Book Review: October 31, 2017

At my age, I don’t have the time to study all the great books I cherish. But I may spend more time on Giovanni’s Room. One of only two novels by James Baldwin, it can break the heart of anyone who cherishes the right of people to live in freedom.

By “freedom,” I don’t believe in freedom from incarceration or freedom from tyranny, but in the complete freedom to live as one’s physiological genetics would have them do, as long as that freedom didn’t harm another.

Of course, people are harmed in Baldwin’s book. The narrator, David, is a severely damaged man who damages others. He is a gay man in an era in which the shame heaped upon him and those like him stifled and contorted every emotional impulse. His tormentors weren’t necessarily open and visible, like that poor, demented, homophobic county clerk in Kentucky of today’s headlines. No, at the time covered by the book, prejudice and punishment flowed over the likes of David as some dense, impenetrable fog, silent, pervasive, and unyielding. That fog of torment created a self-disgust that caused its victims even to despise their own fellow wanderers, even their own lovers, even humanity in essence, and worse, even themselves.

One struggles to imagine what it must be like to have the world stifle one’s emotional feelings to the point of harm against humanity or against one’s own person.

Readers have treated the book as a study of shame, and it is. Moreover, it is a book that rips away scabs and displays the raw damage done to society by hate and homophobia. The festering sores flow from the narrator to others, mostly the innocent who, themselves, struggle to find the freedom to love in a society given to hatred.

Would that it could be required reading.

A life burned out too quickly

Morning Thoughts: October 30, 2017

Friendships are funny. Some emerge instantaneously. Others become monuments built one brick at a time. Off on a Road Trip with one of those today.

The upcoming trip and a severe case of "baseball fatigue" caused me to miss what purports to be one of the most exciting games in baseball history. Oh well.

Back to the friend. I met him somewhere during the early 1970s. We were in the same profession; urban planning. I remember a twinge of jealousy at first. He had a master's degree at the time and I didn't. Also, his father was one of the most respected men to ever practice urban planning in Arkansas. That gave him a good entree into the planning community.

I always assumed Robert Middleton III, was one of those people who went through life on a charmed and glitch-free path. Fooie on him.

Then I heard from a mutual acquaintance that he had served in Vietnam. "An officer, I'll bet," I remember thinking. "Twelve and a wake-up in a soft admin slot."

Then, our professions brought us in contact and we actually began to talk. No officer. Drafted while in graduate school and recently married, he served with the grunts, earned the coveted Combat Infantry Badge, and came home with a Bronze Star to complete his education.

We talked some more, much more over the years. We both suffered our share of setbacks, betrayals, and bad timing. Both of us ended up among the contented self-employed. We shared questions, suggestions, tips, and warnings. The tower of friendship grew and we're now share a close bond in  our senior years. Oh, and he's becoming a master woodworker and grandfather as well. His only drawback, one he shares with me, is that, as I may have mentioned previously, he over-married slightly.

Another friend of mine once coined the phrase "Trip to California Test." Simply stated, one should ask before making large plans, "Would you want to ride to California from Arkansas with this person?" Ernest Hemingway, in "A Movable Feast" stated it another way, "Never go on long trips with someone you don't love." I expand that to include respect, admire, trust, and enjoy, among other things.

Rob and I plan trips together and look forward to them with great anticipation, so I guess that says it all.

Morning Thoughts: October 29, 2017

Why I never intend to fly again. It’s the VA’s fault. They caused the whole thing, especially the one I call, “The VA Fat Nazi.”

It happened this way.

I went to the VA medical center in Little Rock. They treated me very nicely and offered to help with my health and all. Little did I suspect.

My first appointment was with a very attractive individual who performed my initial screening. We got off to a marvelous start when she announced, “You need to get weighed. First door on your weft.” Because of that slight speech impediment on her part, I responded by indignantly informing her that I was a happily married man, deathly afraid of my wife, and of advanced age anyway.

After some good-natured unraveling, she directed me to a set of serious-looking scales, noted the results, and gave me a target weight that I couldn’t have reached following three consecutive completions of Marine Corps Boot Camp while eating nothing but my own cooking. She compromised by setting me up with Project Move, a weight-control program for vets, featuring monthly weigh-ins before a group of peers. A lecture on health, nutrition, and weight-loss followed, conducted by a very nice lady that I gratuitously labeled “The VA Fat Nazi.” Actually, she was of the exact opposite demeanor, being non-judgmental and respectful toward veterans, a rarity in my experience.

Long story short: I lost nearly 50 pounds before deciding to take my first, and hopefully my last, airline flight.

Get this: I had reduced my waste size by four inches and, for some inexplicable reason, decided to wear a pair of old britches on the flight. I chose them for comfort, I suppose, but, for whatever reason, it was a bad choice.

You guessed it. “Off with your shoes, worm! Off with your belt, insect! Raise your hands in the air, imbecile! Keep your guns trained on this one, it says here that he was in Vietnam.”

Oops. I could do two of the three without causing a mass induction of “the vapors” among the females waiting in line. The third caused a physical collapse, one immediately attributed to a moral collapse.

“Get those hands up. Didn’t you hear me?”

I’m sure they heard him in the next county but, oops again. Gravity emerged to assert its reality, even in the face of current disbelief in science and physics.

“Hands up, or assume the position, vermin!”

“Can I do them one at a time?”

“Do, and we’ll shoot you in the legs, one at a time, slimeball!”

I managed to spread my legs apart enough to prevent my pants from collapsing in the manner of a curtain falling when a magician makes a woman disappear.

“Hold still, fool!”

After holding me in that position for maybe 15 minutes, they let me though with a great show of disgust. A crowd had gathered on the other side of the inspection area. It parted for me as I waddled toward a bench, holding my pants with one hand and the basket containing my belt and other worldly possessions with the other. The crowd watched with a collection of sneers and grins, and I then knew what the German term Schadenfreude means.

Pardon my French, but airline travel is merde. I’m finis with it.

I'm told they use this in training agents
 to identify suspicious characters. It's
good to feel needed for something.

Morning Thoughts: October 28, 2017

Nair is a hair removal product manufactured by Church & Dwight. It was purchased from Carter-Wallace in 2001. The brand is mainly known for its depilatories that work by breaking the disulfide bonds of the keratin molecules in hair. That’s all according to Wikipedia.

