Becoming mature is waaaay overrated

      I have known Winston Trice for about two months longer than I've been acquainted with my wife, as Winston and I interviewed at the Medical College of Virginia on the same day in August 1976 before I headed to Utah for my fourth year of college and met Paula.   

 

    Winston and I ended up becoming good friends, both near the top of our med-school class.  Ever the organizer, Winston became the unelected leader of "Group 12," as we started on the clinical training rotations of our third year.  The group consisted of a bunch of us with wives and even children, all of us doing OK academically.  

    But there was always something different about Winston.  I won't easily forget coming upon him at 3:27 AM one night on our Internal Medicine rotation, playing a solemn fugue on the organ in the Jefferson David Memorial Chapel there on the top floor of the old MCV West Hospital.  (That's right, Jefferson Davis, like the President of the Confederate States.  Said chapel has since been removed.)

 

    Winston wisely chose Ophthalmology as a specialty and headed to Nashville while I ended up at Duke for OB-GYN residency.  He ultimately joined an Ophthalmology group in Richmond, and Paula and I ended up in Raleigh.  Several years later we re-contacted and did things like running the rapids on the James River in his city in whitewater kayaks.  In 1992, we got together with my brother and our wives for the first time for a windsurfing trip to Hatteras Island, part of the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  (Winston's the tall guy in the middle.)

 This changed (degenerated?) to kiteboarding sometime in the 'oughts.'

    Winston, or "Skortch" as he is known to his grandchildren, is a lot more adventurous and imaginative than me.  He has kited and adventured in more strange places than I thought even existed, and is always trying something new.  He visited us with my brother Mark and his wife when we were in Bogotá and then Peru, hiking up to 17,000 feet on the glacier-studded mountain behind our city.

    Several years ago on one of our twice-yearly kiteboarding trips to Hatteras, Skortch brought a 4x8 sheet of Home Depot plywood in his minivan and proved that one could kite upwind on it if one had the skill, and he did.  Turning around?  Simple, just run to the other end of the plywood and reverse course.

    Not content with pushing that envelope, this fall Winston brought The Chair of Wisdom, a ratty old wooden chair rescued from some swamp on Hatteras that he insists on loading in his van, and to everyone's amazement and delight proved that with proper skill and outside-every-box attitude one could kite upwind on a sheet of plywood, while seated on that chair! 

    The crowd on the beach went nuts!

      Once again, Winston had broken through a barrier of extreme sport!  Skortch for the win!

      OK, well, the landing at the end of the run still needs some work.  When Winston came in to the beach aboard his craft, the crowd wisely scattered, running for first aid kits and dialing 911.  When the plywood hit the sand, it stopped suddenly, while The Chair of Wisdom and its occupant continued on a bit, until the back legs dug in.

    Luckily or otherwise, The Chair is not equipped with a seat belt, and so Winston ejected.  His luck really came through as his kite landed before it hit the trillion-volt power lines next to the water.  

 

    It is regrettable, though understandable that no one captured the landing on video.  Understandable because they were all running for their lives and/or first aid kits and/or professional rescue help when it all went sideways.

    Winston brushed the sand off his wetsuit, stood up with a big grin and pronounced, "That was great!  You gotta try it!" 

    I truly feel lucky to be Winston's friend, and that I was far enough away from The Chair of Wisdom to avoid its ultimate trajectory.  He always exhorts me to do more than that of which I think I'm capable, to push my limits and look for ways to enjoy life.  He is also one of the truly honorable men that I know.  

    May you have such good friends.  On the other hand if Skortch ever turns to you with that look in his eye and says, "Hey, I know!  We could..." think twice.  And then think again.

Dave

(Oh, and by the way, if he specifically says, "Hey, I know!  We could put you in a whitewater kayak and hook you to a kite!" really, don't do it.  Do not do it.  Been there, done that and I thought I was going to drown.)   

As the midterm elections approach...

     Quit worrying!  This is not a political post!  Paula and I were just reminiscing about a political contest from our years in Peru, sometime around 2015 or so.  

    Peru has a long and "complicated" history concerning its leaders.  Nearly all recent former presidents have been impeached, arrested for all kinds of stuff, spent time behind bars, and served prison sentences.  Alberto Fujimori, who had Congress change the constitution so that he could serve three terms in a row went pretty much straight from the presidential palace to prison.  His daughter is the most recent leader of the country, and things once again aren't looking good.

    One particular politician during our time there had been accused of a number of scandals of varying seriousness, an assortment of the usual sins.  To our minds, it seems that he could have chosen a better campaign advisor.

    When confronted with accusations that might sway the electorate, most candidates will deny, obfuscate, accuse their opponent of worse, or just change the subject.  This fellow went for the "face it straight ahead" option, and I'm not sure it worked that well.

    His ads when something like this, though in Spanish:

    "They say that I have accepted bribes," followed by a loud, "FALSO!!

    Not leaving well enough alone, he continued down the list:

    "They say that I have not paid my taxes!  FALSO!!" 

