on our lack of strategic Sea Lift and why it would take us six months to deploy a suitable number of troops and materiel a few years prior to Desert Storm. They also had copies of a newsletter I wrote in their archives...according to a reliable source, now deceased.
For years and to this day, my friend's sons consider me CIA. I'm not.
I had to take an early leave from a police course on automatic weapons being conducted by one of the finest teachers I've ever had - including nuns, Christian Brothers, Jesuit Priests, high school, college and graduate school professors - a former Secret Service instructor by the name of John Recknor. My classmates from a variety of departments along the Atlantic corridor swore I was a "spook." I wasn't.
Animal Rights fanatics hate me because I spent a number of years as an advocate for biomedical research and asked them at a news conference if as they claimed that they condemn medical research performed on animals because it was not relevant to humans, "did they approve of it for the medical benefits it provided animals?"
I was kicked out of the Outdoor Writers Association because as a ghost writer I refused to submit tear sheets of the articles I wrote that were published in outdoors, shooting and hunting magazines under other people's names. They said if they waived the rule for me, they would have to do it for all the outdoor "ghost writers." I asked how many were in the organization and was told "you are the only one." Ah the logic of the media.
Back before the media "sainthood" of the late Senator Ted Kennedy when he was considered by even his friends in Congress as perhaps the dumbest Member of that esteemed body, I got him totally ticked at me by publishing an analysis of one of his many anti-gun bills that demonstrated via textual analysis compared to his own published statements that the good fellow never read his own bill. It as truly interesting (and I admit gratifying) to notice his staffers pointing me out to the Senator at some function on the Hill.
Friends refer to me as something of a chef. I'm not. I cook left-overs. I did cook at my mother's restaurant for six years. I just followed her lead.
I've had street thugs claim I scared them. Must have mistaken me for someone else. Might have had something to do with the couple of individuals who tried to rob us and somehow got tossed out the door and into the street instead.
Lately I've been part of an amazing team that that developed an equally amazing technology that promises to bring some 2000 very good jobs to the Gulf Coast and reverse the trend of shipping U.S. dollars abroad in exchange for questionable quality shrimp. We've got an operating model up and running and once fully funded we'll show that premium quality shrimp can be raised at the rate of 10 million pounds a year right here in the U.S.A. I also built my son a primo bedroom, framed in the room, hung drywall, laid the tile floor, installed hardwood floors elsewhere in the house, am doing the bathroom remodel, plumbing and all, cook the meals, do the laundry and on and on and on.
So do I have an answer to that initial question or its collorary? Absolutely not. All I want to be is a good dad and soon, I hope, a good husband to a quite remarkable woman.
Told you not to write after midnight. Now I've got to get some sleep.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Why Do Parents Do the Things They Do to Their Kids
Years ago I was sitting in the small entrance way to a synagogue just off upper Connecticut Avenue waiting for my Hebrew teacher. That's right, my Hebrew teacher. I've tried my hand at Spanish, French, Italian and can barely get English correct more times than not. Sometimes the words of each language come back. Most often, they don't. So I figured if I learned Hebrew I could go back and learn every Romance language that beat me down. (Yeah, I was in the Spanish Honor Society in at St. John's College High. But that was more test scores than truly understanding much less speaking the language.)
I learned to read classic Hebrew fairly well. Learned the prayers and learned the greetings for the holidays. Don't ask now...my memory is very Italian - it's a spaghetti strainer with the knowledge acquired oozing out in record time.
At any rate, I was sitting there waiting when a very stunning young woman strode up to the thick glass entrance doors. Her appearance, dress and demeanor were all quite something. As she approached the door she raised an arm, the door swung open as if on cue (apparently the gym was a daily haunt). To say she "strode" in is the perfect use of the verb. Head held high...face forward...eyes focused on her destination without even a hint of acknowledging anything or anyone around her. You know the look. It's on every shopper at Whole Foods Market and every BMW/LEXUS/MERCEDES driver flying up 270 at 75 mph or on 70 East or West doing 80. As she cleared the path of the heavy door, now swinging back to its original rest position, I stared in abject horror at the scene before me. Her five- or six-year-old child was walking in behind her. Bam! The door slammed into him face first. She never made an effort to see that the tot made safe passage into the house of worship. I was too far away to act save to repress a dual urge to vomit and yell an obscenity at her. But, for once, I just stared silently in disbelief. To her credit (?) she did turn and played perfectly the upset mom, again, as if it was written into the script she was following. No "I'm sorry." No acknowledgment that this was the consequence of her behavior. That was twenty or thirty years ago. Today, she probably would have sued the synagogue because the door endangered her child.
Since that time I've viewed or learned of much worse...not the horrors that make the daily news, but in many ways, close. Personal stuff. There's the obviously grotesque and unforgivable. A former DC cop told me of responding to a call of a child in danger. He and his partner ran up the stairs past parents too strung out on heroin or crack to notice or comprehend that anything was amiss. In the house they went to a bathroom overflowing with water, human waste and an infant face down and lifeless lying on the floor. I felt most sorrow for the cop. He had to live with the image of what he saw. As tragic as the child's death was, he was at least free from a life of worse.
Then there is experience of a young man I know. His father and mother divorced when he was very young. The most vivid image I have of his childhood was when he waited all day for his father to pick him up for a weekend together. He sat on the front stoop for hours. The father never showed.
The occasions when he took the child often saw him fairly comatose from alcohol and the boy left to his own devices. If you thought the boy had a difficult time, you would be right on target. Think of any way a kid could get messed up because of an alcoholic father and an emotionally distant mother and you get a pretty accurate picture. There are plenty of profiles on characteristics common to children of this type parent and ...suffice to say trusting adults and accepting responsibility for missteps are not among them.
When a step father appeared on the scene, early attempts at parenting met the stone wall of youthful rejection. That led to a mutual animosity that led to outright hostility. The idea that the trust curve would take Herculean patience and understanding was, to the outsider looking in, was an option that never had a chance with the step dad or the biological mother. It would have taken too much time away from the life they enjoyed. Too much a bother. The jury has not yet issued a verdict but the outcast lad seems to be making a significant course correction: working two jobs seven days a week and getting good grades via a reputable on-line university thanks to the help of other relatives with far more charity, understanding and kindness.
Then there is the absent parent who spent a lifetime barely noticing the second of two children. Contrary to the myth perpetrated by all too many psychologists, child welfare services, the courts and the media, the maternal parent is the self-indulgent perpetrator. Seriously, go to Maryland Child Services and look at their forms. No where is there reference to the father as the caring parent. It's all maternal oriented. I kid you not.
What is painful is to watch the absentee parent fawn in writing to the abandoned child, now a teen. Not the least suggestion is made that the parent's behavior rejected and subsequently alienated the child. Not the first word that the mother has any inkling of accepting her own behavior is suggested in a saccharinly sweet and overly melodramatic Christmas letter that says the lad is "finally understood." What did he do???? The pain is watching the boy toss the message aside, then having to pick it up off the floor after he walks away.
All any of those children wanted or deserved was someone to truly care and speak the truth. I believe it's called respect.
Then
I learned to read classic Hebrew fairly well. Learned the prayers and learned the greetings for the holidays. Don't ask now...my memory is very Italian - it's a spaghetti strainer with the knowledge acquired oozing out in record time.
At any rate, I was sitting there waiting when a very stunning young woman strode up to the thick glass entrance doors. Her appearance, dress and demeanor were all quite something. As she approached the door she raised an arm, the door swung open as if on cue (apparently the gym was a daily haunt). To say she "strode" in is the perfect use of the verb. Head held high...face forward...eyes focused on her destination without even a hint of acknowledging anything or anyone around her. You know the look. It's on every shopper at Whole Foods Market and every BMW/LEXUS/MERCEDES driver flying up 270 at 75 mph or on 70 East or West doing 80. As she cleared the path of the heavy door, now swinging back to its original rest position, I stared in abject horror at the scene before me. Her five- or six-year-old child was walking in behind her. Bam! The door slammed into him face first. She never made an effort to see that the tot made safe passage into the house of worship. I was too far away to act save to repress a dual urge to vomit and yell an obscenity at her. But, for once, I just stared silently in disbelief. To her credit (?) she did turn and played perfectly the upset mom, again, as if it was written into the script she was following. No "I'm sorry." No acknowledgment that this was the consequence of her behavior. That was twenty or thirty years ago. Today, she probably would have sued the synagogue because the door endangered her child.
Since that time I've viewed or learned of much worse...not the horrors that make the daily news, but in many ways, close. Personal stuff. There's the obviously grotesque and unforgivable. A former DC cop told me of responding to a call of a child in danger. He and his partner ran up the stairs past parents too strung out on heroin or crack to notice or comprehend that anything was amiss. In the house they went to a bathroom overflowing with water, human waste and an infant face down and lifeless lying on the floor. I felt most sorrow for the cop. He had to live with the image of what he saw. As tragic as the child's death was, he was at least free from a life of worse.
Then there is experience of a young man I know. His father and mother divorced when he was very young. The most vivid image I have of his childhood was when he waited all day for his father to pick him up for a weekend together. He sat on the front stoop for hours. The father never showed.
The occasions when he took the child often saw him fairly comatose from alcohol and the boy left to his own devices. If you thought the boy had a difficult time, you would be right on target. Think of any way a kid could get messed up because of an alcoholic father and an emotionally distant mother and you get a pretty accurate picture. There are plenty of profiles on characteristics common to children of this type parent and ...suffice to say trusting adults and accepting responsibility for missteps are not among them.
When a step father appeared on the scene, early attempts at parenting met the stone wall of youthful rejection. That led to a mutual animosity that led to outright hostility. The idea that the trust curve would take Herculean patience and understanding was, to the outsider looking in, was an option that never had a chance with the step dad or the biological mother. It would have taken too much time away from the life they enjoyed. Too much a bother. The jury has not yet issued a verdict but the outcast lad seems to be making a significant course correction: working two jobs seven days a week and getting good grades via a reputable on-line university thanks to the help of other relatives with far more charity, understanding and kindness.
Then there is the absent parent who spent a lifetime barely noticing the second of two children. Contrary to the myth perpetrated by all too many psychologists, child welfare services, the courts and the media, the maternal parent is the self-indulgent perpetrator. Seriously, go to Maryland Child Services and look at their forms. No where is there reference to the father as the caring parent. It's all maternal oriented. I kid you not.
What is painful is to watch the absentee parent fawn in writing to the abandoned child, now a teen. Not the least suggestion is made that the parent's behavior rejected and subsequently alienated the child. Not the first word that the mother has any inkling of accepting her own behavior is suggested in a saccharinly sweet and overly melodramatic Christmas letter that says the lad is "finally understood." What did he do???? The pain is watching the boy toss the message aside, then having to pick it up off the floor after he walks away.
All any of those children wanted or deserved was someone to truly care and speak the truth. I believe it's called respect.
Then
Monday, December 12, 2011
Examining the "Conservative" View Towards Marijuana
Say "marijuana" and visions appear of immature pro-athletes like the two bozo's suspended from the Redskins last week as well as photographs of the Occupy (fill in the city of choice) idiots that remind me of modern depictions of characters in Hell so wonderfully portrayed centuries ago by Jeroen Anthoniszoon van Aken aka Hieronymus Bosch.
That said, after spending a few more moments reflecting on the "evil weed" and my thoughts turn to Mexico and the Obama Administration's ballet with that country's President who blames the U.S. for all the evil folks on his side of the border who are lethally adverse to the free market principle of competition.
No matter what I think of Mexican logic or their version of political ethics (try not to laugh too loudly at the concept), there are some very serious consequences attached to marijuana and its legal status here in the United States. First, some very fine law enforcement officials with our Homeland Security/Immigration/Border Patrol operations are being put in mortal harm's way due to the cross-border trafficking of the illegal herb. Second, our economy is in a hell hole due to the flushing of billions down the judicial sewer system for enforcement, prosecution, and incarceration related to marijuana possession and use. I'm not talking about the consequences of behavior while under the influence of the weed. Smoke MJ and do something irresponsible that results in causing harm to someone and all bets are off. Shame on you.
Look we are a very immature country when it comes to ethics and morality. Maybe it's the influence of too many Puritans fleeing England before the first turkey day. Who knows. The fact is we act like self righteous jerks when it comes to things other countries take in stride. And we are hypocrites to boot.
I come from a family where alcohol was not forbidden fruit. If we wanted it, we could have it. As a result, we rarely wanted it.
Big family meals might have had beer and wine available but most drank ice tea or Pepsi. My grandfather drank wine he made (sometimes with our help) but only a glass or two to compliment my grandmother's outrageous cooking skills. Christmas, Thanksgiving or just Sunday dinner had a pasta dish (ravioli, manicotta (we pronounced it old Sicilian style as "managota" etc. always homemade), a baked chicken, ham and a roast leg of lamb or beef (that's right all three at the same meal ...unless there was a big rock fish or maybe including the fish) with two kinds of potatoes and at least three kinds of vegetables. I kid you not.
I don't know the merits of medical marijuana. I don't care about the attraction of it's recreational use. As I mentioned I do care about the consequences of irresponsible use. Same as with alcohol or firearms.
