WOODEN SHOES

 Lately I have travelled a good bit in my state. I've seen things.

I've seen cities that were not blessed by the vagaries of history drowning in despair. I've seen blessed cities drowning in traffic congestion and their own refuse.

I've seen individuals suffering from debilitating illnesses abandoned by an uncaring government.

I've seen sign of an impending drought of maybe biblical proportions descending into some of the richest farmland on earth. I've seen interstate highways that will become parking lots in five years.

As water may become our most precious commodity within a few years, we are allocating it to large data centers, not to humans.

At our state level, the top priorities are the construction of a monstrous prison to house who knows whom yet and the destruction of the public school system.

At our national level, the top priority is world domination through military invasion. Yes, it has been tried before.

My ancestors had a saying: "Wooden shoes to wooden shoes in three generations."

Over my lifetime, the generations since the promise of post-WWII America have marched by like gray horses moving into a morning midst. It is becoming increasingly painful to watch.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 HEALTH INSURANCE

Many years after my service in the military, I was working for a national company and enjoyed one of the best health insurance programs in the nation, a grand employee benefit. I travelled a lot back in those days when auto manufacturers didn’t provide much back support in vehicle seats.

So I developed some nagging back problems. They progressed to the point that I felt I needed medical attention.

“No problem,” colleagues said. “You have good insurance. Go to the doc and charge it to your insurance.”

But wait.

This was back in the day. Back in the day, we are told, the return to which would make America great again.

Just wait a moment.

There was this idea that health insurance companies relied upon called, “pre-existing conditions.” Simply put, if you were ever diagnosed with a malady, it freed all future insurance companies from paying for treatment on that malady.

If I saw a physician claiming back problems, that insurance would pay, but any future insurance providers could refuse any coverage related to the back. Treatment of a minor muscle problem could free future insurance companies from treating a deteriorated spine. Insurance companies had access to a huge database that recorded such things.

So what did I do? I called a GP popular with runners and denied having insurance, assuring the office I had the ability to pay cash for an office call.

I did. The doc, known for his concentration on cure and not compensation, told me to put a cardboard support behind me in my vehicle and do sit ups. Cost me $45.00. Probably more than $130 today.

I did. It solved the problem. The company health plan provider never had a clue. My spine was safe.

Think the Cult is cute? Welcome back to the good old days.

Fiction Friday

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Previously, our hero, during his morning exercises, had met a damaged veteran living on the banks of the Arkansas River. Today, both lives will change.

            Nelson stepped on his porch early next morning and then dashed back inside to cover his upper body with a hooded sweatshirt. The never-ending winter had returned with lower temperatures and a frigid wind blowing in from the southwest. With an old pair of white socks serving as gloves, he headed into the chill for his morning run. Few cars were on the street and no other pedestrians. It was as if the world had ended during the night and he was one of the few survivors.

            Reaching the Clinton Library Park, he stopped to do his morning exercises. Today, there was no sign of his new acquaintance Charlie. When he finished, he walked to the area where Charlie camped but there was no trace of him their as well. Nelson then proceeded west and climbed the steps leading to the level at which he could enter the pedestrian bridge connecting the two cities. That’s when he saw Charlie.

            The man was leaning against the railing at the entrance to the bridge. He was wearing a tattered undershirt and his arms were clasped around his chest to imprison any last bit of warmth. When he looked up to see Nelson, there was a trickle of blood flowing from his nose. One eye was swollen.

            “Charlie,” Nelson said as he ran toward him, “what’s happened?”

            The other said nothing. He only shook his head in bewilderment.

            “Where is your jacket?”

            Charlie took a breath and nodded behind him. “They took it,” he said, referring to two men some 20 yards or so beyond them. They were the only others in sight, so Nelson rain toward them, removing his ‘sock-gloves’ and casting them aside.

            “They have a pistol,” Charlie said, his voice so weak that it barely reached Nelson, who continued running.