    "They say that I am a narco-trafficker!  FALSO!!" 

     "They say that I have cheated on my wife!  FALSO!!"

     "They say that I am a drunkard!  FALSO!! 

    "They say that I have molested children!  FALSO!!

     And so on.  Maybe he got some attention for the unusual character of his advertisements, but he probably could have gotten more traction by pointing out positive plans, past accomplishments, almost anything else other than bad things that at least made me wonder about the guy.  I dunno, perhaps I don't understand how things work in Peruvian elections.  

    Oh, well, back to the more-boring election propaganda in our fair land as we approach the midterms.  And by the way, I am NOT a narco-trafficker.  FALSO!!

Dave 

High School Reunion, Delayed!

     I attended Langley High School in McLean, Virginia, graduating in 1971.  If that name rings a bell, it's because we were just upstream on the Potomac River from that other "Langley" thing, you know, "the Company," or as the big sign on Rt. 123 indicated, "Virginia High Department," or as everyone else in the world knew it, the CIA.  

    That area of Northern Virginia was packed with important people, and in that era, their kids mostly attended public schools, so LHS was an interesting place.  Brainy groups like Jazz Band, Math Club and the Chess Team were outstanding.  While our athletic teams were generally OK, it was said of our football team, "Yeah, they may be small, but they're slow!"  Oh, and by the way, Langley had more than a passing resemblance to a prison.

     However, I was not very interesting myself.  I was not exactly a standout scholar, and didn't make a splash otherwise.  I became good friends with Lloyd Hill, and together we got a job at an airport 25 miles southwest of Dulles International.  We were "lineboys," which meant that we fueled aircraft, changed runway lights and of course, cleaned toilets.  But that meant we could learn how to fly!  $1.25 an hour doesn't sound like much of a wage, but instruction including plane and instructor was only $17 an hour; today that figure is about $200 for the same time period.  I was awarded my pilot's license soon after turning seventeen and heading for college.  

    As I said, neither Lloyd nor myself made much of a splash at Langley.  Lloyd decided that needed to change, so we made the goal of getting our picture in the yearbook in an athletic team.  That would take some doing, as we weren't athletes, but with investigation, we learned that the tennis team didn't have "cuts;" as long as you dressed out, you were at least on the Junior Varsity Team.   

    When it came time for the yearbook picture, we lined up.  I was on the front row on one knee holding my racquet in a heroic pose.  No one noticed, but Jim Creedon in the second row was also holding his racquet, but he was flipping the bird on the 'throat' or handle of the thing.  

    The 50th reunion was cancelled due to COVID, so this was our 55th.  Jim and I laughed a bunch over that picture.  He told me that he lived in fear for the next month after it was taken, but no one noticed, and it made it in.  Here's Jim, second from the left:

     The reunion was interesting.  As you could have predicted, there were folks who had done amazing things in life.  One guy had spent 18 years in the DEA in Colombia and Peru during the Pablo Escobar era.  Another had been the head of the NTSB, while another served as his state's Treasurer.  Several were big in the tech world, while others had served in the Peace Corps and headed up various law and accounting firms.

     I was able to apologize once and for all to a nice girl (woman) who had gotten up her courage to ask me to the "Sadie Hawkins" (girl invitation) dance, which I had to back out of because I broke my leg.  Having been turned down myself a legendary number of times, I knew how that felt.    

    Overall, it was a satisfying reunion.  I'm aware that those in the class who had ended up in prison for life (or less) or who had encountered serious difficulties and setbacks would be less likely to come, but still, it was good.  Oh, and as we are all in our 70's, a number could not have made it in mortal form, having "graduated" from this sphere already.

    As I started the 4+ hour drive back to Raleigh, I smiled, not only thinking about Jim Creedon and the tennis team picture, but also realizing that my life had turned out OK.  Nothing fancy, no great titles or fame, but a good life.  I don't think I'd change much.  Especially not that picture.

Dave

Don't be dumb!

     Our granddaughter Sophia and her brother Edwin came from Tajikistan in May of this year to work for the summer, there being little work available for American teenagers in that Central Asian capital.  They both planned to work as lifeguards for the Raleigh City pools, which often don't open because of the lack of such guards.  They arrived, did their training and then waited for their background checks, fingerprints and drug screens to clear, which they never did, by the way.

     Meanwhile, both practiced driving, and Sophia earned her North Carolina driver's license.  Edwin was just in the early stages of driving, and will have to wait til later for his driving test.  

     In general, Edwin just didn't seem very ambitious or adventurous.  He often slept in late, and sometimes walked with a bit of a limp.  We figured it was probably "just Edwin," and didn't think too much of it.

    The rest of their family arrived for the annual beach trip, and all of that faded into the general tumult.  However, when the lot of them arrived in Utah for a family reunion there, Edwin got very sick, with a temperature above 106 F, aching joints, all sorts of thing.  He ended up in the hospital for eight days on IV antibiotics, and was diagnosed with "brucellosis," with point festering infections in various joints.  His dad, our son-in-law Brandon also became ill with the same malady.  They are both now on extended (three months) combination antibiotics, and Edwin still uses a cane.  While antibiotic therapy has reduced the mortality from the infection, it is still miserable.