At any rate I'm quickly coming to the position that it's time we as a nation grow up and allow our friends and neighbors to become adults and decide for themselves if they want to smoke pot or eat pot or just grow pretty pot plants without facing the full force of our criminal justice system. I also think it will be fun to legalize the substance and watch the Mexican President complain of that we just ruined his nation's economy.
That's the conservative thing to do.
That said, after spending a few more moments reflecting on the "evil weed" and my thoughts turn to Mexico and the Obama Administration's ballet with that country's President who blames the U.S. for all the evil folks on his side of the border who are lethally adverse to the free market principle of competition.
No matter what I think of Mexican logic or their version of political ethics (try not to laugh too loudly at the concept), there are some very serious consequences attached to marijuana and its legal status here in the United States. First, some very fine law enforcement officials with our Homeland Security/Immigration/Border Patrol operations are being put in mortal harm's way due to the cross-border trafficking of the illegal herb. Second, our economy is in a hell hole due to the flushing of billions down the judicial sewer system for enforcement, prosecution, and incarceration related to marijuana possession and use. I'm not talking about the consequences of behavior while under the influence of the weed. Smoke MJ and do something irresponsible that results in causing harm to someone and all bets are off. Shame on you.
Look we are a very immature country when it comes to ethics and morality. Maybe it's the influence of too many Puritans fleeing England before the first turkey day. Who knows. The fact is we act like self righteous jerks when it comes to things other countries take in stride. And we are hypocrites to boot.
I come from a family where alcohol was not forbidden fruit. If we wanted it, we could have it. As a result, we rarely wanted it.
Big family meals might have had beer and wine available but most drank ice tea or Pepsi. My grandfather drank wine he made (sometimes with our help) but only a glass or two to compliment my grandmother's outrageous cooking skills. Christmas, Thanksgiving or just Sunday dinner had a pasta dish (ravioli, manicotta (we pronounced it old Sicilian style as "managota" etc. always homemade), a baked chicken, ham and a roast leg of lamb or beef (that's right all three at the same meal ...unless there was a big rock fish or maybe including the fish) with two kinds of potatoes and at least three kinds of vegetables. I kid you not.
I don't know the merits of medical marijuana. I don't care about the attraction of it's recreational use. As I mentioned I do care about the consequences of irresponsible use. Same as with alcohol or firearms.
At any rate I'm quickly coming to the position that it's time we as a nation grow up and allow our friends and neighbors to become adults and decide for themselves if they want to smoke pot or eat pot or just grow pretty pot plants without facing the full force of our criminal justice system. I also think it will be fun to legalize the substance and watch the Mexican President complain of that we just ruined his nation's economy.
That's the conservative thing to do.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Courage, Sports and Shame
My high school, now Tommy's, won the Varsity Girls Soccer Championship this past Sunday at the very impressive soccer stadium in Germantown, Maryland. New coach. First year and the championship trophy now resides at 27th and Military Road in the District. Congratulations to all.
But now comes the story behind the story.
I try to catch the team's games largely to watch one of the most impressive players I've had the privilege to meet. Plus I enjoy visiting with her parents. Last year she was named team captain. She was only a Junior but she had excellent on-field execution. Her passes were arrow straight and to the right person. She was awesome when heading with the ball towards the goal. And she could shoot straight, curved, high, low but always true. Two prestigious New England schools offered her a scholarship. She's that good.
She did not play even a minute in this year's championship game and very little during the regular season. She didn't play because last year she quit the team.
She quit in protest over the coach. He was, in my opinion, a total butthole. He reminded me of more than a few CYO baseball coaches during the 1950s. Only his pet lineup played the games. Apparently she shared the sentiment. Apparently too the school found merit in her actions. They fired the coach.
I thought she showed a great deal of courage in her actions. Her teammates didn't. For the most part they shunned her. She stood alone. Got a bad coach replaced with a good one and carried the consequences of her action with dignity and maturity.
In fact, the new coach told her before the game that she would not play because he didn't want to cause any complaints to be fired his way. I call that gutless and pitiful. She took the news in stride and cheered when the team scored the winning goal and at the final whistle she jumped with joy. No one knew the story behind her riding the bench. I call that courage.
****
On the other hand, I call the sports media's demand for Joe Pa's resignation shameless. Stop for a moment and think. Coach Joe did not see the acts. If he had, his Italian instincts would have found the perpetrator in a world of physical hurt. I guarantee it.
Coach Joe had one person's word. He acted upon it by reporting it to the higher school authorities. The media spent all day expressing phony righteous indignation over his not reporting it to the police. Remember at that point it was hearsay. It was up to the school to act.
So you say, Coach Joe should have fired the man. Based on what? If he acted in a punitive fashion he would have been guilty of the media's greatest sin: assuming one guilty until proven innocent. Coach Joe didn't sign the man's pay check. He didn't play judge or jury based on one man's accusation.
Years ago I was talking to a very fine gentleman about our children. He told me that a parent heard his son tell another youngster: "My Dad always beats me!" Outraged she called the police and had the man arrested. What the woman didn't hear was the first part of the conversation where my friend's son told the other boy: "My Dad and I play soccer every day but..."
If Coach Joe had walked into the shower room and saw the incident reported in the media, I only pray he would have had a pistol and shot the bastard. I call that the only Christian thing to do.
But now comes the story behind the story.
I try to catch the team's games largely to watch one of the most impressive players I've had the privilege to meet. Plus I enjoy visiting with her parents. Last year she was named team captain. She was only a Junior but she had excellent on-field execution. Her passes were arrow straight and to the right person. She was awesome when heading with the ball towards the goal. And she could shoot straight, curved, high, low but always true. Two prestigious New England schools offered her a scholarship. She's that good.
She did not play even a minute in this year's championship game and very little during the regular season. She didn't play because last year she quit the team.
She quit in protest over the coach. He was, in my opinion, a total butthole. He reminded me of more than a few CYO baseball coaches during the 1950s. Only his pet lineup played the games. Apparently she shared the sentiment. Apparently too the school found merit in her actions. They fired the coach.
I thought she showed a great deal of courage in her actions. Her teammates didn't. For the most part they shunned her. She stood alone. Got a bad coach replaced with a good one and carried the consequences of her action with dignity and maturity.
In fact, the new coach told her before the game that she would not play because he didn't want to cause any complaints to be fired his way. I call that gutless and pitiful. She took the news in stride and cheered when the team scored the winning goal and at the final whistle she jumped with joy. No one knew the story behind her riding the bench. I call that courage.
****
On the other hand, I call the sports media's demand for Joe Pa's resignation shameless. Stop for a moment and think. Coach Joe did not see the acts. If he had, his Italian instincts would have found the perpetrator in a world of physical hurt. I guarantee it.
Coach Joe had one person's word. He acted upon it by reporting it to the higher school authorities. The media spent all day expressing phony righteous indignation over his not reporting it to the police. Remember at that point it was hearsay. It was up to the school to act.
So you say, Coach Joe should have fired the man. Based on what? If he acted in a punitive fashion he would have been guilty of the media's greatest sin: assuming one guilty until proven innocent. Coach Joe didn't sign the man's pay check. He didn't play judge or jury based on one man's accusation.
Years ago I was talking to a very fine gentleman about our children. He told me that a parent heard his son tell another youngster: "My Dad always beats me!" Outraged she called the police and had the man arrested. What the woman didn't hear was the first part of the conversation where my friend's son told the other boy: "My Dad and I play soccer every day but..."
If Coach Joe had walked into the shower room and saw the incident reported in the media, I only pray he would have had a pistol and shot the bastard. I call that the only Christian thing to do.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Are We Sending the Wrong Message?
Tommy got his license.
Like most of us who spent our childhood and the majority of our teenage years as perennial passengers, he's pretty shaky on directions to and from places he's traveled for months and years. But, he'll learn.
What surprised me and what prompted this post is the fact that he's scared that he's going to make a wrong decision and get into a wreck. This from a kid who knew no fear literally from his earliest days.
I love to tell the story of the difference between Tommy and his late brother Johnny. I may have mentioned it before but the beauty of having little or no memory is that I can't remember and I don't care. When each was learning to walk, at the stage where they would pull themselves up onto their feet and use sofas, chairs, parent's pant legs to move along, I pulled the same parental trick first on Johnny, then a few years later on Tommy.
I would sit on the sofa and put my legs up on the coffee table blocking their passage. Johnny would stop. Size up the situation as best as he could. Look at me. Look at my legs. Look at the table. Look over my legs at what was or wasn't on the other side. Satisfied he would slowly and deliberately start to climb over. Tommy, on the other hand, motored down the side of the couch, got to my leg-bridge and literally dive over with no regard whatsoever for what awaited on the other side. Same with swimming.
Johnny would cling to me if we were in the bay or ocean or to the side of the pool. Tommy - after he learned the rudiments of staying a float or swimming like a damn dolphin, arms at his side, flexing his body and legs, underwater - didn't care if he was at the shallow or deep end of the pool.
Now behind the wheel of a car, Tommy's living scared.
I think it's because of too much emphasis on all the things that can go wrong. It's been a constant verbal diet of watch out for this, try and read the mind of every idiot around you, and on and on until the experience is one of running a gauntlet of folks out to kill you versus the sensation of being free to roam beyond one's own block (if you grew up in the city). The scales of judgment are out of balance. Too much fear. Not enough confidence building and encouragement.
Tommy is and Johnny was not afraid of guns. They both enjoy(ed) shooting. They both understood safety and responsibility. Johnny was an outstanding shot. At one Trappers' convention he out shot me and pretty much everyone knocking animated ducks out of the sky at one of those wall-size simulated hunting video games. Tommy can hit his share of clay pigeons.
I've got to rethink how I handle things.
Okay, here's a stretch for most but not for me.
Just as I believe I was over protective in warning Tommy about the potential dangers of the road, I believe we as a society have been over protective about speaking out when we see something or someone who is wrong.
One of the many lessons I learned in the Army is the admonition to alert someone when something is or might be edging toward the dangerous. It's the antithesis of "don't get involved."
Well we are involved. It's called life. Two examples that happened in two consecutive days.
I was in the Gaithersburg Costco. There is no grocery store filled with more rude damn people than at this particular Costco save every Whole Foods Market I've visited. No one is looking where they are pushing their carts. They seem to assume everyone else will simply move out of their way. The natural extension of this attitude is blocking the aisle with grocery carts. After a few "Excuse me, may I please get through" I came up to a main aisle totally blocked by people flocking to the free sample station and, of course, shopping carts abandoned like logs at a beaver dam. Shy me said, "Will you people quit blocking the damn aisle?" The main offender turned and gave me a look as if I had just burned a Koran or Bible and I should feel guilty. An older woman, older than me, stopped the other woman mid-scold and yelled "He's right!"
Next day, at Sam's Club, a much more pacifistic store in Gaithersburg I got another taste of what happens when people allow other people to be buttheads.
(As an aside, the Gaithersburg Costco - mid week day or worse, on a weekend - is an experience you simply will not find in Costco stores elsewhere. Parking is ridiculous, the crowd is totally oblivious. Actually it's more akin to a well-dressed mob gone wild in a totally politically correct setting. And I love Costco.)
At any rate, I was next in line at the Pharmacy window. A very nice mom walked up and waited patiently behind me. As one of the assistants began to help me, a gargantuan man entered the exit and said the the woman, "I've already been waited on I'm just picking up my package." Seemed harmless enough. The man's package of medicine was clearly visible over the counter. The pharmacist walked up to hand it to him. Still nothing out of the ordinary. Then the man put a pile of groceries on the counter and asked if they would ring them up...I mean a pile.
The pharmacist was startled but said nothing. A male assistant walked up and said nothing. The female helping me gave a look of disgust. I turned to the woman behind me and she was shaking her head in disbelief. I then turned to the man-mountain and said, "You owe this lady and apology."
He got pissed. "None of your business." I said "rudeness...it is my business. You owe her an apology." It got plenty heated. He never apologized. In fact he acted as if I was the offender for making his rudeness verbal. Lard barrel hastily shoved his groceries into a couple of bags and headed for the door. The lady smiled and said, "thank you."
Like most of us who spent our childhood and the majority of our teenage years as perennial passengers, he's pretty shaky on directions to and from places he's traveled for months and years. But, he'll learn.
What surprised me and what prompted this post is the fact that he's scared that he's going to make a wrong decision and get into a wreck. This from a kid who knew no fear literally from his earliest days.
I love to tell the story of the difference between Tommy and his late brother Johnny. I may have mentioned it before but the beauty of having little or no memory is that I can't remember and I don't care. When each was learning to walk, at the stage where they would pull themselves up onto their feet and use sofas, chairs, parent's pant legs to move along, I pulled the same parental trick first on Johnny, then a few years later on Tommy.
I would sit on the sofa and put my legs up on the coffee table blocking their passage. Johnny would stop. Size up the situation as best as he could. Look at me. Look at my legs. Look at the table. Look over my legs at what was or wasn't on the other side. Satisfied he would slowly and deliberately start to climb over. Tommy, on the other hand, motored down the side of the couch, got to my leg-bridge and literally dive over with no regard whatsoever for what awaited on the other side. Same with swimming.