            Nearing the pair, Nelson shouted, “Hey you. Stop.”

            The two spun around in unison and glared at Nelson. Both were large men but one was shorter than the other and had a dark, weasel-like face with black eyes that darted like gnats in the morning light. The other bore a blank expression as if he couldn’t imagine that there was another person on the planet. He carried Charlie’s jacket. Both stood still.

            “What you want, motherfucker?” the smaller one said. The larger man moved a few inches toward Nelson.

            “I want my friend’s jacket back.”

            The two stared at Nelson as though they didn’t understand the language he was speaking. The smaller man took a step toward him and his partner followed. They now stood less than three feet from him. “Fuck you,” the smaller man said. "You can buy it back for him at the pawn shop." He nodded over his shoulder toward North Little Rock, and his right hand began moving toward the inside of his coat.

            Nelson’s left foot shifted and his right hand moved simultaneously. They made no preliminary motion. He neither cocked his hand nor shifted his weight. Two blurs simply moved as he closed the distance and his hand knife-edged into the elbow of the arm that was reaching inside the coat. A loud shriek pierced the air as the arm shattered. Nelson continued his turn and faced the second man who now stared with widening eyes.

            “Motherfucker,” the injured man shouted. “You broke my goddam arm.” It hung beside him as he grasped the elbow with his other hand.

            Nelson had started the process of delivering a blow to the second man but stopped his fist in mid-air. He looked the man in the eyes and said in an even voice, “Whatever you are thinking about doing, I would strongly suggest that you don’t.”

            “Kill the motherfucker,” the injured man shouted.

            “Your choice,” Nelson said.

            The man’s eyes darted from Nelson’s hand to this wounded partner who was moaning in pain. He relaxed his tense pose and calmly extended Charlie’s jacket toward Nelson.

            “Just drop it,” Nelson said. The other did. “Now,” Nelson said. “I want you to do something for me and if you don’t do it, or if you make any wrong move, I will throw stupid ass over that railing.” He stood still. “Do you understand me?”

            The man looked over the railing. They were well out over the Arkansas River and high above it. He nodded.

            “Einstein here has something under his jacket that he was reaching for. You know what it is, don’t you?”

            The man nodded. His partner was now stomping his feet in pain.

            “Reach over with your left hand and ease it out. Hold it with two fingers … and gently.” he motioned toward the river, “Let me have it. Understand?”

            The man nodded. “You,” Nelson said to the other man. “Stand still or I’ll break your other arm and then both legs. Got it?”

            The man didn’t answer but stood still while his partner reached over and removed an ancient snub-nosed pistol from his belt. With two fingers, he held it out toward Nelson.

            “Lay it down in front of you,” Nelson said as he raised his hand in position for another blow. The man looked toward his partner who seemed to be on the verge of fainting and who nodded.

            When the gun was on the concrete bed of the bridge, Nelson motioned for the two to step back. They did and he picked up the pistol, still poised for immediate response should either make a move. “Now here is what is going to happen,” he said to the two. “You are going to remove, very slowly remove, your coats and lay them in front of you. When they didn’t move quickly, he said in a firm voice, “Now.”

            They complied and Nelson then had them remove their shirts. The larger man had to help his friend who was still moaning. Exposed, the elbow now was a sickening color and swelling visibly. Finished, the two stood shivering in the morning cold. Nelson motioned for them to mover farther back.

            “Know why this is your lucky day?” he said. When they didn’t answer, he said, “It’s your lucky day because I was going to make you sorry bastards strip to your skivvies but I had this attack of pity. Understand?”

            “You mother …,” the smaller man began but in an almost imperceptible move, Nelson moved in and backhanded him hard across the face. The man’s hand moved from his broken arm to hold a nose now broken as well.

            “And,” Nelson said, “if I see ever see your rotten asses on this side of the river again …” He stopped and thought. Then he said, “Or on the other side either, “I may get mad. Understand?”