It can also be a source of great embarrassment. They didn’t mention that part. I can offer proof via a short anecdote, with the indulgence of you dear readers who love exciting tales of Naval lore.

 It happened this way.

Have I ever mentioned that, because I was taller than most and my voice had changed, they made me the “Recruit Chief Petty Officer” in Navy Boot Camp? I made sure our company arose on time, retired on time, and generally made it to where we were supposed to be in something resembling good Navy condition. I even made sure the men in our company—and some came from Georgia and Texas—passed the written exams. It posed many similar challenges.

Any failure prompted threats to make me endure boot camp a second, or even a third time.

Oh, another thing I helped with was making sure our company did not suffer embarrassment. That, one can imagine, is a measure to be devoutly wished by the Brass. The Navy looks upon embarrassment with great disdain. Remember when Admiral “Bull” Halsey got his fleet lost during the Battle of Leyte Gulf in October of 1944? That prompted the immortal inquiry from Admiral Chester Nimitz, “Where is Halsey? The world wonders." That’s more than a gentle chiding.

We never got lost, and we generally avoided embarrassing ourselves or our beloved Navy, except for this one little thing.

First of all, the company commander of the company next to ours, an old Bosun’s Mate, hated our company, perhaps because our company commander was from the submarine service and the other hated “bubbleheads.” Perhaps it was a personal feud between them. Perhaps it was just a made-up deal. I don’t know. At any rate, he went out of his way to treat us harshly when our own commander wasn’t looking.

Now, we had three or four recruits in our company who scarcely needed to shave once a day. Once a week would have sufficed easily. But the United States Navy was way too busy to establish operational orders for individual shaving. Everyone shaved once a day. Period. I think it went back to the ancient Peloponnesians.

These poor fellows were playing hell with it. Their faces had become raw and red from the unnecessary scraping. What to do?

Enter our company commander, a man named Kent. He carried a bottle stolen from his wife’s dresser at home.

Yes, Nair.

Hell no, it didn’t work. I can still hear the cries of pain if I try real hard. Off to the dumpster went the offending cream.

Yes, someone saw it. Yes, the hated next-door company commander heard about it. Yes two companies were assembled to watch, at attention, a bit of “impromptu theater” as he solemnly withdrew the contraband from the dumpster and lifted it high for all to see.

He walked to where I stood, tall and solemn like John Wayne about to receive one of the many medals for his military service. I drew my chin so far into my neck that you could have played “Anchors Aweigh” on the creases. It was going to be “gunnels awash,” instead.

He spread Nair on my face and grinned like Lucifer welcoming a hypocrite. In the great tradition of John Paul Jones and Barnacle Bill the Sailor, I resisted the urge to light out, if not for “the territories,” at least to the Pacific Ocean which lay adjacent to the base. Its cold waters beckoned soothing relief and communicated a temptation only surpassed by the cries of the Sirens as Odysseus sailed past the rocks of Scylla. I stood my ground, gaining the permanent respect of our company and the increased hatred of our nemesis.

Though I refused to acknowledge pain, our company became known, for the remainder of the ordeal known as boot camp, as the “Nair-Hairs.” We could hear it softly chanted as we passed through line for chow. Move over Bull Halsey. You don’t know what embarrassment is.

I think it is the reason I never made admiral.

Why certainly, good dancers make good sailors.

Morning Thoughts: October 27, 2017

It was beer-induced cruelty, beer-induced fame, beer-induced fun, beer-induced insanity, or maybe a combination of all of them. I dunno. Beer does funny things to a person.

Walter "Hook-slide" Bradshaw—I couldn’t help thinking about him last evening. In an odd evolution of marital harmony, Brenda and I have taken to watching the World Series of baseball. I’ve long loved what were once known as the hapless Chicago Cubs, so we watched them win last year. Brenda now considers herself an honorary Texan after multiple trips to Houston for fun times with her cousin and best friend Phyliss Cole. On a recent trip down, B enjoyed a trip to the ballpark to see a Houston Astros game. At that time the team was wrapping up a successful season. They won that night.

Now she’s a fan. So, we are watching the World Series again.

But back to Hook-slide. I counted 17 commercials per inning, or something like, that last night, so there was ample time for mind-wandering, the only thing I’ve ever been really good at. Mine wandered, somewhere about the seventh inning, back to a character who became a local hero to Little Rock area baseball fans in the late 1970s.

It was odd the way it happened. See, we had this baseball stadium in the city for years: Ray Winder Field. It served a Class AA farm team of the St. Louis Cardinals, and was a great place to spend a lazy summer afternoon or evening. It was also a great place for making memories. If I close my eyes when I’m alone and it is dark, I can still conjure up a deep bass voice yelling “Cold beer …cold beer.” Those of you who were ever there know what I’m talking about.

Enter Hook-slide Bradshaw. I don’t know how old he was, maybe in his 50s at the time. He was one of those men of indeterminate age who probably invented the phrase “Hold my beer and watch this.”

And the fans did. They formed the rowdy bunch who congregated in the third-base bleachers and raised hell, not a fit setting for anyone with a shred of adult tendencies. As the game would wear on, someone would flatten a popcorn box, place it at one end of the concrete walkway in front of the bleachers, and start the chant of “Hook-slide, Hook-slide, Hook-slide.” By then the crowd would have de-inhibited its hero with free beer.

If he sensed a worthy level of enthusiasm, the great man would step to the end of the walkway away from the popcorn box positioned to serve as home plate. An “umpire” would suddenly appear behind the base, probably the second-most alcohol-directed person in the crowd.

Hook-slide would then begin his long run and terminate it with a slide over the concrete with one foot expertly hooking “home plate.” The umpire would signal “safe” or “out” and the crowd would go berserk. I’ll swear I think I’ve seen the play on the field halt for a second or two over the commotion and the sheer grandeur of it all.

The concrete never seemed to bother Hook-Slide. He would acknowledge his fans and start “freshening up” for the next time. They say that, in his prime, he might perform his act over ten times a game.

Cruel? One might say so, but I hope that person is not from Spain, where they torture and murder innocent animals in arenas full of drooling fans. (I’m sorry, Ernest Hemingway but you should have known better). And don’t get me started on boxing matches, or those “beauty contests” for four-year-old girls.

But back to Hook-slide, he died in the mid-1980s. Ray Winder Field died a few years later as did something much larger. The team moved to another city and now serves as a farm team for someplace known only in Arkansas as, “It ain’t St. Louis, so who cares?” They play in in a fancy new stadium designed for planned fun. There’s plenty of it, I’m told.