Johnny would cling to me if we were in the bay or ocean or to the side of the pool. Tommy - after he learned the rudiments of staying a float or swimming like a damn dolphin, arms at his side, flexing his body and legs, underwater - didn't care if he was at the shallow or deep end of the pool.
Now behind the wheel of a car, Tommy's living scared.
I think it's because of too much emphasis on all the things that can go wrong. It's been a constant verbal diet of watch out for this, try and read the mind of every idiot around you, and on and on until the experience is one of running a gauntlet of folks out to kill you versus the sensation of being free to roam beyond one's own block (if you grew up in the city). The scales of judgment are out of balance. Too much fear. Not enough confidence building and encouragement.
Tommy is and Johnny was not afraid of guns. They both enjoy(ed) shooting. They both understood safety and responsibility. Johnny was an outstanding shot. At one Trappers' convention he out shot me and pretty much everyone knocking animated ducks out of the sky at one of those wall-size simulated hunting video games. Tommy can hit his share of clay pigeons.
I've got to rethink how I handle things.
Okay, here's a stretch for most but not for me.
Just as I believe I was over protective in warning Tommy about the potential dangers of the road, I believe we as a society have been over protective about speaking out when we see something or someone who is wrong.
One of the many lessons I learned in the Army is the admonition to alert someone when something is or might be edging toward the dangerous. It's the antithesis of "don't get involved."
Well we are involved. It's called life. Two examples that happened in two consecutive days.
I was in the Gaithersburg Costco. There is no grocery store filled with more rude damn people than at this particular Costco save every Whole Foods Market I've visited. No one is looking where they are pushing their carts. They seem to assume everyone else will simply move out of their way. The natural extension of this attitude is blocking the aisle with grocery carts. After a few "Excuse me, may I please get through" I came up to a main aisle totally blocked by people flocking to the free sample station and, of course, shopping carts abandoned like logs at a beaver dam. Shy me said, "Will you people quit blocking the damn aisle?" The main offender turned and gave me a look as if I had just burned a Koran or Bible and I should feel guilty. An older woman, older than me, stopped the other woman mid-scold and yelled "He's right!"
Next day, at Sam's Club, a much more pacifistic store in Gaithersburg I got another taste of what happens when people allow other people to be buttheads.
(As an aside, the Gaithersburg Costco - mid week day or worse, on a weekend - is an experience you simply will not find in Costco stores elsewhere. Parking is ridiculous, the crowd is totally oblivious. Actually it's more akin to a well-dressed mob gone wild in a totally politically correct setting. And I love Costco.)
At any rate, I was next in line at the Pharmacy window. A very nice mom walked up and waited patiently behind me. As one of the assistants began to help me, a gargantuan man entered the exit and said the the woman, "I've already been waited on I'm just picking up my package." Seemed harmless enough. The man's package of medicine was clearly visible over the counter. The pharmacist walked up to hand it to him. Still nothing out of the ordinary. Then the man put a pile of groceries on the counter and asked if they would ring them up...I mean a pile.
The pharmacist was startled but said nothing. A male assistant walked up and said nothing. The female helping me gave a look of disgust. I turned to the woman behind me and she was shaking her head in disbelief. I then turned to the man-mountain and said, "You owe this lady and apology."
He got pissed. "None of your business." I said "rudeness...it is my business. You owe her an apology." It got plenty heated. He never apologized. In fact he acted as if I was the offender for making his rudeness verbal. Lard barrel hastily shoved his groceries into a couple of bags and headed for the door. The lady smiled and said, "thank you."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Every Parent's Legacy
Worry. That's every parent's legacy. From the moment a child is born though every pivotal incident in that child's life, any parent worthy of the title experiences a mix of emotions with worry far out stripping the rest.
When Johnny was born I was the happiest human alive. My friends and family hung a huge banner from the family restaurant proclaiming "It's a boy!" Two days later, they took the banner down. They did that after Johnny nearly drown in his own blood when his pre-birth circulatory system yielded to the one that sustains us in daily life and discovered his heart had no ventricle, he was slit, slashed and filled with tubing to keep him alive until the doctors could explain his condition and ask the question no parent should ever hear: "Do you want us to try and keep him alive?"
I didn't answer. My father did...through me. Dad died in 1984, six years before Johnny's birth. A deep and forceful "YES" erupted from somewhere deep inside with all the neurological pyrotechnics of a Hollywood sci fi movie. I saw white circles of light and seeming tunnels emerging from somewhere. "YES!" I've never regretted a minute resulting from making that statement. Through his three open-heart surgeries - on a heart the size of a thumbnail at two days old through his last one at age four - worry literally caused me to bleed significant quantities of blood...real blood... in anticipation of each procedure. The bleeding stopped when the nurse liaison entered the waiting room and announced he was okay.
But this blog is not about Johnny. It's about Tommy.
For the past few months Tommy's been working towards today. During the day, at night, in Fort Lincoln Cemetery, throughout the narrow lanes that pass for residential streets in Hyattsville, around 495, up 270 and through the country roads of northern Montgomery County, I sat in the passenger seat as Tommy took the wheel of our brand new 2002 Dodge Neon. Thanks to my sister Elena, his aunt, Tommy took official driving lessons at Henry's Driving School in Germantown. He learned a heck of a lot more than I did fifty years ago. But then a lot more rules and regulations are now in effect than there were when I was 15 and learning to drive.
Tommy set up his driving test for today.
He decided on taking his test at the MVA facility in Annapolis. The bias and pure idiocy of driving test monitors at MVA facilities elsewhere in Maryland is so well-known driving school instructors throughout the state keep students spellbound with stories of monitors tricking students into failing the test.
No this is not rumor or urban legend. I know first hand after accompanying my step daughter to different MVA sites 11 times. The most egregious "trick" was when she executed the parking maneuver perfectly. Followed the monitor's instruction to turn off the engine and put the car in park. Having followed the instructions, she turned to peer at something, again at the monitor's direction, and took her hand off the wheel of the stopped, engine off, parking brake set, (did I mention is was a "stopped") car Bingo! She failed.
I've seen this sort of "activist/drama queen" mentality in numerous places including Congress but the place it was most apparent was in the Army when brand new straight from ROTC 2nd Lieutenants tore through recruit barracks turning over lockers, dumping the contents of foot lockers, tearing up freshly made beds and yelling at the top of their lungs to make an impression. Standing at attention, I was given a glance by one of the lifer Sergeants who shot me an eloquent look midway between "this guy's a buffoon" and "what has this man's army come too with officers like this?"
Finally, we traveled to the MVA in Annapolis. They did not cut corners or turn a blind eye toward student efforts. They were fair, firm and respectful. She passed.
Tommy did not want to deal with the nonsense suffered by his step sister, heeded the advice of his driving school instructor and went directly to Annapolis. As he drove through the course with his monitor, I stood under a tree next to the MVA building with two other parents. We were all nervous for our sons. As Tommy approached the parking section, I turned away. No excuses. I was simply worried. I knew he could do it. I just didn't want to watch if he was disappointed. He made it and proceeded to the next test area.
By the end of the test, he emerged from the car with a grin across his face. He did it. Even the monitor was smiling.
So now he has his driver's license. And now I have a host of new worries. Comes with the title, I guess. What surprised me was that Tommy's driving test took a similar toll compared to Johnny's operations. Worry by a parent for each child is the same no matter what I guess.
When Johnny was born I was the happiest human alive. My friends and family hung a huge banner from the family restaurant proclaiming "It's a boy!" Two days later, they took the banner down. They did that after Johnny nearly drown in his own blood when his pre-birth circulatory system yielded to the one that sustains us in daily life and discovered his heart had no ventricle, he was slit, slashed and filled with tubing to keep him alive until the doctors could explain his condition and ask the question no parent should ever hear: "Do you want us to try and keep him alive?"
I didn't answer. My father did...through me. Dad died in 1984, six years before Johnny's birth. A deep and forceful "YES" erupted from somewhere deep inside with all the neurological pyrotechnics of a Hollywood sci fi movie. I saw white circles of light and seeming tunnels emerging from somewhere. "YES!" I've never regretted a minute resulting from making that statement. Through his three open-heart surgeries - on a heart the size of a thumbnail at two days old through his last one at age four - worry literally caused me to bleed significant quantities of blood...real blood... in anticipation of each procedure. The bleeding stopped when the nurse liaison entered the waiting room and announced he was okay.
But this blog is not about Johnny. It's about Tommy.
For the past few months Tommy's been working towards today. During the day, at night, in Fort Lincoln Cemetery, throughout the narrow lanes that pass for residential streets in Hyattsville, around 495, up 270 and through the country roads of northern Montgomery County, I sat in the passenger seat as Tommy took the wheel of our brand new 2002 Dodge Neon. Thanks to my sister Elena, his aunt, Tommy took official driving lessons at Henry's Driving School in Germantown. He learned a heck of a lot more than I did fifty years ago. But then a lot more rules and regulations are now in effect than there were when I was 15 and learning to drive.
Tommy set up his driving test for today.
He decided on taking his test at the MVA facility in Annapolis. The bias and pure idiocy of driving test monitors at MVA facilities elsewhere in Maryland is so well-known driving school instructors throughout the state keep students spellbound with stories of monitors tricking students into failing the test.
No this is not rumor or urban legend. I know first hand after accompanying my step daughter to different MVA sites 11 times. The most egregious "trick" was when she executed the parking maneuver perfectly. Followed the monitor's instruction to turn off the engine and put the car in park. Having followed the instructions, she turned to peer at something, again at the monitor's direction, and took her hand off the wheel of the stopped, engine off, parking brake set, (did I mention is was a "stopped") car Bingo! She failed.
I've seen this sort of "activist/drama queen" mentality in numerous places including Congress but the place it was most apparent was in the Army when brand new straight from ROTC 2nd Lieutenants tore through recruit barracks turning over lockers, dumping the contents of foot lockers, tearing up freshly made beds and yelling at the top of their lungs to make an impression. Standing at attention, I was given a glance by one of the lifer Sergeants who shot me an eloquent look midway between "this guy's a buffoon" and "what has this man's army come too with officers like this?"
Finally, we traveled to the MVA in Annapolis. They did not cut corners or turn a blind eye toward student efforts. They were fair, firm and respectful. She passed.
Tommy did not want to deal with the nonsense suffered by his step sister, heeded the advice of his driving school instructor and went directly to Annapolis. As he drove through the course with his monitor, I stood under a tree next to the MVA building with two other parents. We were all nervous for our sons. As Tommy approached the parking section, I turned away. No excuses. I was simply worried. I knew he could do it. I just didn't want to watch if he was disappointed. He made it and proceeded to the next test area.
By the end of the test, he emerged from the car with a grin across his face. He did it. Even the monitor was smiling.
So now he has his driver's license. And now I have a host of new worries. Comes with the title, I guess. What surprised me was that Tommy's driving test took a similar toll compared to Johnny's operations. Worry by a parent for each child is the same no matter what I guess.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Black Holes, England Before D-Day, and a Baby Named Oliver
It has been over three months since I dared visit this blog. Since that time I've started to climb out of a deep, black emotional hole. It's depth concerns for a great part my thoughts of promises made and promises unkept, my son Johnny's brief life and premature death, my son Tommy and what the future may bring. In part, it stems from the failure to save both son's from the sick manipulations of their biological mother. In part, from financial limitations that may cause me to lose my house. And, in part because those same fiscal circumstances are keeping me from providing as I should for my family including a truly wonderful woman who is in every way the real mother to my son, Tommy. And in part because of a promise I could not keep to a Roman Catholic Nun.
During those three months I've experienced tremendous moments of tear-welling sadness at the loss of Johnny. Tommy and I were kept from being part of his last few years because his biological mother took him to Ohio and erected barriers both in Maryland and there that barred entry and participation. Her announcement, after the fact, that he died haunts me. "He just quit eating" I was told. At his funeral service his body looked like a cadaver from one of Hitler's death camps. I do not exaggerate. The pads of his fingers were shriveled to the bone. Days later after the fog of loss began to fade I realized that Johnny may well have "given up" but that he could not "just quit eating." He was fed via a tube and pump that put nourishment directly into his stomach.
Before he was moved, quite illegally if the court directives have any credibility, I read in a report from his physician at Children's Hospital that said his biological mother had him in therapy at the National Rehabilitation Hospital. I thought that interesting since early in his tragic disability, she yanked him from that place where he was making tremendous progress and was tended by doctors and nurses who knew him and unceremoniously relocated to Johns Hopkins' juvenile facility in Baltimore. She violated National Rehab protocols on a number of occasions, causing Johnny to contract pneumonia as a consequence of one such incident. The nurses yelled, quite literally telling her to stop what she was doing. She of course put the blame on the nurses. At any rate I went to NRH and asked for records of Johnny's therapy there. Over three years, he had been taken there six times. PT and OT are vital to quadriplegic maintenance: daily, weekly etc. Not one or two days a year.