            They nodded in dumb defeat. “Now get,” Nelson said, motioning them toward the other side of the river. The two walked away quickly, the larger man helping the other. Nelson gathered their jackets and rifled the pockets. He found a few coins, two joints of pot, the remains of a pack of Marlboros, and a handful of bullets that fit the pistol. Keeping an eye on the receding figures, he moved to the side of the bridge and threw everything save Charlie’s jacket, the cigarettes, and the coins into the river. Then he walked back to his fellow veteran.

            Charlie had watched the proceedings from where he stood. Shivering, he took his jacket and put in on quickly. “Thanks,” he said. “But you could have been killed.” He looked down. “I’m not sure that I am worth that.”

            “I have a feeling you are,” Nelson said. “How did that all come about, anyway? Didn’t you learn anything in Iraq?”

            “I was thinking about that bitch wife of mine when they jumped from behind a bush and he pointed that pistol in my face. They demanded my jacket and when I didn’t move fast enough, the dumb one slugged me.” He stopped talking and, after a pause, resumed in a soft voice. “Then I went into a seizure and they hit me some more. Then …”

            “That’s enough,” Nelson said. “I get the picture.” He handed Charlie the cigarettes.

            “Thanks, but no thanks,” Charlie said. “I just now quit.”

            Nelson smiled. “Good for you,” he said. “Now,” he took a breath, “what are we going to do with you?”

            “I’ll go back to my camp and rest,” Charlie said. “Then I’ll walk to the VA. I’ll be okay in a day or so. I don’t think those two will be coming back.” He turned to leave.

            “Bullshit,” Nelson said, grabbing his arm. “You’re coming home with me.”

            Charlie knitted his brow as if Nelson had just admitted being an alien. “What?”

            “You are coming to my house until we can get you back on your feet. I have more room than one person needs and you are welcome.”

            “But you don’t know anything about me,” Charlie said.

            Nelson shook his head. “I know that you are a brother vet and that is enough.” He looked at Charlie. “Besides, I have a project I’m working on that you could help me with.”

            “A project?”

            “Yes,” he said, “in Connorville. Didn’t you tell me that you have a friend there?

            Charlie thought. “Oh yeah. He has one of those schools where you can get a ‘concealed carry’ permit.” He thought for second. “I don’t think our two friends back there had one.”

            “I doubt it,” Nelson said. “That settles it then. Come on.”

            “But what if I’m a thief and I steal your stuff?”

            Nelson said, “I learned years ago to own nothing that you wouldn’t mind losing.”

            “What if I’m a child molester?”

            “Then I’ll whip your ass and kick you out.”

            Charlie thought for a moment, nodded, attempted a smile, and said, “That sounds fair enough.”

            Nelson said, “Do you need anything from your camp?”

            “Are you kidding?” He reached into a pocket of his pants and drew out two items. “Got my driver’s license and VA card. They’ve got copies of my DD-214. What else could I need?” He rubbed his face where he had been hit, then stopped as if remembering something. “You got anything to eat at your house?”

            “Come on,” Nelson said, and the two walked home together.

Medical News

It’s been nearly seven months since my knee replacement surgery. Scores of fans are seeking a progress report. Things are okay, I guess. I never had one before (a knee operation) so I can’t compare.

Would I do it again? Sure. I’ll share a few thoughts.

I now do about anything I please. I still have trouble putting my sock on the foot attached to the humiliated knee. But, at my age, I have trouble putting my clothes on, period. The knee is a little stiff in the morning.

I’ll neither make nor allow any jokes about that.

Those who’ve had the full knee replacement, as I have, all agree that the first three weeks suck. Most all daily functions of living are impaired. Moving the impacted leg is more painful, I imagine, than bone spurs.

Thank goodness for physical therapists. Let me set the record straight. I never called, or compared any of them to, Nazis. I simply said that I would like to turn a group of them onto some of these new Nazis that are following the president around. Talk about your “goose-stepping.”