You can’t, though, plan fun like that provided by Hook-Slide Bradshaw.

The only tribute left to Hook-Slide is a beer stand
at the new stadium, and, in the style of modern
"fans," they have him sliding in the wrong direction.

I couldn't find a photo of Hook-Slide. If anyone has one, send it to me and I'll post tomorrow.

Growing Up Southern: October 24, 2017

My folks ran a grocery store six days a week, so I had few outings alone with my father. There was this one, however. Yeah, there was one.

Oh, he would take me with him on occasion when he drove around on Sunday afternoons to look at how the crops were doing. He would be looking though, and not in the mood for talking to me. But he might see a man he knew, and he would pull in and talk to him for an hour while I fidgeted in the car. Those were hardly father-son outings designed to “red-line the old fun meter.” I think they were generated by my sainted mother who needed a break.

This one time, though, wasn’t like that, not at all. He suddenly, late one afternoon, and it was on a weekday—a Thursday if I remember right—up and asked me if I’d like to go and see a baseball game. “A baseball game?” I said. “Boy hidee, yes I would!” I was eleven years old and life couldn’t have taken a better turn, absent meeting Roy Rogers in person, maybe.

Whatever possessed him I’ll never know, but it wasn’t long before he and I were headed uptown to Taylor Field, over on the East-side where the “Pine Bluff Judges” played.

See, back in those days, even small towns like ours, (population 37,162 when I graduated from high school and don’t ask why I remember that) had farm teams from the major leagues. Ours was, of course, associated with the St. Louis Cardinals. They played in what was called “The Cotton States League.”

We went that night and wouldn’t you know it, I don’t think we saw a play. Before we arrived, the manager, a man named Frank Lucchesi, was hit by a ball and the play was delayed. He recovered and later went on to a long career with the majors. Read about him here.

Anyway, it was going to be late before play resumed, so we missed the action.

It didn’t matter. The atmosphere was both electric and addictive. I was about as thrilled as a young boy could be, absent meeting Sky King’s Penny in person, maybe. Our entire family became fans and regulars. We knew all the players. My heroes were catcher Dan Gatta and first-baseman Cliff Mansfield. We could stand behind the fence and talk to them in the bullpen. Neither made it to “The Dance,” but Gatta let me try on his catcher’s mitt one time, and Mansfield gave me a baseball before a game. I think my brother traded it away for something while I was off at college.

It doesn’t take much to create lasting memories.

Our lives expanded in other ways. We began to take trips to other cities in the League on Sundays, including: Meridian, MS, Monroe, LA, and Hot Springs and El Dorado within our own state.

I can remember the hubbub as one of the teams in the League put the first African-American on its roster. The “Judges” did the same a little later and I remember the crowd that showed up for his first appearance, just to stare—stare—nothing more.

They created a special section for the African-American fans, who flocked to witness this small stirring of equality. This helped extend the life of the League, but, in 1954, it succumbed to changes in American lifestyles, particularly the proliferation of home TVs. Sadly, it shut down for good. I remember local efforts to garner contributions and save the team. There was even a big poster of a thermometer in the window display of a downtown store (Froug’s maybe) showing the rise in dollars contributed against dollars need.

The capillary representing the dollars donated never reached the top. Too bad.

But I’ll never forget the pride I felt, as a young boy watching a baseball game on TV narrated by Dizzy Dean. Filling in time between innings, he read off a list of teams in the Cardinal organization, and where they were playing that night.

Would you believe that great, that immortal, man stated on national television that the Pine Bluff Judges of the Cotton States League would be playing in my home town that night? A city couldn’t get better publicity than that, now could it? I ran to tell my dad about it and he was as proud as I was.

Is It Just Me? October 23, 2017

Am I the only one who wishes the president’s press secretary would tone down her rhetoric? Or learn to read history?

Every time I read chief of staff Kelly’s statements from his “press conference” last week, I get a little more uneasy. “General John” came about as close to hinting at the justification for a military coup as a person could get, in my opinion. If you think it is beyond the reach of our country, read the intro to Robert Caro’s book on LBJ, Master of the Senate. His introductory section on the history of the Senate covers the explosive return of General Douglas MacArthur to the United States after being fired for rank subordination and nearly getting the U.S. into a land war with China.

It’s a scary account and possibly the closest we’ve come to a coup in the country’s history. A few cool heads in the United States Senate interceded and calmed the waters, as could have General John if he had chosen to. The general had a great opportunity to deliver to the country a healing message, a message of fellowship and harmony. Having served his country honorably, and having lost a son in an American battle, he carries much weight, and justifiably so. He could have used it compassionately and wisely. That would have gained him the blessing of being called a peacemaker as well as a soldier.

Instead, he divided us further and disparaged, with outright falsehoods, the service of an elected legislator of our country.

Our leaders, other than the occasional Joe McCarthy, didn’t use to do that. We disagreed but carried on our live without ad hominem attacks on anyone who disagreed. That has increasingly become the norm. The public arena has become more like a World Wrestling Federaltion affair than the Senate of Dale Bumpers and David Pryor. What must our young  people be thinking?

And now, we don’t need a political sycophant telling us that it is inappropriate to question a four-star general, or any other high-ranking official.

I guarantee you that I’m going to start paying closer attention. I trust you’ll join me. In the meantime, we can all wish for a press secretary who reads history and perhaps understands it.

Morning Thoughts: October 22, 2017

 It seems to me that each of us harbors competing impulses, let’s call them “the noble” and, toning it down some, the “unexemplary.”

Sometimes we carry them with us all through life, struggling daily as their battles rage within our hearts and minds. If we’re lucky, the—to borrow a phrase from Abe Lincoln—better angels of our nature prevail, or at least they prevail enough to get us through.

For some, the battle turns negative later in life, a phenomenon both sad and ugly to watch. History provides good examples. I once looked into the very room where Robert E. Lee, after enjoying a most exemplary military career well into late middle-age, made the decision to betray his country and participate in a murderous and barbaric effort to perpetuate slavery.

And damned good at it, he was.

Likewise, after a long and distinguished career in the military service of his country, General Douglas MacArthur seemingly lost his balance and forsook his duty to the president and people of the country, even to the point of threatening a nuclear war, or World War Three, by outright disobedience.

More modern generals have had their balance tilted by sexual desires, or a plain preference for cruelty.