Unlike the boys' biological mother, I put the blame directly on me for not intervening. I know Johnny blamed me for not being with him daily. He may not have been able to speak but the look in his eyes was articulate and damningly eloquent.
Also during the month's of my written silence, Sister Joyce Volpini, legendary principal of St. Jerome parish school in Hyattsville succumbed to cancer. Sister Joyce was a dear and good friend. She gave Tommy his dog, Gia, in part as a very successful means to deal with Johnny's death.
Sister Joyce was unceremoniously kicked out of the parish by a skunk masquerading as a cleric. She was struggling with cancer when the little man in charge of the parish sent her packing. He lied to the parish saying she was returning to her Order when he knew she was taken from a lifelong religious community that was her home for three or so decades and had no where else to go save a "mother-in-law" apartment at a relative's house. The Order closed its residence years ago with only a small plot of Nuns' graves as all that remained. I promised I would do everything in my power to have the SOB reverse his decision. Dealing with an Archbishop now a Cardinal who has the arrogance and disdain for his "flock" of a medieval monarch and the individual in question once again revealed the incredible hypocrisy of institutional religion...no different than corporate America or pretty much any political or academic ecology. Those in power protect their own...anyone they deem verboten be damned.
This past ten days I was in rural England, Consett to be specific, Durham County or Newcastle in the Northeast. I met some very fine people. Ate some very fine home and pub furnished meals. Had a pint or two and just soaked in the history surrounding the incredibly historic countryside. Everything is made of stone: farm walls, rows of tiny homes that housed miners and their families for a few hundred years. The stones were mined from countless fields and plucked from Hadrian's Roman Legion built wall as well as pasture lands that have changed little since they were crisscrossed by Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen preparing for the June 6, 1944 invasion of the Normandy Coast. I was there for a wedding of two incredibly fine youngsters. The groom's father is a farmer living three hours away near Lincoln on the family farm. He was as quick to reference the circumstances of the preceding generation's experience when General Eisenhower ran the show as anyone alive then or the finest historian.
Most of those training and awaiting the launch signal in 1944 were but kids barely older than 17, Tommy's age. They were away from home, family, and facing an immediate future few could or can now imagine. They were scared. Today, we call the feeling depression. The black hole of World War II makes anything we experience look like the work of a child at the seashore working the sand with a tiny plastic bucket and shovel.
At the wedding was a tike, celebrating his first birthday that same day, named Oliver.
Oliver has huge brown eyes and an even larger smile. Oliver made me think of Johnny and Tommy.
Whatever the future may bring, it's his to deal with and I hope enjoy. Tommy recently told me to listen to a song, I think it's called "The Good Life." He told me to let the words and the music "wash over me." I really couldn't do that from my vantage in the black hole. But thinking of Oliver, of the 17 year olds preparing for war, and my failings and strengths, I did just that this morning.
So to Oliver, his family, to my friends and family and to you I say, that we are alive, whether facing hard times or not, and it is a good life...it's time to launch...so enjoy.
During those three months I've experienced tremendous moments of tear-welling sadness at the loss of Johnny. Tommy and I were kept from being part of his last few years because his biological mother took him to Ohio and erected barriers both in Maryland and there that barred entry and participation. Her announcement, after the fact, that he died haunts me. "He just quit eating" I was told. At his funeral service his body looked like a cadaver from one of Hitler's death camps. I do not exaggerate. The pads of his fingers were shriveled to the bone. Days later after the fog of loss began to fade I realized that Johnny may well have "given up" but that he could not "just quit eating." He was fed via a tube and pump that put nourishment directly into his stomach.
Before he was moved, quite illegally if the court directives have any credibility, I read in a report from his physician at Children's Hospital that said his biological mother had him in therapy at the National Rehabilitation Hospital. I thought that interesting since early in his tragic disability, she yanked him from that place where he was making tremendous progress and was tended by doctors and nurses who knew him and unceremoniously relocated to Johns Hopkins' juvenile facility in Baltimore. She violated National Rehab protocols on a number of occasions, causing Johnny to contract pneumonia as a consequence of one such incident. The nurses yelled, quite literally telling her to stop what she was doing. She of course put the blame on the nurses. At any rate I went to NRH and asked for records of Johnny's therapy there. Over three years, he had been taken there six times. PT and OT are vital to quadriplegic maintenance: daily, weekly etc. Not one or two days a year.
Unlike the boys' biological mother, I put the blame directly on me for not intervening. I know Johnny blamed me for not being with him daily. He may not have been able to speak but the look in his eyes was articulate and damningly eloquent.
Also during the month's of my written silence, Sister Joyce Volpini, legendary principal of St. Jerome parish school in Hyattsville succumbed to cancer. Sister Joyce was a dear and good friend. She gave Tommy his dog, Gia, in part as a very successful means to deal with Johnny's death.
Sister Joyce was unceremoniously kicked out of the parish by a skunk masquerading as a cleric. She was struggling with cancer when the little man in charge of the parish sent her packing. He lied to the parish saying she was returning to her Order when he knew she was taken from a lifelong religious community that was her home for three or so decades and had no where else to go save a "mother-in-law" apartment at a relative's house. The Order closed its residence years ago with only a small plot of Nuns' graves as all that remained. I promised I would do everything in my power to have the SOB reverse his decision. Dealing with an Archbishop now a Cardinal who has the arrogance and disdain for his "flock" of a medieval monarch and the individual in question once again revealed the incredible hypocrisy of institutional religion...no different than corporate America or pretty much any political or academic ecology. Those in power protect their own...anyone they deem verboten be damned.
This past ten days I was in rural England, Consett to be specific, Durham County or Newcastle in the Northeast. I met some very fine people. Ate some very fine home and pub furnished meals. Had a pint or two and just soaked in the history surrounding the incredibly historic countryside. Everything is made of stone: farm walls, rows of tiny homes that housed miners and their families for a few hundred years. The stones were mined from countless fields and plucked from Hadrian's Roman Legion built wall as well as pasture lands that have changed little since they were crisscrossed by Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen preparing for the June 6, 1944 invasion of the Normandy Coast. I was there for a wedding of two incredibly fine youngsters. The groom's father is a farmer living three hours away near Lincoln on the family farm. He was as quick to reference the circumstances of the preceding generation's experience when General Eisenhower ran the show as anyone alive then or the finest historian.
Most of those training and awaiting the launch signal in 1944 were but kids barely older than 17, Tommy's age. They were away from home, family, and facing an immediate future few could or can now imagine. They were scared. Today, we call the feeling depression. The black hole of World War II makes anything we experience look like the work of a child at the seashore working the sand with a tiny plastic bucket and shovel.
At the wedding was a tike, celebrating his first birthday that same day, named Oliver.
Oliver has huge brown eyes and an even larger smile. Oliver made me think of Johnny and Tommy.
Whatever the future may bring, it's his to deal with and I hope enjoy. Tommy recently told me to listen to a song, I think it's called "The Good Life." He told me to let the words and the music "wash over me." I really couldn't do that from my vantage in the black hole. But thinking of Oliver, of the 17 year olds preparing for war, and my failings and strengths, I did just that this morning.
So to Oliver, his family, to my friends and family and to you I say, that we are alive, whether facing hard times or not, and it is a good life...it's time to launch...so enjoy.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
An Amazing Read About An Equally Amazing Person
Seventeen years ago, I met an individual from "the other side" of the ideological tracks. He was an "animal rights" activist. I was not. Up until then, I pigeon-holed everyone working for "the animals" as misguided phonies who hated humans. I had fair to good reasons. My firstborn, Johnny was born with his left ventricle unformed. It's an all to common birth defect called "hypoplastic left heart syndrome."
Thanks to numerous medical procedures developed largely by veterinarians working with dogs, pigs, primates and any variety of other animals, Johnny lived and enjoyed a very fine life up to his teenage years. Infants with that condition traditionally die a few weeks after birth.
After three open-heart procedures and doctors at Children's Hospital being happy their skills offered him as close to a normal life as could be hoped, I was told by a friend still at NRA that I might want to look up a group advocating for animal-based medical research. Using my best imitation of Joshua assaulting the fortifications at Jericho, I was given an opportunity to literally give public tribute to the medical researchers who gave my son his life. Going public on this topic is not for the weak. One ad I wrote featuring an image of Johnny unconscious with tubes running literally everywhere into his infant body juxtaposed with a smiling, vibrant six-year-old drew over a hundred missives best characterized as "hate mail" from animal advocates.
I know the origin of most because where possible I tracked down the authors and phoned them to ask why they adopted the PETA-inspired line that the life of the rats sacrificed to develop medical treatments was far more important than the life of a "genetically defective" child - their term. My outrage was equal only to my disbelief that humans could harbor such nonsense.
At any rate, when I met David Wills I was prepared to despise him. Instead I realized I was looking at my mirror image. We both knew what CITES was (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora). We both knew and were disgusted by the money-minting, fund raising corporate world known as the "animal rights" community, but not at the goal they claimed they were fighting for - helping the helpless. We both knew that working to "do things right" for the benefit of humans AND animals was what we wanted to do. We knew we wanted to do it our way and not help engorge the bank accounts of the ego-inflated multi-million dollar fund raising institutions.
The "kid" as I call him was a pretty amazing fellow. We've worked together for nearly two decades with no regrets. Well almost none. One year while he was doing an analysis of the commercial fisheries of the Bahamas, I was spending a freezing week at a whalers convention in Iceland.
Recently David turned the tables on me. I'm a writer. He's more the project developer in our business. Now he's the writer.
We put together a small publishing firm and he's authored two of the first three volumes sporting our logo. The one still awaiting publication is about his five years working undercover investigating the dark world of ivory poaching, parrot smuggling etc. It describes the smarmy world of international trade in illegal animals and animal parts. It's a great read and a movie waiting to happen. Animal Rights groups and their opponents will want to read it. It will shock and amaze them both. More about it once we send it to the printer.
The second is a wisp of a book. Barely 60-some pages. Big print. Hardly what you would call a "tome." But it is the kind of book that makes its mark on your very soul. It's called "Talk to My A** My Head Hurts" and subtitled "My Life With Uncle Joe."
It's a true tale about how a man, deemed "not quite right" after an insult to his brain during infancy, taught a young, very abused (by "difficult" parents) boy the joys of life.
Jerzy Kosinski wrote a dark and disturbing book called "The Painted Bird" about growing up in Nazi-occupied Poland. That book left you equally dark and quite disturbed.
David K. Wills' remembrances of his Uncle Joe, still living, is its polar opposite. Yes, his words make you reevaluate how you view people who are "not quite right." Yes, it challenges quite a few preconceptions. But when you finish reading it, you feel an inner peace and you literally feel you are breathing in life quite a bit better. It can, no lie, make a grown man cry.
This is a very short book that should be required reading for every high school and university class dealing with all things social, psychological, spiritual, and how we view and treat each other. I am not exaggerating. So click out of this blog. Go to Amazon books and enter either the title or subtitle. Buy the book and enjoy. It will become your new best friend.
Thanks to numerous medical procedures developed largely by veterinarians working with dogs, pigs, primates and any variety of other animals, Johnny lived and enjoyed a very fine life up to his teenage years. Infants with that condition traditionally die a few weeks after birth.
After three open-heart procedures and doctors at Children's Hospital being happy their skills offered him as close to a normal life as could be hoped, I was told by a friend still at NRA that I might want to look up a group advocating for animal-based medical research. Using my best imitation of Joshua assaulting the fortifications at Jericho, I was given an opportunity to literally give public tribute to the medical researchers who gave my son his life. Going public on this topic is not for the weak. One ad I wrote featuring an image of Johnny unconscious with tubes running literally everywhere into his infant body juxtaposed with a smiling, vibrant six-year-old drew over a hundred missives best characterized as "hate mail" from animal advocates.
I know the origin of most because where possible I tracked down the authors and phoned them to ask why they adopted the PETA-inspired line that the life of the rats sacrificed to develop medical treatments was far more important than the life of a "genetically defective" child - their term. My outrage was equal only to my disbelief that humans could harbor such nonsense.
At any rate, when I met David Wills I was prepared to despise him. Instead I realized I was looking at my mirror image. We both knew what CITES was (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora). We both knew and were disgusted by the money-minting, fund raising corporate world known as the "animal rights" community, but not at the goal they claimed they were fighting for - helping the helpless. We both knew that working to "do things right" for the benefit of humans AND animals was what we wanted to do. We knew we wanted to do it our way and not help engorge the bank accounts of the ego-inflated multi-million dollar fund raising institutions.
The "kid" as I call him was a pretty amazing fellow. We've worked together for nearly two decades with no regrets. Well almost none. One year while he was doing an analysis of the commercial fisheries of the Bahamas, I was spending a freezing week at a whalers convention in Iceland.
Recently David turned the tables on me. I'm a writer. He's more the project developer in our business. Now he's the writer.
We put together a small publishing firm and he's authored two of the first three volumes sporting our logo. The one still awaiting publication is about his five years working undercover investigating the dark world of ivory poaching, parrot smuggling etc. It describes the smarmy world of international trade in illegal animals and animal parts. It's a great read and a movie waiting to happen. Animal Rights groups and their opponents will want to read it. It will shock and amaze them both. More about it once we send it to the printer.