Anyway, back to the knee. After Week Three, things improved. I could get around with a walker and do my normal housework. Just kidding. The only positive at first was being waited upon. I had a great deal of trouble getting into a car until I realized it was much easier to do it exactly opposite from the way my initial therapist had demanded. I found, as a general rule, it was always easier to place the knee in position and move the rest of the body to it. It was my knee, after all, and I suppose it shared my propensity for self-centeredness and attention-getting.

The most disappointing thing was the pain of just sitting in a chair and not moving. This is my favorite pastime, and over the years I have perfected it into an art form. I had looked forward to adding a few embellishments to some licks, like my “stare away mournfully” routine. And speaking of “licks,” I had mentally assigned guitar-picking and banjo-paying prominent roles in my recovery. Sadly, it hurt me to play as much is it hurts others to hear me play. There was much rejoicing during the worst of my infirmity.

It all goes away. Now I climb ladders and cut tree branches. I weed flower beds on my knees with the help of one of those little green kneel-masters they advertise on TV. I can tote a 55-pound bag of dog food. I can even run the extent of the house, hit the recliner, and assume my “stare away mournfully” pose if I hear Brenda’s car enter the premises.

Only thing that still aggravates me is standing up from a booth at a restaurant. Those are the darnedest things. I may start carrying a cane for assistance in that one area. That might even help, along with my “service” hat, in promoting “pity-pay” contributions from strangers. I doubt that, though, still not much regard for my generation of veterans.

All in all, it was a successful ordeal with little fanfare and complications. It wasn’t as simple as the time I walked into the base infirmary at Camp Tien Sha for some “itch-cream” and a Second-Class Hospital Corpsman with time on his hands noticed a cyst on my cheek. “Want me to get rid of that for you?” Thirty minutes later I left, sans-cyst but with four stitches on my cheek, ready for the mid-watch. There was no Purple Heart ensuing, but I think about it when I hear of folks today going through weeks of preparation and multiple “specialist pass-arounds,” ere having the same procedure followed by a hospital stay, … about the same ordeal as I went through six months ago.

I don’t think medical corpsman do knee replacements, though.

And the sexy little scar
on my cheek doesn't
even show.

My Redacted Life: New friends, new challenges ...

Now that I had moved from one beat away from a heart attack to jogging up to three miles a day, I was feeling pretty cocky. Oh yes, it cost the price of some new clothes, but that was a joy. I decided to wait on purchasing new suits in case I should become a “backsliding sinner” and get fat again. Meantime I practiced this little “strutting jog” like I was something special.

A great humbling event awaited me. It began one day when a moving van moved alongside the vacant house just to the south of us. I paid little attention at the time. I had heard a rumor that a couple of attorneys were moving in. I couldn’t imagine what impact that would have on housing values in the area, but it didn’t bode well. I went about my business.

Then the sun rose on a wonderful spring morning and I decided to do the jogging part of my daily routine outdoors. Accordingly, I ambled north on Spring Street and wound my way to the Arkansas River and back. When I turned onto Broadway and came to our house, I couldn’t help noticing a lone figure standing in a massive bathrobe in the yard next door. He held the morning newspaper in his hand and waved at me with the other. I walked over and introduced myself. I started to say something, but he interrupted.

“Do you jog?”

I thought of some snide answer such as, “No, I was running away from home but changed my mind.”

I said, “Yes.” I started to summarize my near-death experience with calories and high blood-pressure, when he interrupted again. Would I like company some day when jogging?

“I said sure. When?”

“I’ll meet you out here tomorrow, the same time you left this morning.” With that he spun around and went back into his house.

I thought no more about it until that evening. Over the supper table, I asked Brenda if she had met our new neighbors. “No, have you?”

“One,” I said. “We’re going jogging together in the morning.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is he a jogger?”

I thought of some snide answer such as, “No, but he saw me doing it and couldn’t wait to try it himself.” I thought better of it. Snide remarks did not exist in her lexicon of appropriate responses. “I guess he does, but he doesn’t look too athletic to me. I hope he can keep up.”