Those few, the unfortunate few, who fall to the “Dark Side” after years of admirable duty, threaten to undermine the standing of their fellow officers and troops, deepening this American tragedy.

This week, a political puppet stated, in a national setting, that it is inappropriate for us mere mortals to question a four-star general, after that general himself had pretty much stated in coded terms, the very same thing, and employed falsehoods in the process.

That, my dear friends, (and pardon my “French”) is beaucoup conneries. There are more than 50,000 names on a wall in Washington D.C., many put there needlessly by the failures of a previously highly effective four-star general named William Westmoreland. Oh, that someone had questioned him, and others before him, with greater vigor.

It is only my personal opinion, and ad hominem attacks will not prevail against it, but I believe that our current president doesn’t understand the extent of the structural damage that occurs in promoting such a lapse of moral balance, a changing of allegiances Anakin Skywalker-style so to speak.

Professional wrestlers do it all the time, after all.

I’ll just close with the words of Sir Francis Bacon, perhaps a better moral guide than Hulk Hogan:

“He that gives good advice, builds with one hand; he that gives good counsel and example, builds with both; but he that gives good admonition and bad example, builds with one hand and pulls down with the other.”

Let us all root for the better angels.

Don't Get Me Started: October 21, 2017

I’m the world’s worst at purchasing a power tool that existed as a model for a week and then discontinued. It once was the very best. The salesperson said so. “Our most popular model. They’re selling like hotcakes. In fact, that’s our last one and someone is supposed to be coming back for it later this afternoon.”

But … there was hope.

“If you think you want it, I’ll see if the manager will let me sell it to you. We can order the other guy one, although I think they’re back-ordered everywhere, a real popular model.”

A few years later, and how the conversation has changed.

“I don’t see that model listed. Are you sure it’s an Acme?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s a *#!%$^& Acme. It has the word ‘Acme’ right across the front of it, with a picture of a smiling Wiley Coyote.”

“I don’t see the number. We have a model number right in front of the one you say, and a model number right behind it. Nobody here has ever heard of your model number.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite, and I can assure you that we don’t sell the part you are looking for. They went to a intralinkedgyrosynchronized system about that time. Have you tried eBay?

“Oh, yes. I found one on eBay.”

“Well there you go.”

“For two hundred, thirty-eight dollars and forty-five cents, plus twenty dollars shipping.”

“You could make a down payment on our latest model, the D4507 for that. It’s the industry standard, and I think we have one left. They are selling like hotcakes. Sir … please put down that crowbar.”

Is it just me?

Morning Thoughts: October 20, 2017

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many mayors I’ve worked with over the years, with different personalities, education, skill levels, and savvy. They formed an interesting bunch, a fine bunch, almost always. As a consultant, I’ve been very lucky.

It’s hard either to generalize or categorize. For example, I can’t point out any stereotypical qualities of female individuals. Well, they do tend to listen and pay attention more, but the men are catching up.

African-American mayors are often from the poorer communities, particularly ones that have suffered an exodus of jobs and investment. Other than being unduly beleaguered, I can’t point to any noticeable difference in ability.

I’ve served a few gay and lesbian mayors, I imagine. Never thought to inquire. There were certainly no noticeable idiosyncrasies.

Of course I have a warm spot for mayors who served in the military.

A pattern does seem to exist in that active mayors are more likely to generate formidable opponents. Those whom we might classify as “Guardians” tend to stay in office longer, but I can’t say this is a predominant trend.

Who was the best mayor whom I ever served, you ask?

Well, it was … you didn’t actually think I’d fall for that one, did you?

Almost all had certain good qualities. A few had more than normal. All in all, they were, and are, an exceptionally admirable group of people. Our state and our communities can be proud of them. I know I am.

I’ve had some interesting experiences. One of my favorites followed my reading of Robert Caro’s Path To Power, the second installment of his massive biography of Lyndon Johnson. In the book, Caro lionized Coke Stevenson, once speaker of the Texas House of Representatives, as well as Lieutenant Governor and Governor of that state. He recounted how Stevenson would often say, to delay action on something he opposed, “Let’s let the coffee cool on that.”

Wouldn’t you know? I took up the phrase in advising my mayors, one in particular. She knew very well how much I liked and used it. Once, an alderman came to me about an issue the mayor supported, one we both knew was highly subject to the dreaded “Law of Unintended Consequences.”

I advised him that more revealing info on the issue was coming and would surely make the mayor change her mind. “I think it would be best just to delay action,” I said, “Let the coffee cool on it.”

   

Yep. You’re right. He used those exact words in the city council meeting. The look that mayor gave me from her "throne on high" would have cut through a two-inch steel plate. But, they waited, new facts came in, and the proposal flew into the dust bin of bad ideas, else I would probably have been managing a fast-foot outlet shortly thereafter.

I have known, as I say, all kinds of mayors. In nearly 50 years, I’ve personally known maybe three or four that were truly unsavory. None lasted long. These were mayors that would intentionally do damage to their communities for revenge, dishonesty, or greed. That small number represents a percentage that would be the envy of any office or profession. Those on the “Dishonor Role” were easily identifiable for a number of common tendencies.

1. They didn’t hesitate to lie, even preferring it when silence or the truth would have better suited their purpose.

2. They neither knew, nor cared to know, anything about public administration or the functions of city government.

3. They concentrated on using their office to support a political party or cabal, and to spread dissention.

4. They rated employment candidates more upon family or personal relationships than experience or qualifications.

5. In dealing with contentious issues, they tended to agree and act upon the advice of the last person with whom they had talked.

6. They spent little time in City Hall.

7. They spent an inordinate amount of time demeaning their predecessors or political opponents, both publicly and personally.

8. Before being elected as mayor, they had spent little, or even no, time observing city government in action.

As I say, I’ve encountered a very, very small number of them. But those few—those dismal few—did a tremendous amount of damage to their cities and, therefore, to our state.

Just thinking.

Morning Thoughts: October 19, 2017

Do you remember what I had for lunch this past Monday? Neither do I. I was thinking about that yesterday morning while driving to a paying job. I still do a few in order to make a little extra money for silly things, like guitars lessons, Four Roses sipping whiskey, and good cigars.

I was wondering if they would pay me money if they knew that I couldn’t recall recent meals.

Ah, but I can remember other things. As I drove, my mind drifted off to December 29, 1966 when I awoke to my first day of Navy Boot Camp. It was one of the most awful days of my life. Of course, I knew what I signed up for.