The second is a wisp of a book. Barely 60-some pages. Big print. Hardly what you would call a "tome." But it is the kind of book that makes its mark on your very soul. It's called "Talk to My A** My Head Hurts" and subtitled "My Life With Uncle Joe."
It's a true tale about how a man, deemed "not quite right" after an insult to his brain during infancy, taught a young, very abused (by "difficult" parents) boy the joys of life.
Jerzy Kosinski wrote a dark and disturbing book called "The Painted Bird" about growing up in Nazi-occupied Poland. That book left you equally dark and quite disturbed.
David K. Wills' remembrances of his Uncle Joe, still living, is its polar opposite. Yes, his words make you reevaluate how you view people who are "not quite right." Yes, it challenges quite a few preconceptions. But when you finish reading it, you feel an inner peace and you literally feel you are breathing in life quite a bit better. It can, no lie, make a grown man cry.
This is a very short book that should be required reading for every high school and university class dealing with all things social, psychological, spiritual, and how we view and treat each other. I am not exaggerating. So click out of this blog. Go to Amazon books and enter either the title or subtitle. Buy the book and enjoy. It will become your new best friend.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
A True Life Hero
I want to talk about a true life hero: My sister Elena.
Elena turns 64 this December. She just graduated from college last month. She did it with honors and made two honor societies.
Elena is a breast cancer survivor. She was finishing up chemo when our mother died in 2006. She's also a grandmother and, in the words of her husband, Bob, "one of the sweetest, kindest people who ever lived."
Today, Elena wrote the family a long description of her first 5K walk. Remember she's in her sixties. (Of course, our mother entered her first shotgun competition - fifty sporting clay targets - at age 72.) I'm including most of it so you can enjoy the character and humor of my sister.
Let me say this as kind as I can. For those who don't know her, Elena is not an athlete. She works two jobs. At both she's the most admired and loved individual you can imagine. On weekends she works at a very famous Italian deli in the heart of Baltimore. So use your imagination. She's a grandmother who feeds people, all sorts of people. Get the picture? We - she and I - are not from a line of slight folks. Our mother and grandmother before her were outstanding cooks and we reaped the benefits. Now on with the story.
Sunday, June 26: "I planned to participate in the Baltimore Women's Classic to attempt a 5K walk which equates to a little under 3.2 miles. The timing was perfect, a Sunday and the weather was cooperating calling for no humidity. Last night I went to bed disappointed because every family member was disappointed in me for planning to attend regardless of who could attend to be with me. I was determined to carry out my goal. However, as they say I listened to reason (which I many times interpret first as guilt before thinking things through) and heard that I let my family down by not letting them be there with me. Also that no one would be there to pick me up and drag me to the curb if I fell. And figuring I would get lost in the city with my sense of direction. In my defense, I will say sometimes everyone's delivery could be a bit gentler.
So I went to 7a.m. Mass as every Sunday, but I wore my tennis shoes, light weight pants and shirt because after mass I was going to beat the heat. By 8:10 a.m. I was at the Liberty High School track with cell phone (for timing), water (for dehydration), and strawberries (for nourishment). Since my memory does not serve me well when it comes to numbers, I figured if I completed each lane twice, I would cover 3 miles and not get confused and miscount. Believe it or not I can have a plan and structure once in awhile.
Starting at Lanes 5 and 6, the furthest and longest, I completed them (4 trips around the track) in approximately 30 minutes accomplishing the first mile. When I was rounding the track, I would look up to see if Vicki's (her daughter) car pulled up to surprise me and cheer me on. Now, I didn't tell anyone I was doing this after Mass but I still hoped. I pulled up to my water bottle took a swig, ate a strawberry and set off for the rest of my journey.
On my second mile, which were lanes 3 and 4, I decided this was more than I wanted to bite off. By this time the sun was getting hotter and my body was telling me how I had abused it. The first was the usual issue that Granny and I now share... As I rounded the track, I looked for the nearest bathroom... Then I thought about what homeless people go through and decided mind over matter. It took a good two laps before my mind conquered most of my matter... The homeless thoughts helped, I was sharing the track with three runners. I saw a port-a-pot in the horizon, it was not a mirage. However, I would never go in one anyway. I have trouble with gas stations let alone a box in the middle of a field. Besides it was up a hill and I was struggling enough.
Still looking for Vicki's car but now hoped to see Chris (No. 2 son) and family coming out of the neighborhood. I even waved to some strange family. Mile two accomplished and I gladly took in more water, a strawberry, and checked the clock just under an hour and I completed two miles.
Approaching 9 a.m. and mile three, lanes 1 and 2. My big dilemma do I jump over to lane 1 as a reward or stick with lane two the longer stretch before moving to lane 1. Also I remembered my runner courtesy and would watch the people I was sharing the track with down to 2 runners now. I found as I turned to see their location I would be a bit clumsy and loose my footing into another lane. I struggled with deciding if I should give up before I collapsed. The good thing, I was breathing well but my knee was killing me. Then I saw two bikers coming out of Chris' neighborhood. I knew it was Chris and Hannah (granddaughter) out for a morning ride before they took off for the family outing and they were going to check if I was on the track. Wrong again, but I never gave up the hope that one of my family would show up.
By now still struggling through mile 3, I was feeling pretty tired so I turned my thoughts to the kids. How much I wanted to see everyone in Chicago, see Mac (grandson) at one of his games and that cute little mouth, Grayson (granddaughter) to say how proud I am that her sweetness is not wavered by peer pressure, and Robbie (grandson) who has grown into a man but always shows me how much he cares for me and wants to be with me. I thought of how I had to get myself under control because I wanted to get in the pool with Nicholas (grandson) (even though he can out swim me even giving me a headstart) and play. How I wanted to help Livi (granddaughter) and Drew (grandson) now that they love the water. And Hannah I want to take her to one of the new movies out and share some of the girlie stuff. These kids need to help me get into todays world. My mind traveled to all my grown kids, Rob (No. 1 son), Amber (daughter-in-law), Chris, Michelle (Chris' wife), Vicki and Pete (Vicki's husband) and how they love to please me and how I selfishly do my own thing more than I should. And then I thought of Bob and how he was going to yell at me for not telling him.
Well guess what now I had completed 2 3/4 miles and I knew I could make it to finish three.
As I was rounding the last 1/4 mile of the third mile, the sound of hundreds of crows (more properly ravens since she's in Baltimore area) in the trees was over powering. I thought of the movie the "Birds" and wondered if they had come because like in a desert when someone is ready to keel over they had come to pick my bones. They could have a very meaty treat. Or did they sniff out my strawberries. I couldn't see but a couple but the entire flock was there. I knew I couldn't run if they attacked. The car was close but I still had another 1/4 mile to finish 3.25 miles.
All the runners had left me, I was alone. I made it -- three miles. I could do it. I got another swig of water and a strawberry. Now the track was mine to choose the lane of my choice and bring this venture home. I choose lane two and staggered into three on occasion.
My feet were burning and my knee was aching all the way to the front of my shin but I could tell a smile was starting to form on my face. I thought of the conversation I had with Hannah about my fantasy as I rounded to the finish line at a 5K. How all the grandkids were cheering, and in my fantasy I fell but I picked myself up and the Rocky theme was playing as I passed the finish line. We had both laughed but guess what I made it in my fantasy and now.
I retrieved my water which took me an extra few steps over my 3.25 miles and actually limped off the track. It was like my body was telling me what I had put it through and was not forgiving.
The last 1/4 mile the crows disappeared and only a few song birds were chirping. And, I did do my stretching exercises between miles and at the end.
Off I went to fill up the gas tank for tomorrow, get to the bathroom, and get protein into me.
So this is my story of my guilt for making my kids feel bad, my determination to find out if I could finish the race, and mythank you for being such a wonderful family that loves me unconditionally. Thank you."
What Elena missed is that we owe her a resounding "Thank You" for being there for all of us.
She's endured more than most over the years and still approaches life with all the enthusiasm of an innocent.
We have a lot to learn from her.
Elena turns 64 this December. She just graduated from college last month. She did it with honors and made two honor societies.
Elena is a breast cancer survivor. She was finishing up chemo when our mother died in 2006. She's also a grandmother and, in the words of her husband, Bob, "one of the sweetest, kindest people who ever lived."
Today, Elena wrote the family a long description of her first 5K walk. Remember she's in her sixties. (Of course, our mother entered her first shotgun competition - fifty sporting clay targets - at age 72.) I'm including most of it so you can enjoy the character and humor of my sister.
Let me say this as kind as I can. For those who don't know her, Elena is not an athlete. She works two jobs. At both she's the most admired and loved individual you can imagine. On weekends she works at a very famous Italian deli in the heart of Baltimore. So use your imagination. She's a grandmother who feeds people, all sorts of people. Get the picture? We - she and I - are not from a line of slight folks. Our mother and grandmother before her were outstanding cooks and we reaped the benefits. Now on with the story.
Sunday, June 26: "I planned to participate in the Baltimore Women's Classic to attempt a 5K walk which equates to a little under 3.2 miles. The timing was perfect, a Sunday and the weather was cooperating calling for no humidity. Last night I went to bed disappointed because every family member was disappointed in me for planning to attend regardless of who could attend to be with me. I was determined to carry out my goal. However, as they say I listened to reason (which I many times interpret first as guilt before thinking things through) and heard that I let my family down by not letting them be there with me. Also that no one would be there to pick me up and drag me to the curb if I fell. And figuring I would get lost in the city with my sense of direction. In my defense, I will say sometimes everyone's delivery could be a bit gentler.
So I went to 7a.m. Mass as every Sunday, but I wore my tennis shoes, light weight pants and shirt because after mass I was going to beat the heat. By 8:10 a.m. I was at the Liberty High School track with cell phone (for timing), water (for dehydration), and strawberries (for nourishment). Since my memory does not serve me well when it comes to numbers, I figured if I completed each lane twice, I would cover 3 miles and not get confused and miscount. Believe it or not I can have a plan and structure once in awhile.
Starting at Lanes 5 and 6, the furthest and longest, I completed them (4 trips around the track) in approximately 30 minutes accomplishing the first mile. When I was rounding the track, I would look up to see if Vicki's (her daughter) car pulled up to surprise me and cheer me on. Now, I didn't tell anyone I was doing this after Mass but I still hoped. I pulled up to my water bottle took a swig, ate a strawberry and set off for the rest of my journey.
On my second mile, which were lanes 3 and 4, I decided this was more than I wanted to bite off. By this time the sun was getting hotter and my body was telling me how I had abused it. The first was the usual issue that Granny and I now share... As I rounded the track, I looked for the nearest bathroom... Then I thought about what homeless people go through and decided mind over matter. It took a good two laps before my mind conquered most of my matter... The homeless thoughts helped, I was sharing the track with three runners. I saw a port-a-pot in the horizon, it was not a mirage. However, I would never go in one anyway. I have trouble with gas stations let alone a box in the middle of a field. Besides it was up a hill and I was struggling enough.
Still looking for Vicki's car but now hoped to see Chris (No. 2 son) and family coming out of the neighborhood. I even waved to some strange family. Mile two accomplished and I gladly took in more water, a strawberry, and checked the clock just under an hour and I completed two miles.
Approaching 9 a.m. and mile three, lanes 1 and 2. My big dilemma do I jump over to lane 1 as a reward or stick with lane two the longer stretch before moving to lane 1. Also I remembered my runner courtesy and would watch the people I was sharing the track with down to 2 runners now. I found as I turned to see their location I would be a bit clumsy and loose my footing into another lane. I struggled with deciding if I should give up before I collapsed. The good thing, I was breathing well but my knee was killing me. Then I saw two bikers coming out of Chris' neighborhood. I knew it was Chris and Hannah (granddaughter) out for a morning ride before they took off for the family outing and they were going to check if I was on the track. Wrong again, but I never gave up the hope that one of my family would show up.
By now still struggling through mile 3, I was feeling pretty tired so I turned my thoughts to the kids. How much I wanted to see everyone in Chicago, see Mac (grandson) at one of his games and that cute little mouth, Grayson (granddaughter) to say how proud I am that her sweetness is not wavered by peer pressure, and Robbie (grandson) who has grown into a man but always shows me how much he cares for me and wants to be with me. I thought of how I had to get myself under control because I wanted to get in the pool with Nicholas (grandson) (even though he can out swim me even giving me a headstart) and play. How I wanted to help Livi (granddaughter) and Drew (grandson) now that they love the water. And Hannah I want to take her to one of the new movies out and share some of the girlie stuff. These kids need to help me get into todays world. My mind traveled to all my grown kids, Rob (No. 1 son), Amber (daughter-in-law), Chris, Michelle (Chris' wife), Vicki and Pete (Vicki's husband) and how they love to please me and how I selfishly do my own thing more than I should. And then I thought of Bob and how he was going to yell at me for not telling him.
Well guess what now I had completed 2 3/4 miles and I knew I could make it to finish three.