At a few minutes past the appropriate time the next morning, I arrived at the appropriate corner. He stood waiting, hopping from foot to foot as if they were each on fire. “You’re late,” he said.

I thought of a snide answer, but I lost it while examining his appearance. He was a few inches shorter than I, and he maybe weighed half as much. His slender body rested atop two spindly legs that looked more like giant toothpicks than human appendages. He wore a baseball hat from some bank or other. He announced the route, spun around, and hopped off. I say “hopped” because each step sent him high into the air and he was halfway down the block before my brain cells communicated, “jog.” I ran to catch up and immediately begged for mercy. He said nothing but slowed to a pace that I could manage. He looked over at me as if I were a miserable species left over from the Cambrian Explosion. I smiled and shrugged. I could have sworn I heard him grunt.

Thus began a journey that was to include thousands of miles and untold adventures.

Lo, how the mighty are fallen.

My Redacted Life ... health

I’m fat, out of shape, and suffering from extremely high blood pressure at age 30. What could I do? I asked around and found out that the Downtown YMCA, at Sixth and Broadway in Little Rock had a fitness center frequented by many of the men who worked in the area. They had recently opened the center to African-American men, but several years would pass before women members appeared. I checked it out.

One of the finest people who ever lived ran the club. Actually, there was a “Health Club” and a “Businessman’s Club.” I don’t quite remember which was which, but one was more expensive than the other. Anyway, ErselTillery ran both and provided an excellent program. He would give you a checkup and prescribe an exercise program based on your vital signs.

That’s where the trouble started.

While taking my blood pressure, Ersel couldn’t suppress an “Oh no.” I’ve always felt that if he hadn’t been a Baptist minister, he might have uttered a profanity.

Here’s what happened.

My BP was so high and my body fat so great that he had no exercise program to start me on.

He studied on it awhile. Ersel wasn’t one to give up on a man just because he was a slothful blob of fat. So he designed a program just for me so I wouldn’t keel over dead my first day of a new life. Here is what he came up with.

There was this little wooden track on the third floor. It resembled a 45 rpm phonograph record and it took 30 laps to make a mile. The lowest form of Ersel’s exercise program was for a really out-of-shape man to jog around the track nine times, walk around nine times, jog around, etc, for a little over half-a-mile, after attending a “stretch and strength” class he taught at noon and just after work. He was afraid that beginner’s program might kill me.

So … he devised a plan for my first couple of weeks. I could waddle around the little track once, walk around it once, for a total of nine revolutions. In the class, I had to stop halfway through each exercise. You can imagine how the others in the class stared at me. Oh well.

I was committed, though. And Ersel was patient. I knew some folks who came to the gym. I wore loose clothing so they wouldn’t see the full extent of my corpulence. I don’t think I fooled anyone though. I would usually go the class at lunchtime. If I missed, and wasn’t on the road, I could come after work. We lived south of the YMCA, on Broadway, so the gym was on my way to and fro. I didn't miss a day.

Two weeks passed and I was still alive. Ersel was pleased, so he doubled my regimen. The signs dropped a little, not much, but they were headed in the right direction. And … I imagined that I felt a little better. This transition, no matter how slight, pleased my wife who dreamed of my amassing a fortune before departing this earthly sojourn. We each have our dreams, I suppose.

Tomorrow: Real progress.

The wonderful man
who saved my life.

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.

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 …

Growing Up Southern: July 31, 2017

I was sickly as a youth. They were forever forcing needles into my arm or noxious liquids down my throat. Illness never was a pastime for me. As a result, I can count my serious illnesses as an adult—ones you would miss work for—fairly easily.

Now, hangovers from too much fun, muscles strained from kicking at dogs, fatigue from obsessive jogging, malnutrition from smart-mouthing a wife, and other self-induced idiocies don’t count, do they? Okay.