Actually, I didn’t. I thought I had signed up for four years of sailing into exotic ports aboard one of my country’s most prestigious warships. I signed up for feeling the sea rolling beneath my feet and of my channeling a Joseph Conrad character. I signed up for shore leave among the glorious capitals of the free world, the museums, the art galleries the … uh … entertainment venues, and the classic building and ruins I had studied in college. I had even eschewed seeking officer training or service schools in order to “sail the seven seas,” so to speak.

In retribution for making plans without official authorization (MPWOA), the United States Navy sent my sorry ass straight to Vietnam to perform a task it didn’t even have a rating (same-same MOS) for, thus assuring no promotions for a year.  We were trained for a month as “rent-a-grunts,” by real grunts, flown over, handed a rifle, and sent out on towers, bunkers, or patrols to act as targets. So much for knowing what you signed up for.

Anyway, back to boot camp. After they woke us up that first day in a most undignified manner, they pointed to a blackboard. They told us that every day there would be a nautical term on that board and the first thing following “reveille,” we should memorize that term and that a fate worse than any that Dante himself could have imagined awaited the seaman recruit who failed, that entire day, to repeat that definition if requested by one of his keepers.

Memories were important to the Navy.

So, here I stand. I can’t remember Monday’s meal, or the last movie I saw, or even the name, on occasion, of a favorite author. I forget my wife’s birthday. I forget to take out the trash. I play hell remembering a password to any account I own. Heaven help me if the police ever ask me what I was doing on any particular night of the last month. I’d be toast, although I vaguely remember what toast is.

Oh, but want to know what that first nautical term was that I had to memorize nearly fifty years ago? It was “athwartship,” or at right angles to the fore and aft centerline of the ship. I can still see myself in newly-issued skivvies staring at that blackboard with the others and thinking “athwartship?”

I can even remember a recruit from Cumming Georgia named Durant turning to me and saying, “What’s a right angle?”

That’s what I had signed up for.

Where did I get lost?

Growing Up Southern: October 17, 2017

I started writing things down about 30 years ago. I haven’t changed the world or produced greatness. But it’s been rewarding.

For one thing, it makes me happy. I love the discipline and imagination required. Two, it keeps me out of the bars. Three, it gives me a change to remember things I’ve done as well as things that other people have told me. I think that last thing is the most important, that and the supper table.

The supper table was the place where I heard my late father-in-law tell the stories of his life as a farmer and former rifleman with the 79^th Infantry Division in World War Two. It was also where he inserted stories about growing up in the rural South, like being a child and having an old, old man tell him about remembering the last indigenous Indian Family living along Baker’s Bayou not far from the family’s farm. How they lived all alone along at the edge of the forest, and one day were “just gone.”

Around a meal, we learned how farmers in the area used to put skulls of long-departed hunter-gatherers in their chicken nests in hopes of scaring away snakes and varmits. We heard the sad story of a teenaged girl, known only by the name “Geehaw” who once became so frightened of something after dark she ran over a harrow-handle and flattened it, apparently without lasting harm.

It was at that supper table we heard about artillery bombardments during which “you just wanted to live one more second, just one second.” We heard how, during the last days of the war, it was mostly quiet except for an occasional round falling as the Germans lazily depleted their munitions, and how one round landed near a chow line and killed the shortest man in the squad.

We heard, more than once, of how a young soldier, discharged from the horrors of war, came into town on the late-night train and walked the five miles to his family’s farm, arriving just as his parents were sitting down for breakfast.

We heard how a couple of neer-do-well teenage boys in the community once caught a buzzard in a steel trap and decided how funny it would be to tie a “coal-oil rag” to a rope, attach it to the buzzard’s legs, and set the rag afire. The fire bouncing through the dark night convinced the entire neighborhood that the “Second Coming” had occurred and folks headed for the churches, some still in their bedclothes. We learned how, “They almost sent those boys to the penitentiary on account of it.”

About my writing? As I say, one day I decided that I would use some of these tales, heard around the supper table, as inspirations for short stories so that the memories shouldn’t be lost. That got me started and I’m still pecking away in my spare time.

I’ve always felt that one of the reasons the South has produced so many fine writers—such great story-tellers—goes back to the supper table. It’s largely disappeared in this age of fast foods and, anyway, those stories could never compete with a cell phone. Hell, we don’t even call it “supper” anymore. In a great cultural transgression, we began to ignore the traditional stricture that "one has supper at home and dinner away from home." Decorum has fled our modern world.

And who would care to record a story heard around a “dinner” table?

Could this table have produced
a William Faulkner or aWillie Morris?

Growing Up Southern: October 16, 2017

Have you ever lain in bed at three o’clock in the morning and thought about some horrifically embarrassing thing you’ve done? I have. There are so many for me to visit.

I even worry that one of these dreadful incidences will define me forever. Will I be the one, for example, who proved to the world one Saturday morning when he was nine years old that he was the worst athlete that ever tried out for Little League Baseball in the entire history of the sport?

Or would I be known as the boy whom the class sissy beat up in front of the entire fifth grade, an embarrassment resulting from not knowing that the other kid’s mother had paid for boxing lessons designed to protect him from bullies like me?

Would my bona fides also mention that I once published a planning report recommending that a city pay more attention to its “pubic” spaces?

Or that I once almost caused an Assistant Secretary of the Navy to fall overboard while docking my Admiral’s Barge against a particularly violent current on Charleston's Cooper River?

Or what my best buddy and I got caught at when we were in Jr. High School?

I could go on but it would make you despondent as well.

If such memories ever plague you, try thinking of Fred Snodgrass, who had achieved every young boy’s dream of playing major league baseball. It fulfilled a dream, that is, until that awful incident 105 years ago today. As reported on This Day In History this morning:

“On October 16, 1912, New York Giants outfielder Fred Snodgrass drops an easy pop-up in the 10th inning of the tie breaking eighth game of the World Series against the Red Sox. His error led to a two-run Boston rally and cost the Giants the championship.

“The error—dubbed “the $30,000 muff” because that’s how much money the Giants stood to win from a Series championship—stuck with Snodgrass for his whole life. After he retired from baseball, the hapless outfielder moved to California and became a banker. He bought a ranch. The citizens of Oxnard elected him mayor. But still, when he died in 1974—62 years after that fateful World Series game—the New York Times headline blared: “Fred Snodgrass, 86, Dead; Ball Player Muffed 1912 Fly.”