As I was rounding the last 1/4 mile of the third mile, the sound of hundreds of crows (more properly ravens since she's in Baltimore area) in the trees was over powering. I thought of the movie the "Birds" and wondered if they had come because like in a desert when someone is ready to keel over they had come to pick my bones. They could have a very meaty treat. Or did they sniff out my strawberries. I couldn't see but a couple but the entire flock was there. I knew I couldn't run if they attacked. The car was close but I still had another 1/4 mile to finish 3.25 miles.
All the runners had left me, I was alone. I made it -- three miles. I could do it. I got another swig of water and a strawberry. Now the track was mine to choose the lane of my choice and bring this venture home. I choose lane two and staggered into three on occasion.
My feet were burning and my knee was aching all the way to the front of my shin but I could tell a smile was starting to form on my face. I thought of the conversation I had with Hannah about my fantasy as I rounded to the finish line at a 5K. How all the grandkids were cheering, and in my fantasy I fell but I picked myself up and the Rocky theme was playing as I passed the finish line. We had both laughed but guess what I made it in my fantasy and now.
I retrieved my water which took me an extra few steps over my 3.25 miles and actually limped off the track. It was like my body was telling me what I had put it through and was not forgiving.
The last 1/4 mile the crows disappeared and only a few song birds were chirping. And, I did do my stretching exercises between miles and at the end.
Off I went to fill up the gas tank for tomorrow, get to the bathroom, and get protein into me.
So this is my story of my guilt for making my kids feel bad, my determination to find out if I could finish the race, and mythank you for being such a wonderful family that loves me unconditionally. Thank you."
What Elena missed is that we owe her a resounding "Thank You" for being there for all of us.
She's endured more than most over the years and still approaches life with all the enthusiasm of an innocent.
We have a lot to learn from her.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Growing Older and Institutional Memory
Thirty years ago, I worked as the night cook at Clydes' in Georgetown. My training was about a half hour of the day cook showing me and a fellow named DJ the various dishes and what we had to do to prepare for the next day. What he didn't mention was that very little would be prepared for our shift so every night it was a race to weigh out hamburger patties from five pound bags, peel a sack or two of potatoes and run them through a machine that sliced them into fry-size chips, prepare salads, cook turkeys, slice New York strip steaks from shells of beef, and make Hollandaise sauce (a skill I've long forgotten). That's in addition to cooking, really preparing for the day shift and cleaning the kitchen from the floors to the stove cook tops. DJ didn't last long. To me it was a challenge and probably the best training in the world for multi-tasking.
Having three to five waiters/waitresses bring multiple orders virtually at the same time, then preparing each individual meal to be completed exactly when the others come up so they can be served together while starting each successive order to keep the next waiter in line (and the customers) happy was daunting but doable. In fact it was fun.
In the midst of this organized chaos, everyone from top of the economic food chain oral surgeons and their wives would come to the kitchen to unload stories of family vacations and emotional crises. The folks using my kitchen much the same way people use barber shops, beauty salons and therapists would parade in completely oblivious to the culinary juggling act before them. There were newly graduated Georgetown law students working as waiters who would taut the benefits of Bhuddism, Cops looking for a free meal (including a pacifist Quaker who was against war but saw no conflict in carrying a pistol to enforce the law), musicians, filmmakers, you name them all looking to unload the problems of the day on someone who would listen.
One young Virginia college student came in and when I asked what he was studying, answered "management." I was dumbstruck. Here was a kid who never worked a menial job in his life and he wanted to go directly into managing folks twice his age who worked from dawn to dusk, served in the military whether Vietnam (going on at the time), Korea or WWII, raised families and survived all the other stuff that goes along with making one's way through life.
That kid's attitude is even more prevalent today. Everyone wants to start at the top, drive a Mercedes or Lexus, and ignore anyone who is not a CEO now. This is particularly irritating after the age of 60 when friends and relatives around you are getting tossed from jobs they've held for thirty years in favor of youngsters with energy and confidence (and who will take for the time being less in the way of salary than a veteran of the job).
Sam Rayburn's longtime assistant (whose name I will remember the instant I post this) a gent I met decades ago who was a close friend of another friend, Maury Maverick Jr., once described to me his impression of folks in Dallas versus those from Fort Worth, Texas. We both loved and admired friends from Fort Worth, but, at that time kind of viewed Dallas as a more Northern city. At any rate he described the stereotypical Dallas-ite as being in "too big a hurry to make money to shake your hand." (His name was D.B. Hardiman, taught at Trinity here in DC and had more books in his apartment than most bookstores. I know. Helped pack them and drive them back to Texas.)
My point? A lot of institutional memory is being erased in the push for youth. A lot of talent and know-how available to the young is being wasted by ignoring lessons never asked of those with experience. And life does not end once you reach a certain age.
Having three to five waiters/waitresses bring multiple orders virtually at the same time, then preparing each individual meal to be completed exactly when the others come up so they can be served together while starting each successive order to keep the next waiter in line (and the customers) happy was daunting but doable. In fact it was fun.
In the midst of this organized chaos, everyone from top of the economic food chain oral surgeons and their wives would come to the kitchen to unload stories of family vacations and emotional crises. The folks using my kitchen much the same way people use barber shops, beauty salons and therapists would parade in completely oblivious to the culinary juggling act before them. There were newly graduated Georgetown law students working as waiters who would taut the benefits of Bhuddism, Cops looking for a free meal (including a pacifist Quaker who was against war but saw no conflict in carrying a pistol to enforce the law), musicians, filmmakers, you name them all looking to unload the problems of the day on someone who would listen.
One young Virginia college student came in and when I asked what he was studying, answered "management." I was dumbstruck. Here was a kid who never worked a menial job in his life and he wanted to go directly into managing folks twice his age who worked from dawn to dusk, served in the military whether Vietnam (going on at the time), Korea or WWII, raised families and survived all the other stuff that goes along with making one's way through life.
That kid's attitude is even more prevalent today. Everyone wants to start at the top, drive a Mercedes or Lexus, and ignore anyone who is not a CEO now. This is particularly irritating after the age of 60 when friends and relatives around you are getting tossed from jobs they've held for thirty years in favor of youngsters with energy and confidence (and who will take for the time being less in the way of salary than a veteran of the job).
Sam Rayburn's longtime assistant (whose name I will remember the instant I post this) a gent I met decades ago who was a close friend of another friend, Maury Maverick Jr., once described to me his impression of folks in Dallas versus those from Fort Worth, Texas. We both loved and admired friends from Fort Worth, but, at that time kind of viewed Dallas as a more Northern city. At any rate he described the stereotypical Dallas-ite as being in "too big a hurry to make money to shake your hand." (His name was D.B. Hardiman, taught at Trinity here in DC and had more books in his apartment than most bookstores. I know. Helped pack them and drive them back to Texas.)
My point? A lot of institutional memory is being erased in the push for youth. A lot of talent and know-how available to the young is being wasted by ignoring lessons never asked of those with experience. And life does not end once you reach a certain age.
Friday, June 17, 2011
National Rehabilitation Hospital
Yesterday I was discharged from outpatient physical therapy at the National Rehabilitation Hospital in Washington DC. NRH is on the same medical campus as Washington Hospital Center and Children's Hospital. I've quite a bit of history at all three.
Johnny and Tommy were born at Washington Hospital Center. Johnny underwent three open-heart procedures by the age of four and multiple related treatments at Children's. After he suffered what amounted to an arrhythmic attack a week before he was to graduate from St. Jerome's grade school, he was rushed back to Children's. Rendered a non-verbal quadriplegic because the oxygen to his brain was blocked during an incorrect CPR attempt, he was admitted to the NRH/Children's Hospital ward.
I'll save the details of being blocked from seeing him during his first few days there for a later blog. Suffice to say, the staff at NRH was outstanding. Johnny was responding to his physical therapist. The nurses were as kind as (in my case kinder than) many blood relatives. The doctors exceptional. The same can be said for the patients, their families, even the security folks. Often as I left, during the hours you are not sure count as night or early morning, a guard they called "coach" would stop me and say, "Don't worry, they do miracles, here." It always brought a smile.
By brief stint at NRH this past month or so was twice a week to help get some strength in legs that were less than mobile prior to my spinal surgery. The left, the one that bore the brunt of pain, had atrophied a bit more than the right. So it was the object of most of the exercises. I have to admit that each week the residual discomfort (minor) diminished and equal amounts of strength and confidence appeared. As I went through my paces I would look around at the patients and kinda searched in case Johnny's therapist might still be there.
Each visit, each search for a parking space in the adjacent garage, each time I walked to the front desk for an ID tag, brought back memories.
At nights spent with Johnny, the nurses would say, "here's dad" then tell me Johnny was inconsolable no matter who was there including his mother until I appeared. Then, they said he would quiet down. I suspect he was on his best behavior when his young therapist was present. He'd brighten when she walked into the room.
Once in his room I would play songs by Andrea Bocelli. I tried to keep the music quiet but it filtered down the corridor and on more than one occasion I was told how much the nurses appreciated the soothing music. I'd talk to Johnny and ask if he could do minor things like touch one finger to his opposite hand. He would try. You could see movement towards the goal. I would change his diaper if necessary then watch as he dozed off to sleep. I could tell by his heart rate when he was in his deepest sleep.
I will always hate (that's the correct word) the anti-male bias of the current Maryland court system dealing with custody of children. It's as real and hurtful as the racist Jim Crow laws that still existed in the state in the 1950s. Any time a father, me, protested that the doctors were being told misleading information, I was deemed belligerent. My observations about his condition were totally ignored if contradicted by his mother (not to brag, but on Mother's Day, both boys pushed me to stand when all the mothers in the church were being honored because, in their words, "Dad you are more of a mother to us..." I'll not mention the rest. But stand I did). And, despite the progress being made at NRH, he was uprooted and placed at Kennedy-Krieger, an adjunct of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Nothing against KK. It's just that NRH was more personal. KK more a medical factory.
I'm convinced that had he stayed at NRH, Johnny would be alive and thriving today. Nothing against KK. They are very competent, very lovely folks. It's just that Johnny's comfort level was disrupted and he shut down there and would not cooperate no matter how kind his keepers. I think he didn't like Baltimore. Before his episode he was taken from his friends at St. Jerome's in Hyattsville to the Baltimore Campus of Lab School were he learned: he's not rich, that the F word was acceptable in class, and that a certain teacher found it amusing that he was beaten up each day by the class bully (that's what Johnny said and I believe him). Don't get me started.
Johnny and Tommy were born at Washington Hospital Center. Johnny underwent three open-heart procedures by the age of four and multiple related treatments at Children's. After he suffered what amounted to an arrhythmic attack a week before he was to graduate from St. Jerome's grade school, he was rushed back to Children's. Rendered a non-verbal quadriplegic because the oxygen to his brain was blocked during an incorrect CPR attempt, he was admitted to the NRH/Children's Hospital ward.
I'll save the details of being blocked from seeing him during his first few days there for a later blog. Suffice to say, the staff at NRH was outstanding. Johnny was responding to his physical therapist. The nurses were as kind as (in my case kinder than) many blood relatives. The doctors exceptional. The same can be said for the patients, their families, even the security folks. Often as I left, during the hours you are not sure count as night or early morning, a guard they called "coach" would stop me and say, "Don't worry, they do miracles, here." It always brought a smile.
By brief stint at NRH this past month or so was twice a week to help get some strength in legs that were less than mobile prior to my spinal surgery. The left, the one that bore the brunt of pain, had atrophied a bit more than the right. So it was the object of most of the exercises. I have to admit that each week the residual discomfort (minor) diminished and equal amounts of strength and confidence appeared. As I went through my paces I would look around at the patients and kinda searched in case Johnny's therapist might still be there.
Each visit, each search for a parking space in the adjacent garage, each time I walked to the front desk for an ID tag, brought back memories.
At nights spent with Johnny, the nurses would say, "here's dad" then tell me Johnny was inconsolable no matter who was there including his mother until I appeared. Then, they said he would quiet down. I suspect he was on his best behavior when his young therapist was present. He'd brighten when she walked into the room.
Once in his room I would play songs by Andrea Bocelli. I tried to keep the music quiet but it filtered down the corridor and on more than one occasion I was told how much the nurses appreciated the soothing music. I'd talk to Johnny and ask if he could do minor things like touch one finger to his opposite hand. He would try. You could see movement towards the goal. I would change his diaper if necessary then watch as he dozed off to sleep. I could tell by his heart rate when he was in his deepest sleep.
I will always hate (that's the correct word) the anti-male bias of the current Maryland court system dealing with custody of children. It's as real and hurtful as the racist Jim Crow laws that still existed in the state in the 1950s. Any time a father, me, protested that the doctors were being told misleading information, I was deemed belligerent. My observations about his condition were totally ignored if contradicted by his mother (not to brag, but on Mother's Day, both boys pushed me to stand when all the mothers in the church were being honored because, in their words, "Dad you are more of a mother to us..." I'll not mention the rest. But stand I did). And, despite the progress being made at NRH, he was uprooted and placed at Kennedy-Krieger, an adjunct of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Nothing against KK. It's just that NRH was more personal. KK more a medical factory.