Let’s see, I had severe cold upon checking aboard the USS Hunley in the winter of 1968. I had the flu somewhere around 1989. I mean I really had the flu. Knocked me out for over a week. It was not a case we see so often when someone has a bad cold and elevates it to flu status. I had the real thing. Trust me.

Speaking of colds, you seldom hear about them anymore. We euphemistically call them “sinus infections now.” Why? I’m not sure, but I suspect it is so we can demand antibiotics. They have no effect on a virus, as we know. As we should know anyway. There is the placebo effect, and prescribing them gets you out of the doctor’s hair. So, there.

I think I read somewhere that each case of the common cold results from a separate virus. Once we have had a specific one, we become immune to it. If that is true, I had so many as a youth that I think I used them all up. That one I mentioned in 1968 was the last.

Other than the flu once, I did pass two kidney stones. The first instance took me to the emergency room a year or so ago, whereupon a couple of drips of morphine made me as unconcerned as a politician doing dirty work. The second? Well, it occurred a few weeks ago. I recognized the symptoms that time and used profanity combined with a gritting of teeth to see me through. All in all, the morphine was better, profanity cheaper.

Why am I telling you all this? It’s because a I have knee giving me fits and it really pisses me off. That seems to be a common response when one isn’t used to, and doesn’t enjoy, being incapacitated. Anyway. I decided to employ my normal treatment for pain: just working through it. This included profanity, stretching, walking, and picking peas, a chore that requires a good deal of stretching and bending.

That made it worse. I guess I’ll have to let someone look at it. I always remember the words of our beloved country doctor, though. “Those boys in Little Rock like to cut on you.” I think I may tell them that I’m “a screamer” and friend to scads of lawyers. Then they might want to think twice about it.

Oh well, I am lucky for 50 years of good health. I reckon a little attention won’t hurt.

Sailing To Oblivium: July 16, 2017

There’s a passage in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony which goes from dark brooding to sublime sunshine in only a few measures. It took longer and worked just the opposite for me last evening.

The sublime? This one is easy. It was enjoying dinner with one of my favorite couples, Brenda and Troy Galloway down from Bentonville, Arkansas. Yes, that’s where Walmart makes its headquarters, and Troy is Community Development director there. He is also a Brigadier General in the Army National Guard. Brenda serves as the official version of a truly gracious All-American. One of their daughters just graduated from West Point and the other will soon enter her second year at the United States Merchant Marine Academy.

The very model of a modern flawless family? “Pert near,” as we say in South Arkansas. I’ve always been lucky with friends.

As I say, it was a most pleasant evening marred only by the fact that my Brenda couldn’t join us because of caretaking duties. She gets her turn soon when she flies to Texas for a Don Henley concert while I assume the homecare role.

The dismal? Imagine my disappointment when, after such delightful evening, I awoke after midnight experiencing the now-familiar pain and nausea that accompany the passage of a kidney stone.

Yikes!

Four hours later, the pain left as suddenly as it had come. I now have a souvenir to remind me that things can, and do, shift back and forth between the sublime and the dismal, sometimes quite rapidly. The trick is to accept both and just hang the hell on.

And dance whenever,
and wherever, you can.

Country Doctors

            They shut down one of the last country Doctor’s offices in the Delta a while back and we probably won’t see another. Health care is too tempting a target for the corporations. A kindly, caring, and brilliant fellow ran it for years, his body giving out before his mind. His name was Byron E. Holmes, M.D. and he was the closest thing to Marcus Welby, M.D. you could find in these parts. He died yesterday, a loss for us all.

            They say that back in the day he charged two dollars for an office visit. That usually took care of one’s problems. He was slow to forward you to Little Rock and have the young folks pass you around to their Med School buddies before cutting on you. "No," he would say, “Let’s watch it for a few days and see if it won’t heal itself.”

            Know what? It almost always did.