Well now, that’s having your entire life defined by only five seconds of it, isn’t it? I think I’ll just settle for being known as the young man who caught Brenda Cole’s eye one pleasant evening years ago in a lifetime far away.

A new day comes.

Morning Toughts: October 15, 2017

Sunday morning always makes me think of the Galilean for some reason. I know he isn’t fashionable in many circles now. In fact, some famous lines with which he is credited may, themselves, be in mortal danger.

Are some so-called “Christians” so enraged by the sermon on the mount that they would have it redacted it from their official version of the Bible? Do the Beatitudes in particular make them uncomfortable? Seems that way to me.

I would imagine there are those, today in particular, who are wanting to cut out the line where the Galilean said, “"It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.” That’s surely an embarrassment. Of course, the Galilean goes on to say he’s not coming after the righteous, but the sinners. I would imagine his first stop if he should return this year would be Washington D.C.

Because of the situation in Puerto Rico, some might want to excise this portion of Matthew 25:

41 Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:

42 For I was hungry, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:

43 I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

44 Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee hungry, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

45 Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

46 And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.

And:

Would the “Judge not …” section be removed?

Would the “render unto Caesar …” part be gone?

What about the admonition to “love one another?”

We certainly could do without the “let those who are without sin cast the first stone.”

What about that ridiculous suggestion that “if you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven?” That one won’t survive with the “Prosperity Gospel” crowd.

It would surely be more fun to pick and choose what quotes we would pay attention to.

Just thinking …

dd caption

Morning Thoughts: October 14, 2017

I’ve never been called a Renaissance Man, dilettante maybe, superficial dabbler for sure. Maybe I do have too many hobbies. Just maybe.

It’s not unusual for me to invest an entire day piddling with some nonessential but highly interesting task while critical functions scream “help, fix me, I’m leaking here, make me work again, pay me, call me.” I don’t listen. I just keep searching for the right part that might make this homemade guitar work again. Hell, I paid $50 for the kit two decades ago. What’s more important than having it play again?

I bring this up because I have invested three mornings recently replacing and attempting to adjust three knives on a woodworking jointer.

It happened this way.

I’m not sure the knives really needed replacing. A friend, who borrows its use once every three years or so, said it did. Did I mention that he is the same friend who will spend a whole afternoon correcting a distance error of 1-64^th of an inch on a mortise and tendon joint? Well there you have it. I won’t mention his name but he lives in Sherwood, Arkansas with a veritable queen of a wife named Barbara Middleton. (Yes, along with me and our friend Brigadier General Troy Galloway, he belongs to the National Association of Men Who Over-married). But back to the project.

Replacing the new knives wasn’t hard, although they weren’t the ones the aforementioned friend wanted. The ones he recommended cost $300. The ones I purchased cost $75. I don’t suppose he will ever forgive me. Could this be the reason he builds complicated cabinetry that would grace the finest of mansions while I build “mop and broom” hangers that my wife won’t even screw on the wall of a 100 year-old dilapidated farmhouse?

Nah. Must be something else.

Anyhow. Replacing the knives was a fairly simple three-hour process, (for me). The adjusting of them turned into a tedious nightmare that haunts me yet.

What you have to do is this: with one hand hold a bar with thingamajigs, called gib bolts, that hold the knife in place. With another hand, seat the knife and hold it in position, square with either end of the cylinder. With another hand, tighten the gib bolts just enough to hold the knife in preliminary position. With another hand, turn the cutting cylinder so that the knife’s edge is at its highest position, as determined by extending, with a free hand, a straight edge from the top of the infill table. With another hand, adjust the edge of the far end of the knife with an allen-wrench inserted into a hole in the cylinder, being sure to secure the near end of the knife with another hand, using a thick glove for safety. Feel free, the directions state, to hold those directions in front of you as you proceed. Oh, and be sure to tie, or hold, the safety cover plate out of the way while you work.

They suggest that you disconnect the jointer from the electrical outlet during the process. At first, I didn’t see the necessity as I didn’t intend to use the jointer while I was doing all this. But, I like to follow instructions to the letter. I followed them all, the directions that is, and the knives still aren’t seated properly. Drats. And it looked so easy on YouTube. Three hours and a treasure trove of exquisite profanity wasted.

Speaking of appropriate language, I have one word to describe all this. It’s in a foreign tongue, so text me if I need to translate. It is “Numbahf*****ten!” There you have it.

Sorry for the outburst. I feel better now. Today, I shall simplify. After I re-string a couple of guitars, pick the okra, put a coat of finish on an old baby chair, write a chapter on my current book in progress, and Photoshop some scenes to have printed for wall hangings, I’m going to take it easy and do some work around the house to help out, all in that order. It is, after all, important conduct one’s life with a system of priorities.

Oh, and I invent useful things as well.

Evening Thoughts: October 12, 2017

Wish ya’ll could have watched the Lady Hazel (aka “The Last Fan at Woodstock”) and me tonight. La Jefa flew to Houston for a much-deserved night off and we were at the farm with no adult supervision. You know what that means. I grabbed an electric guitar and cranked up an amp loud. There was nobody to stop us. I practiced my finger-picking and we played “Name That Hymn" for all the dogs and cats. Jeez, but we had fun.

Hazel’s had a rough week memory-wise, but tonight, full alert-mode returned. She only missed naming two hymns. They were ones I did a particularly awful job on. She even sang along on most. She remembered a few I was rusty on and I have marching orders to get to work on them. Here's one she particularly seems fond of. It's called Send the Light, a good-old-goodun' that I had fogotten about. I won't make that mistake again.

Periodically she reminisced on some of the music this old house had heard over the last 87 years, how her folks used to move the living room furniture to one side on Saturday nights and invite friends over to dance. She told me how someone took a wagon to Carlisle when she was a young child and returned with the organ that had belonged to her mother's family. It is still in our possession and soon to be installed in a new place of honor. She seemed pleased that we still have it.

I have some info on how they are using music as therapy for victims of dementia. I think there may be some truth to it. It sure worked tonight.

Eventually, my fingers got sore, she got sleepy, the animals got bored, and we just about ran out of tunes. What was I to do after two hours of hymns, a stiff back, and a set of blackened finger tips? Obviously, I settled for a Jameson and three cubes with memories of a night I’ll never forget.