I'm convinced that had he stayed at NRH, Johnny would be alive and thriving today. Nothing against KK. They are very competent, very lovely folks. It's just that Johnny's comfort level was disrupted and he shut down there and would not cooperate no matter how kind his keepers. I think he didn't like Baltimore. Before his episode he was taken from his friends at St. Jerome's in Hyattsville to the Baltimore Campus of Lab School were he learned: he's not rich, that the F word was acceptable in class, and that a certain teacher found it amusing that he was beaten up each day by the class bully (that's what Johnny said and I believe him). Don't get me started.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Walking Upright
Twenty years ago, I thought nothing of jogging four to six miles in the morning. Nine to pick up my car from the service bay at the dealership. I was never into competitive running, just sightseeing through neighborhoods, parks etc. It was a true joy. Of course, at the speed I jogged I would say an eighty- year-old using a walker could lap me on any course.
Once after a six mile jog around Fort Shenandoah, the North-South Skirmish Association's range outside Winchester, VA, I was standing on a slight slope when I felt what I thought was an intense groin pull. My Chiropractor, a wonder woman named Diane Rosello said my problem was that I had worked my pelvis out of place. She did something and the pain disappeared.
About three years ago something happened to my back to the point where I could barely walk to my car. It was partly pain and partly fear of pain.
I watched young parents walking their children to grade school and envied them the use of their pain-free legs. I couldn't throw a baseball to my son Tommy. I could barely walk to the diamond.
One day I toughed it out and visited a good friend at NRA headquarters in Fairfax VA.
Jim Land is a man I've admired and whose friendship I enjoyed well before I realized he is something of a larger than life figure in the history of the U.S. Marine Corps and in terms of reviving our military interest in long-range precision shooting. He was the force behind the creation of the Marine Scout Sniper School at Quantico and the commanding officer and often partner of famed sniper, the late Carlos Hathcock.
As I walked into Jim's office it was apparent that something was wrong. He could barely stand and the two or three steps to a chair were excruciatingly painful.
Not long afterwards, Jim visited a young surgeon in Woodbridge, VA. His name is Dr. Paymaun Lotfi. Dr. Lotfi operated on Jim's spine. A few months after the operation, Jim was scouting a forty acre field for the best place to set up for deer season. No limitation in movement. No pain.
Nearly a year later I called Dr. Lotfi's office. I brought him MRI films of my spine. He pointed out what looked like a streak of white. That, he said, is the correct opening within which my spinal cord lay. Just below in the lumbar region the white disappeared into a dense dark black. He pronounced the darkness as evidence of spinal stenosis, a constriction of the normal spinal canal. He ordered more films to indicate the extent of the damage and sent me to two other nearby physicians, one a cardiologist and one an internist, to see if I was qualified for an operation.
After a thorough vetting by Dr. Yazdani, the cardiologist, and Dr. Akrami, the internist, I was pronounced a candidate for Dr. Lotfi's talent. Woodbridge's Potomac Hospital is as modern a facility as can be found anywhere in the metropolitan area and better than most.
Don't ask me what Dr. Lotfi did. In fact the weeks that followed are but a dim blur. I spent one night in the hospital and was heading home the next evening. The entire next two weeks out of the hospital found me in the care of the world's most wonderful woman, Mary, her daughter Megan and my son Tommy.
Dr. Lofti said he found bone spurs at every vertebral junction, a bulging disc he trimmed and fragments of discs among the debri keeping my spine from working correctly. He trimmed the area between vertebrae to allow room for proper functioning.
The operation was April 12, the day decades earlier when Franklin Roosevelt died (bless the History Channel). Today, aside from a body weakened from three years of limited mobility, the pain and fear are gone. I can walk upright yet again. Will I start jogging? Let you know in a few months.
Just let me say two things. As American medicine has taken tremendous strides over the centuries due to each wave of immigrants coming to our shores and taking their place among our medical caregivers, today I thank the good Lord and three doctors practicing exceptional medicine in the area for continuing that tradition. They are offspring of a wave of immigrants who came here barely a couple of decades ago from Iran. And they are fabulous additions to our nation. Just ask my spine.
The second is, if you have or know someone who labors under tremendous back pain, get them to a qualified physician. Mine was the least invasive of spinal operations with the highest rate of success. His or hers could well be the same. It's truly worth it.
Once after a six mile jog around Fort Shenandoah, the North-South Skirmish Association's range outside Winchester, VA, I was standing on a slight slope when I felt what I thought was an intense groin pull. My Chiropractor, a wonder woman named Diane Rosello said my problem was that I had worked my pelvis out of place. She did something and the pain disappeared.
About three years ago something happened to my back to the point where I could barely walk to my car. It was partly pain and partly fear of pain.
I watched young parents walking their children to grade school and envied them the use of their pain-free legs. I couldn't throw a baseball to my son Tommy. I could barely walk to the diamond.
One day I toughed it out and visited a good friend at NRA headquarters in Fairfax VA.
Jim Land is a man I've admired and whose friendship I enjoyed well before I realized he is something of a larger than life figure in the history of the U.S. Marine Corps and in terms of reviving our military interest in long-range precision shooting. He was the force behind the creation of the Marine Scout Sniper School at Quantico and the commanding officer and often partner of famed sniper, the late Carlos Hathcock.
As I walked into Jim's office it was apparent that something was wrong. He could barely stand and the two or three steps to a chair were excruciatingly painful.
Not long afterwards, Jim visited a young surgeon in Woodbridge, VA. His name is Dr. Paymaun Lotfi. Dr. Lotfi operated on Jim's spine. A few months after the operation, Jim was scouting a forty acre field for the best place to set up for deer season. No limitation in movement. No pain.
Nearly a year later I called Dr. Lotfi's office. I brought him MRI films of my spine. He pointed out what looked like a streak of white. That, he said, is the correct opening within which my spinal cord lay. Just below in the lumbar region the white disappeared into a dense dark black. He pronounced the darkness as evidence of spinal stenosis, a constriction of the normal spinal canal. He ordered more films to indicate the extent of the damage and sent me to two other nearby physicians, one a cardiologist and one an internist, to see if I was qualified for an operation.
After a thorough vetting by Dr. Yazdani, the cardiologist, and Dr. Akrami, the internist, I was pronounced a candidate for Dr. Lotfi's talent. Woodbridge's Potomac Hospital is as modern a facility as can be found anywhere in the metropolitan area and better than most.
Don't ask me what Dr. Lotfi did. In fact the weeks that followed are but a dim blur. I spent one night in the hospital and was heading home the next evening. The entire next two weeks out of the hospital found me in the care of the world's most wonderful woman, Mary, her daughter Megan and my son Tommy.
Dr. Lofti said he found bone spurs at every vertebral junction, a bulging disc he trimmed and fragments of discs among the debri keeping my spine from working correctly. He trimmed the area between vertebrae to allow room for proper functioning.
The operation was April 12, the day decades earlier when Franklin Roosevelt died (bless the History Channel). Today, aside from a body weakened from three years of limited mobility, the pain and fear are gone. I can walk upright yet again. Will I start jogging? Let you know in a few months.
Just let me say two things. As American medicine has taken tremendous strides over the centuries due to each wave of immigrants coming to our shores and taking their place among our medical caregivers, today I thank the good Lord and three doctors practicing exceptional medicine in the area for continuing that tradition. They are offspring of a wave of immigrants who came here barely a couple of decades ago from Iran. And they are fabulous additions to our nation. Just ask my spine.
The second is, if you have or know someone who labors under tremendous back pain, get them to a qualified physician. Mine was the least invasive of spinal operations with the highest rate of success. His or hers could well be the same. It's truly worth it.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Is It Rudeness, Insecurity, or Poor Parenting?
My favorite irritant in life is highway driving around the Washington DC Metropolitan area. Seriously.
I grew up in Anacostia. The wrong side of the river for most in Washington. Of course, as the decades passed and the viral influence of my second most favorite irritant, namely media types who are in a hurry to make it to the national or at least six figure salary levels, the reputation of Anacostia morphed into a greater geographic area, namely Prince George's County, also a locale I called home for longer than most people have years.
During my high school years, Catholic parishes in Anacostia were feeders to St. John's College High, then a military day school with a decent academic and great athletic reputation. The kids from a bit more money and social standing gravitated to Gonzaga and Georgetown Prep. Still we "southeast" boys were looked upon as different from the Blessed Sacrament off-spring from Chevy Chase. On a football school bus caravan from St. John's to Anacostia High about a half mile from the row house my dad bought the day I was born, the Northwest boys sitting around me, commented that "some of these houses are almost livable."
(That attitude continued throughout my college years at Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass. Anyone living below Philadelphia was seen a uneducated lower classes of less than lilywhite complection. Forget the idea that anyone "down South" could be a social equal much less educated. I kid you not.
Back then PCs much less cell phones were non existant. The lone phone on our dorm's corridor was in the stairwell. One day, a classmate came into my dorm room and announced in an agitated voice "John, you have a phone call and it's a 'negro!'" I got up from my desk and walked to the phone. My incredulous Yankee classmate followed like a curious puppy. Without a heartbeat's hesitation I said, "Hi Dad.")
Unfortunately, that's not ancient history from the '50s and '60s. Today, the area's Catholic education system has also transitioned away from Prince George's/Southeast Washington to a more upper socio-economic student pool: Montgomery County in Maryland and Northern Virginia across the Potomac River.
For the most part everyone in SE/Anacostia etc. saw everyone else as peers and acted accordingly.
Today, drive up the main auto vein cutting through the heart of Montgomery County or any highway in Northern Virginia and you will experience the same cultural differentiation, only now the identifiers are the upscale brand of car.
The pool of Lexus SUVs, Infinities, Audies, BMWs and Hitler's personal favorite are all in a big hurry. I assume they are speeding in the high 70s and 80s to check their stock portfolios or just get away from Dodge Neon riffraff.
I'm told that in many jurisdictions, the combination of a turn signal light and statutes stating that a following car must yield to allow the lead vehicle to change lanes safetly is the law. I'm absolutely certain that turn signals are standard equipment on all models of motor vehicles. What I was not prepared for is the attitude that changing lanes with ample signaling constitutes a personal insult to the typical BMW and Lexus driver.
I can't count the times daily these lovely ladies and gents of all ages insist on putting the accelerator to the floor and blocking attempts to maneuver towards an exist ramp. It really seems personal because they flash various indications of being upset that their path might be crossed by someone of inferior breeding.
I often wonder if it is class arrogance or inherent rudeness. I'm beginning to suspect poor parenting may be the root cause. Stop and think. How many families actually sit down to a meal together? How many children are taught to correctly set out knives, forks and spoons on either side of a dinner plate. Guaranteed they never say "Please pass" for anything. Adults aren't addressed as Sir or Ma'am. Teachers, cops, parents are barely acknowledged with anything mildly resembling respect.
I literally get nauseated when a television commercial portrays a family meal as a bucket of chicken lumps spun together into "white meat" by huge centrifuges.
I wouldn't mind traveling the area highways even with the toney rides speeding by if I thought the inhabitants were hurrying to be with their families. But I suspect even with a wife or husband and a kid and a half or whatever the upscale demgraphics dictate, these folks screech into their driveways and spend more time before mirrors admiring themselves than hugging a spouse or offspring. I hope I'm wrong.
I grew up in Anacostia. The wrong side of the river for most in Washington. Of course, as the decades passed and the viral influence of my second most favorite irritant, namely media types who are in a hurry to make it to the national or at least six figure salary levels, the reputation of Anacostia morphed into a greater geographic area, namely Prince George's County, also a locale I called home for longer than most people have years.
During my high school years, Catholic parishes in Anacostia were feeders to St. John's College High, then a military day school with a decent academic and great athletic reputation. The kids from a bit more money and social standing gravitated to Gonzaga and Georgetown Prep. Still we "southeast" boys were looked upon as different from the Blessed Sacrament off-spring from Chevy Chase. On a football school bus caravan from St. John's to Anacostia High about a half mile from the row house my dad bought the day I was born, the Northwest boys sitting around me, commented that "some of these houses are almost livable."
(That attitude continued throughout my college years at Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass. Anyone living below Philadelphia was seen a uneducated lower classes of less than lilywhite complection. Forget the idea that anyone "down South" could be a social equal much less educated. I kid you not.
Back then PCs much less cell phones were non existant. The lone phone on our dorm's corridor was in the stairwell. One day, a classmate came into my dorm room and announced in an agitated voice "John, you have a phone call and it's a 'negro!'" I got up from my desk and walked to the phone. My incredulous Yankee classmate followed like a curious puppy. Without a heartbeat's hesitation I said, "Hi Dad.")
Unfortunately, that's not ancient history from the '50s and '60s. Today, the area's Catholic education system has also transitioned away from Prince George's/Southeast Washington to a more upper socio-economic student pool: Montgomery County in Maryland and Northern Virginia across the Potomac River.
For the most part everyone in SE/Anacostia etc. saw everyone else as peers and acted accordingly.
Today, drive up the main auto vein cutting through the heart of Montgomery County or any highway in Northern Virginia and you will experience the same cultural differentiation, only now the identifiers are the upscale brand of car.