            The office was an old house on Front Street, the “main drag” of Lonoke, Arkansas. He required no appointments. Patients were seen on a “first come, first served” basis. When things were slow, he would make his rounds to the nursing homes. When the waiting room was crowded, he never hurried. As for myself, he rarely fussed at me for anything but my weight. Sometimes he wanted to talk about the world. It didn’t matter if I was in a hurry or if the waiting room was crowded. I listened. I think I was one of the few people that had never heard all of his stories. One time I remember well: we both enjoyed a few chuckles when I mentioned I had read a book about Little Rock's infamous "goat-gland doctor."

Dr. Holmes, right, receiving one
of many awards.

            His father was a Methodist minister and the legend goes that he told his son not to go into medicine. It was, as Joseph Conrad would put it, “… a command not obeyed.”

            We’re glad it wasn’t.  I’m glad I was fortunate enough to be in his care for nearly 40 years. “Better go let Dr. Holmes look at it” was the catch phrase that took care of everything. One never felt patronized, insulted, or condescended to in his office. And if he wasn’t the best at drawing blood I ever saw, that was a minor detail.

            They replaced his clinic with a corporate outfit from Dallas, Texas. They began business charging $196.00 for an office call. The old days and old ways are done for, I’m afraid.

The old office on Front Street, now empty.

We’ll miss the doctor. Fortunately for me, the UAMS Longevity Center and the VA take care of my modest medical needs. The care is excellent. Under it, I have lost 50 pounds and feel 20 years younger. If something should go wrong, I think they will do a good job of treating it.

Even so, I always felt a little more confident when Byron E. Holmes, M.D. would say it would be all right in a few days. It always was.

My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people. - Orson Welles

Country Doctors

            They shut down one of the last country Doctor’s offices in the Delta a while back and we probably won’t see another. Health care is too tempting a target for the corporations. A kindly, caring, and brilliant fellow ran it for years, his body giving out before his mind. His name was Byron E. Holmes, M.D. and he was the closest thing to Marcus Welby, M.D. you could find in these parts. He died yesterday, a loss for us all.

            They say that back in the day he charged two dollars for an office visit. That usually took care of one’s problems. He was slow to forward you to Little Rock and have the young folks pass you around to their Med School buddies before cutting on you. "No," he would say, “Let’s watch it for a few days and see if it won’t heal itself.”

            Know what? It almost always did.

            The office was an old house on Front Street, the “main drag” of Lonoke, Arkansas. He required no appointments. Patients were seen on a “first come, first served” basis. When things were slow, he would make his rounds to the nursing homes. When the waiting room was crowded, he never hurried. As for myself, he rarely fussed at me for anything but my weight. Sometimes he wanted to talk about the world. It didn’t matter if I was in a hurry or if the waiting room was crowded. I listened. I think I was one of the few people that had never heard all of his stories. One time I remember well: we both enjoyed a few chuckles when I mentioned I had read a book about Little Rock's infamous "goat-gland doctor."

Dr. Holmes, right, receiving one
of many awards.

            His father was a Methodist minister and the legend goes that he told his son not to go into medicine. It was, as Joseph Conrad would put it, “… a command not obeyed.”

            We’re glad it wasn’t.  I’m glad I was fortunate enough to be in his care for nearly 40 years. “Better go let Dr. Holmes look at it” was the catch phrase that took care of everything. One never felt patronized, insulted, or condescended to in his office. And if he wasn’t the best at drawing blood I ever saw, that was a minor detail.

            They replaced his clinic with a corporate outfit from Dallas, Texas. They began business charging $196.00 for an office call. The old days and old ways are done for, I’m afraid.

The old office on Front Street, now empty.

We’ll miss the doctor. Fortunately for me, the UAMS Longevity Center and the VA take care of my modest medical needs. The care is excellent. Under it, I have lost 50 pounds and feel 20 years younger. If something should go wrong, I think they will do a good job of treating it.

Even so, I always felt a little more confident when Byron E. Holmes, M.D. would say it would be all right in a few days. It always was.

My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people. - Orson Welles