Still game for whatever.

Morning Thoughts: October 12, 2017

“He always baited her hook for her when we all went fishing.” My aunt said that about my father and mother, inseparable for more than 45 years before Mother’s untimely death. Aunt Essie thought that really meant something, baiting your girl’s hook.

I guess there are many measurements of love. This started me thinking about un-love, and then about divorce rates. After a little researching, my hair began to itch. The so-called “facts” began to collide with one another and wrestle like men in a tag-team match gone bad.

If we have been listening to coffee shop talk, we know that the divorce rate in America is 50 percent and rising. That’s something we can be pretty sure about as a start.

Oops. Wait one. It seems that, like about any other thing you can imagine, the experts don’t agree. They don’t agree by a large margin. Some say the rate is soaring and is closing in on 60 percent.

Others say the rate is falling, soon to fall below 40 percent.

Why the spread? Oh, we can round up the usual suspects. It’s not as easy to define “divorce” as we might think. Sure, when one person obtains a restraining order, hires a “marriage dissolvement” attorney, and receives a legal document from a judge, we can be fairly sure about that one.

What about, though, couples who separate but never bother to go through the cost and aggravation of obtaining legal certification? Are two people who are married but living separate lives in New York City and San Francisco to be counted in the divorce column?

Also, like crime statistics, the divorce rate depends on who’s doing the counting. Some states, I understand, don’t even keep divorce statistics.

Another oddity. I heard about a couple recently that had just re-married for the third time. If my public education “ciphering” holds out, that accounts for three divorces in one marriage, or is it one, or none? Further, my guess is that they aren’t through yet. What then?

Oh, and here’s a bizarre one. A friend of mine years ago told me, with some anxiety, about finding a set of photographs in her mother’s dresser depicting two girls of varying ages. After much wrangling, her mother told her that her dad, when very young, had married another woman and produced two daughters, whereupon he and his wife discovered that they pretty much despised one another in direct proportion to the extent that they loved their daughters.

Don’t ask. I can’t explain it either.

Anyway, the couple agreed to live together, stay married, and raise their kids until the youngest daughter was 18. They then divorced. After World War Two, the man came back, and married a young woman, the result of which was my friend.

Into what column of the Excel Divorce Table did that marriage fall into for more than 20 years? Incidentally, going through life with an inquiring mind, I’ve found that this strange story is not as isolated as one might imagine.

Next, an over active libido and mass quantities of alcohol, have produce an untold amount of annulments to day-old marriages, as have irate fathers with baseball bats. How are they counted?

Then we have what they called, in Daddy’s day, “shacking up” but in our more gently euphemistic times “living together.” That’s when two people, or one of them, just say they don’t want to bother with legal recognition of their union. If they split up after a few years, is it a divorce or the “greener pasture syndrome?”

Well, there you have it. You might wonder what got me off on this. Is there some personal origin for the inquiry? You have to careful. We once knew an overly-inquisitive lady (read: “nosey bitch”) who attended a small church near our farm. She would have already been on the phone with: “Are ya’ll having trouble?”

No, nothing as salacious as that. Hell, we raised one another, my wife and I. It’s no time to abrogate that investment. Besides, the Galilean was quite clear about forbidding divorces.

Rather, I was just thinking how complicated things are and how badly we want to simplify them into sound-bites. That’s an innate desire among so many of us and it certainly creates some situations. Heck, it even got a twice-divorced man elected president. Thinking is hard.

What about divorces? If we can’t even count them, how could we ever assess a rate, or scientifically predict the probability of the success of an individual marriage?

I think maybe we should just stick with the “He always baited her hook for her” test.

Worth a little extra attention?
Yeah, I think so.

Morning Thoughts: October 11, 2017

Sometimes, if I think about simple things too long they don't stay simple. Maybe that’s why we enact such dreadful laws. Thinking is hard.

This latest thing came to me this week. I decided to base my monthly urban planning column  on what I thought was a simple and accepted concept. This is, that planning represents an area of endeavor about which reasonable people can and do differ.

More thoroughly stated, the concept posits that two unbiased and sincere people can view the same set of facts concerning a planning issue, receive the same amount of time for analysis, use comparable levels of experience and education, and come to diametrically opposed conclusions. Thereupon, they simply agree to disagree, in theory at least.

It’s simple and alluring proposition. Why do we need it? Well, I believe all propositions are stated in order to serve some sociological purpose. To wit:

Despites the vast body of literature surrounding the Old Testament Book of Job, the real reason it was written was to assure an iron-age society that stuff was just going to happen and they might as well shut up about it and quit pestering the Rabbis. A person, or a society, just can’t be good enough to create a perfect world.

Move to the New Testament and one can easily imagine that the parable of the prodigal son was written to allay resentment that backsliders were being welcomed back into a Christian community that badly needed numbers.

So, the concept of logical and benign disagreement about planning decisions perhaps grew from efforts to maintain societal harmony, promote order, or perhaps save jobs. Consider the Depression-era schoolteacher in west Texas faced with a schoolboard equally divided on whether the earth was flat or round. As Lyndon Johnson once observed, the teacher’s eloquent solution was, “I can teach it both ways.”

Sometimes the disagreements, though, aren’t based on comparable levels of logic. People aren’t ever going to agree, and reason fails. Currently, for example, we Americans are engaged in a bitter, friendship-ending, politician-exploiting, emotion-venting, ratings enhancing, career-ending disagreement over whether the First Amendment to the United States Constitution applies to how certain folks react to the song chosen as the country’s national anthem.

Sadly, veterans of military service find themselves being used to strengthen the argument from either side of the issue. We do, after all, love our veterans.

Think so?

Let them propose building a treatment center for those vets in your neighborhood and see what happens.

Morning Thoughts: October 10, 2017

When my sainted mother used to get really, really tired of us kids, she’d say, “I think I’ll just go live in the woods by myself.” Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it just puzzled us. How would she get back from out in the woods every day in time to cook our breakfast? There were sure to be problems in logistics, and we told her so. That didn't help.

The threat didn’t seem to upset our dad. He would just say, “Ya’ll would be satisfied then, wouldn’t you?"

I’m beginning to understand dear old mom a little better these days. If the world gets any more complicated, I may consider a little cabin somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.

Somewhere I don’t have to deal with the fact that, although I haven’t applied for a loan in nearly 15 years and don't expect to ever do so again, I find that something called my “credit score” has been hacked, and it’s probably going to end up costing me money.