The pool of Lexus SUVs, Infinities, Audies, BMWs and Hitler's personal favorite are all in a big hurry. I assume they are speeding in the high 70s and 80s to check their stock portfolios or just get away from Dodge Neon riffraff.
I'm told that in many jurisdictions, the combination of a turn signal light and statutes stating that a following car must yield to allow the lead vehicle to change lanes safetly is the law. I'm absolutely certain that turn signals are standard equipment on all models of motor vehicles. What I was not prepared for is the attitude that changing lanes with ample signaling constitutes a personal insult to the typical BMW and Lexus driver.
I can't count the times daily these lovely ladies and gents of all ages insist on putting the accelerator to the floor and blocking attempts to maneuver towards an exist ramp. It really seems personal because they flash various indications of being upset that their path might be crossed by someone of inferior breeding.
I often wonder if it is class arrogance or inherent rudeness. I'm beginning to suspect poor parenting may be the root cause. Stop and think. How many families actually sit down to a meal together? How many children are taught to correctly set out knives, forks and spoons on either side of a dinner plate. Guaranteed they never say "Please pass" for anything. Adults aren't addressed as Sir or Ma'am. Teachers, cops, parents are barely acknowledged with anything mildly resembling respect.
I literally get nauseated when a television commercial portrays a family meal as a bucket of chicken lumps spun together into "white meat" by huge centrifuges.
I wouldn't mind traveling the area highways even with the toney rides speeding by if I thought the inhabitants were hurrying to be with their families. But I suspect even with a wife or husband and a kid and a half or whatever the upscale demgraphics dictate, these folks screech into their driveways and spend more time before mirrors admiring themselves than hugging a spouse or offspring. I hope I'm wrong.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Exellent Advice (and Good People) at the FBI
Over the years I've been privileged to know some fine folk at every level in law enforcement. I've helped a great lady with the Hyattsville PD coach a number of basketball teams. I've had the distinct honor of shooting and socializing with Agents including Bill Vanderpool and perhaps the greatest FBI and USMC vet ever, Col. Walter Walsh, now approaching (I think) 105 years old. Both are outstanding marksmen (Col. Walsh is not only a world class competitor but also one of the most feared "G-men" during the outlaw years when the FBI emerged as the nation's antidote to scoundrels like John Dillinger, Baby-face Nelson and the like.)
I've enjoyed lectures at the Academy and read numerous bits of published wisdom from the Bureau. The one that continues to resurface in my mind is the most simple: pay attention to the obvious.
That combined with a lesson learned in the U.S. Army - If you suspect something is about to happen that may endanger someone, let someone in authority know so folks aren't blindsided - are important bits of life lessons that are too often ignored.
The point embodied in both is that people tend to ignore what is in front of them often with dire consequences. The example I recall most vividly involved a high school student who showed up at graduation clad in a blood soaked tee-shirt. One "brilliant" teacher hustled the lad inside the building and told him to get into his gown as the ceremony was about to begin. Not a word was said about the bloody shirt. Turns out the graduate had just murdered a number of members of his family. Or, so the story goes.
A recent event at a local University involving a dear friend is a prime example of a situation that thus far had a far better result.
My friend is the assistant to the dean overseeing the process involved in getting advanced degrees. As appears to be the case with all too many graduate students, adherence to guidelines or rules for submitting papers upon which hopes to receive a masters or doctorate or anything above a bachelor's degree rest is not even an afterthought much less a priority.
An individual professing to be a layperson affiliated through religious fervor to a particular clerical order (I believe the term is "oblate") was more than mildly miffed that her submission was continually returned until the correct format was in place.
In front of witnesses, the individual stated that she intended to "stab" my friend. Hardly a response on the approved behavior chart for even quasi-religious types. A few days, actually weeks, passed. Finally, my friend was told that a complaint was filed and the disturbed individual was banned from campus and would be arrested should she violate that exile.
I was ecstatic. In the world of academia where reality often takes a back seat to impractical (and often downright stupid) politically correct social theory, someone had the guts to react in a way to eliminate a threat to a person's real life. The obvious was recognized. Authorities were put on the alert and direct, definitive action was taken.
Three cheers for Academia. Three cheers for common sense.
I've enjoyed lectures at the Academy and read numerous bits of published wisdom from the Bureau. The one that continues to resurface in my mind is the most simple: pay attention to the obvious.
That combined with a lesson learned in the U.S. Army - If you suspect something is about to happen that may endanger someone, let someone in authority know so folks aren't blindsided - are important bits of life lessons that are too often ignored.
The point embodied in both is that people tend to ignore what is in front of them often with dire consequences. The example I recall most vividly involved a high school student who showed up at graduation clad in a blood soaked tee-shirt. One "brilliant" teacher hustled the lad inside the building and told him to get into his gown as the ceremony was about to begin. Not a word was said about the bloody shirt. Turns out the graduate had just murdered a number of members of his family. Or, so the story goes.
A recent event at a local University involving a dear friend is a prime example of a situation that thus far had a far better result.
My friend is the assistant to the dean overseeing the process involved in getting advanced degrees. As appears to be the case with all too many graduate students, adherence to guidelines or rules for submitting papers upon which hopes to receive a masters or doctorate or anything above a bachelor's degree rest is not even an afterthought much less a priority.
An individual professing to be a layperson affiliated through religious fervor to a particular clerical order (I believe the term is "oblate") was more than mildly miffed that her submission was continually returned until the correct format was in place.
In front of witnesses, the individual stated that she intended to "stab" my friend. Hardly a response on the approved behavior chart for even quasi-religious types. A few days, actually weeks, passed. Finally, my friend was told that a complaint was filed and the disturbed individual was banned from campus and would be arrested should she violate that exile.
I was ecstatic. In the world of academia where reality often takes a back seat to impractical (and often downright stupid) politically correct social theory, someone had the guts to react in a way to eliminate a threat to a person's real life. The obvious was recognized. Authorities were put on the alert and direct, definitive action was taken.
Three cheers for Academia. Three cheers for common sense.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Intolerance of the "Tolerant"
This past Sunday I was visiting friends celebrating their daughter's high school graduation with an informal "open house" party. There I met a very nice woman who spoke glowingly about her daughter studying pre-med at college in Colorado. The daughter, a vegetarian and confirmed social activist, mentioned that she was a bit disillusioned by the superficiality of the "tolerance" exhibited by many of the residents of the nation's most "tolerant" city: Boulder. I should note that the family conforms to all of the requisites for a "green" and "progressive" categorization.
As an example of the daughter's concern, the woman mentioned a family ski vacation where in order to transport all the kids and equipment they rented an SUV. Driving through Boulder, the family was confronted by a middle aged woman who stood on the curb as they passed and gave the family "the finger."
It struck me that we are judged no so much by who we are but by "perceptions."
In a fit of half seriousness and half humor I suggested that the woman may want to conduct a social experiment on the intolerance of the tolerant by sending her daughter a bumper sticker that simply said "GOP." She laughted then got quiet as she contemplated the potential consequences of such an act.
In my opinion, the danger we all face is our inability to see and understand that to some degree or other we are all intolerant of those who differ from us. And how that keeps us from becoming a truly "open" community on many levels.
While working at the National Rifle Association, I was shocked by the prejudice that differed in no way from the racial prejudice of the Jim Crow era of our nation's history showed to gun owners by many in the national media, by public policy shapers in Congress, and by non-gun owners in polite society. If you owned a gun, you had to be a low life, violent, a bigot, and no one who should be allowed to roam free in acceptable society.
That attitude was brought home by social workers, psychologists etc. at one public forum in Baltimore. One PhD type pronounced that "if you own a gun you might not now be guilty of harming someone but you will someday." It was a pronouncement that stuck me as incredibily narrow in vision and purely intolerant.
Similar prejudice aimed at individuals because they were non Christian, gay, Republican, hunters, poor, trappers, tree huggers, vegetarians, blessed with more skin color than the pigmentless sunburn set, mentally or physically challenged, or just non native language speakers all combined to erect barriers to acceptance.
I remember traveling to Texas to do a radio show in the early 1980s. Outside the station, the streets were filled with bright lights and even more colorful characters. It was the city's gay district and you would have thought it was Mardi Gras orCarnival in New Orleans or Rio. Everyone was laughing and smiling, even the cops. A year later, I ventured to the same station, walked outside and the streets were dark and quiet. AIDS literally took away the life of the neighborhood. Life seemed a little sadder.
After NRA, I worked in my family's tiny restaurant on Capitol Hill. My mother built a clientele that was half gay and half straight. The food was better than good and the spirit of the place was great. We even catered to the hookers next door who serviced Members of Congress and their oh so correct staff. Again, the lights went out as the specter of AIDS visited the Hill.
Later I looked around my suburban Maryland community and watched an influx of new neighbors arrive from Africa and Latin America. I was roundly condemned for suggesting that if we had volunteer efforts to help folks get their citizenship and learn English the new residents would not feel so isolated, not to mention victimized because they did not understand what sleazy exploiters were doing to them. Somehow my suggestion was deemed as "intolerant."
Recently I was asked to edit for publication a short manuscript about a young boy's journey to manhood guided in part by his Uncle who was "mentally defective" after some problem incurred shortly after birth. It brought back distant memories of my childhood during the 1950s where adults would warn my sisters and me about avoiding an equally challenged person at the local carnival. The individual in question always smiled, wore thick glasses and had no friends that we could see. He just looked different.
As I progressed through the manuscript I was mesmerized by the care and compassion of the Uncle shown a young boy whose parents were certifiably cruel, abusive and just plain nasty. It was and is a marvelous story I hope many will read when it is finally published. I will post its publication date and availability.
The story helped me recognize my own intolerance and reminded me to beware those who posture as "tolerant" to all save the folks who just might be a little different.
As an example of the daughter's concern, the woman mentioned a family ski vacation where in order to transport all the kids and equipment they rented an SUV. Driving through Boulder, the family was confronted by a middle aged woman who stood on the curb as they passed and gave the family "the finger."
It struck me that we are judged no so much by who we are but by "perceptions."
In a fit of half seriousness and half humor I suggested that the woman may want to conduct a social experiment on the intolerance of the tolerant by sending her daughter a bumper sticker that simply said "GOP." She laughted then got quiet as she contemplated the potential consequences of such an act.
In my opinion, the danger we all face is our inability to see and understand that to some degree or other we are all intolerant of those who differ from us. And how that keeps us from becoming a truly "open" community on many levels.
While working at the National Rifle Association, I was shocked by the prejudice that differed in no way from the racial prejudice of the Jim Crow era of our nation's history showed to gun owners by many in the national media, by public policy shapers in Congress, and by non-gun owners in polite society. If you owned a gun, you had to be a low life, violent, a bigot, and no one who should be allowed to roam free in acceptable society.
That attitude was brought home by social workers, psychologists etc. at one public forum in Baltimore. One PhD type pronounced that "if you own a gun you might not now be guilty of harming someone but you will someday." It was a pronouncement that stuck me as incredibily narrow in vision and purely intolerant.
Similar prejudice aimed at individuals because they were non Christian, gay, Republican, hunters, poor, trappers, tree huggers, vegetarians, blessed with more skin color than the pigmentless sunburn set, mentally or physically challenged, or just non native language speakers all combined to erect barriers to acceptance.
I remember traveling to Texas to do a radio show in the early 1980s. Outside the station, the streets were filled with bright lights and even more colorful characters. It was the city's gay district and you would have thought it was Mardi Gras orCarnival in New Orleans or Rio. Everyone was laughing and smiling, even the cops. A year later, I ventured to the same station, walked outside and the streets were dark and quiet. AIDS literally took away the life of the neighborhood. Life seemed a little sadder.
After NRA, I worked in my family's tiny restaurant on Capitol Hill. My mother built a clientele that was half gay and half straight. The food was better than good and the spirit of the place was great. We even catered to the hookers next door who serviced Members of Congress and their oh so correct staff. Again, the lights went out as the specter of AIDS visited the Hill.
Later I looked around my suburban Maryland community and watched an influx of new neighbors arrive from Africa and Latin America. I was roundly condemned for suggesting that if we had volunteer efforts to help folks get their citizenship and learn English the new residents would not feel so isolated, not to mention victimized because they did not understand what sleazy exploiters were doing to them. Somehow my suggestion was deemed as "intolerant."
Recently I was asked to edit for publication a short manuscript about a young boy's journey to manhood guided in part by his Uncle who was "mentally defective" after some problem incurred shortly after birth. It brought back distant memories of my childhood during the 1950s where adults would warn my sisters and me about avoiding an equally challenged person at the local carnival. The individual in question always smiled, wore thick glasses and had no friends that we could see. He just looked different.
As I progressed through the manuscript I was mesmerized by the care and compassion of the Uncle shown a young boy whose parents were certifiably cruel, abusive and just plain nasty. It was and is a marvelous story I hope many will read when it is finally published. I will post its publication date and availability.
The story helped me recognize my own intolerance and reminded me to beware those who posture as "tolerant" to all save the folks who just might be a little different.
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