Somewhere I don’t have to deal with a charge-card company that doesn’t list “replace a worn-out card with a new one” as a choice on its “press a number” phone service system.”

Somewhere I’m not required to think up ever increasingly complicated passwords only to find my account locked when I miss a word or symbol.

Somewhere I can eat supper without receiving 15 robo-calls.

Somewhere cell phones only allow you to phone someone and talk to them.

Somewhere the purchase of a new car doesn’t come with an offer to attend a Saturday seminar to learn how to operate it.

Somewhere there are grocery stores that offer a variety of goods instead of 400 different types of toothpaste and 300 types of toilet paper.

Somewhere both hyperbole and gratuitous exaggeration are outlawed.

Somewhere Halloween is pretty much just one night for kids and not a month-long decorating contest for adults.

Somewhere a teenager can be jailed for something called "Walking under the influence of a hand-held device" if there is collision involving injuries.

And finally …

Somewhere folks don’t elect goofballs to public office.

Don't get me started.

Morning Thoughts: October 9, 2017

It's Columbus Day, or whatever the hell they call it these days. Should one take a day off from blogging today? Inquiring minds want to know.

I never got to take it off before. The only federal agency I ever worked for didn't observe it, and most private companies don't.

Of course I never got to take Veterans Day off either. By the time I became a veteran, the draft dodgers had all the good public service jobs that offered such perks. Oh well.

Anyway. I'm bummed out. Watched a good part of On the Beach last night. I feel closer to the insanity that it portrayed now than I ever have. We have elected, I fear, a horde of politicians that would make Dr. Strangelove appear sane.

I think maybe that's why people are driving the way they do.

Sailing To Oblivium: October 8, 2017

Lately, I’m trying to train myself to confine my concerns to things that matter. College football is out. College education in. Were I Czar …

Were I, the entire athletic program—grounds, buildings and all—at my undergraduate alma mater, would be shut down and converted to the J. William Fulbright Center for International Humanities Study. And the millions upon millions of dollars spent annually on coaches' salaries would be spent on the highest quality research equipment, equipment that worked all the time, not half or less.

It ain’t gonna happen. I know.

But at least it frees me from worrying about whether some “student athlete” who wouldn’t be welcomed into a vast majority of the homes in my state is going to choose to play football here for three years, or basketball for one.

It doesn’t free me from worrying about the fact that we pay athletic coaches more than we pay those who perform research to find cures for cancer or Alzheimer’s Disease. Oh hell, let's face it. We pay one of the former more per year than we do all of the latter combined. I don't know about you, but I've lost two family members to Alzheimer's, one to cancer, and none to a losing football season. And I've been lucky compared to some folks I know.

Yeah, yeah. I know that the alumnae of our state wouldn’t be as apt to make donations if we recruited a Nobel Prize winning research physician as they would for a five-star football recruit.

I know. I’m just ashamed of the fact.

Just saying …

Morning Thoughts: October 7, 2017

It’s official now. The Little Rock Red Cross facility will close its blood collection center, after over a hundred gallons from me.

A disclosure: almost all of mine consisted of donating platelets through an apheresis machine. You got counted as making more than one donation each time for that. Still …

Here’s how it happened. Being a good and loyal American, I was proud when my wife, Brenda von Tungeln, RNP, and her friend, the late Kathy LeClair, RN, set up the original “pherisis” program at the Little Rock center back in the 1980s. Being great person, a truly great person, one of America’s greatest persons, I immediately signed up to be a platelet donor.

Just a minute. I’m listening to Isaac Stern playing Mozart’s Violin Concerto Number Five, and a particularly magnificent arpeggio made my nose twitch like it was growing from the pure joy of the music.

Where was I? Oh. I volunteered to be a platelet donor one evening about eight o’clock when my wife called me from the Red Cross Center and said, “Put that wine down, get dressed, and get your [butt] down here, a burn victim needs platelets and we can’t find a donor."

“Jim Dandy to the rescue.” I became a “go to” donor.

Around a hundred and twenty gallons later, they are shutting it all down. Actually, about six months ago, I decided that I had reached the age at which I might need the platelets more myself and had retired from donating. It’s all part of the passing of an era.

How did the process work? Well, in the old days, it was really something. After processing, they put you on a bed and stuck a needle in the vein of one arm (out) and a needle in the vein of the other arm (back in) and began circulating your blood through a machine that spun the platelets out and collected them.

You counted the concrete blocks on the wall for about two hours while the machine went “clackey-clack.” Then, they disconnected you, stopped the bleeding, gave you a cookie and some orange juice, and sent you on your way. Aged angels performed the last steps, and also gave you a sticker that told others of your bravery and goodness. You were done until next time.

Oh, did I mention that there is no waiting period for platelet donations? They would take you weekly if you would come, or were ordered to.

As you might guess, it proved to be a tiresome process back in the day. Then, an instance of divine intervention occurred. They put a television in the donation room. Oh, blessed soap operas.

Later, they attached VHS machines and people donated tapes of movies. Oh, blessed Flashdance. You couldn’t find a movie that was worse than counting concrete blocks.

More changes occurred over the years. The machines got faster, down to ninety minutes or so. They came up with one-arm machines. They switched to DVDs and amassed a large library of films and old TV shows, along with individual viewers so I never had to suffer through Terms of Endearment again. In fact, toward the end, I usually opted for films of the old Alfred Hitchcock Hour, just the thing to accompany the removal of “my precious bodily fluids.”

It was sort of a mixed barrel of experiences. In the beginning they treated the apheresis donors like royalty, even put on a banquet in our honor once a year. We entered through a separate entrance, avoided the gatekeeper, and donated in room reserved for us away from the regular blood donors. Even if your wife didn’t run the operation, staff knew your name and your entire family history. They might even help you attend the “call of nature” if it meant not spoiling a donation. It was interesting.

Later, we became “numbers” and the process lost some of its luster. Oh well. I’ll always have the memory of the time a Catholic nun was in the donation bed next to me and we were watching a movie that some other donor had left there. It was a fine movie and we watched the ending credits with satisfaction. The tape kept rolling and a new film started.

Oh my. Let’s just say it was not something that one would ever, under any circumstances, play for a nun, although she voiced no dissatisfaction whatsoever. Me? I was stunned into immobility.

What happened in the apheresis room stayed in the apheresis room.

A fellow donor.