    Brucellosis is caused by one of a number of bacteria in the genus Brucella, which are carried by livestock, including cattle.  It is acquired by consuming raw dairy products, or by exposure to fluids from infected animals.  It can cause miscarriages in cattle - and in humans!

    Back home in Tajikistan, my daughter Ashley buys raw milk from a dairy, but is very careful to pasteurize it to the proper temperature.  However, in retrospect, the housekeeper had been buying sour cream and other items that most likely were the source of the bacteria.

    Brucella carriage in dairy cattle in the US is very uncommon.  It is prevented through a combination of vaccination of calves, strict herd biosecurity and regular surveillance and culling of infected animals.  However, cases do arise, and they are caused by eating or drinking unpasteurized dairy products.  IS THAT CLEAR??!!

     DON'T FALL FOR THE RAW MILK MISINFORMATION!!  Raw milk is NOT more nutritious, and DOES NOT carry miracle probiotics that would be destroyed by pasteurization.  Please rely on real sources, and not influencers or the anti-everything people.  If you think it would help, I'll have Edwin give you a call.

Dave 

The "bouncing back" skipped a generation

      We breathed a sigh of relief when our last kid, Mike, left home and didn't come back.  That was some time ago, and all five young'uns are on their own, married to really good spouses, and we're not paying any cell phone bills or car insurance for anyone but our own selfish selves.  

      Plus, we don't even have a basement that anyone could live in and play video games all day if they wanted to.

    So, we thought we were over all of that.  However, we now have a grandkid living with us, and it's been a lot of fun.  

    Sophia is eighteen years old, and has received her assignment to serve a mission for our church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and she begins on September 16.  However, the fact that her family is living in Tajikistan (thanks to the State Department) has complicated things a bit.  For instance, her family is basically The Church in that country, so she was interviewed and all arrangements made remotely.  She's been called to the Washington DC South Mission.  

    She said, "That's great!  For me, that's a foreign mission, but they speak English, and there's Target!"  Sophie also speaks some Russian, so who knows where that may lead.

    Opportunities to work in Dushanbe (the capital of Tajikistan) are almost nonexistent for an expat, so she came here with her sixteen-year-old brother Edwin in mid-May.  She's been working as a lifeguard at local pools, 

as well as serving at the local Ben & Jerry's and babysitting.  

Sophie has been working up to 60 hours a week, and I have been impressed as she has tracked down work and been responsible.

    We've been trying to help.  For instance, I took her passport picture.  "No, Sophie!  You need to look more bland!  You need to remove every thought!"  She did great.  According to the picture, the brain switch was "Off."

    As noted in a previous post, while she has been here, she earned her North Carolina (and therefore U.S.) driver's license.

 

    Sophia has always been a joy.  It's against the rules to have favorite grandchildren, but...

 

    And she has yet to start playing video games in the basement.  As if she played video games.  Or as if we had a basement.  

 

    We will really miss having her around.  That, and we'll miss what she brings home from Ben & Jerry's.

Dave & Paula 

 

PS:  She actually helped several Uzbeks the other day at the ice cream place.  In Russian!

I guess it has to happen

      Rationally, I recognize that "no one gets out of here alive."  However, it's not a part of the plan that I'm particularly enjoying.  

    I hit 72 this year, and it hit right back.  In this post, I will not succumb to the temptation to which many of my fellow septuagenarians fall prey, that of participating in "organ recitals."  These are recitations of maladies and operations and medications and ailments from which they are suffering.   These discussions at times seem to be competitions to see who has the longest amazing list of such.  

    In defense of my fellow Old People (ohmygosh, am I an 'Old Person'?!), these concerns understandably begin to squeeze out other things in life as they occupy more and more attention and resources.  But it's frustrating, and, agreeing with the poet Dylan Thomas' plea to his dying father, I'd rather "not go gentle into that good night," but rather "rage, rage against the dying of the light."

     OK, a little example of the frustrating slippage.  As other posts have indicated, I've enjoyed riding bicycles through the years, and I think I can account for about 120,000 miles while on two wheels.  At times, I've used a heart rate monitor to help judge or push my fitness level.  I would hit 180 beats per minute at maximal effort, but after a while I laid the chest strap aside.  

    I recently put a new computer on the handlebars and synced the monitor again.  Huh?!  Even at maximal, hardly-able-to-breath effort, I couldn't get past 154 beats per minute.  What?!  Is this thing broken?  I just got it!

    The internet explained to me that with age...uh, oh.  Maximal heart rate, as well as individual cardiac stroke volume, blah, blah, blah all decrease with years on the odometer, and no, David, you are not going to be able to keep up with the 29-year-olds, no matter how hard you train.  Darn it!

    Frustratingly, mental acuity slips.  Frustratingly, mental acuity slips.  Did I already mention that?  Faces and names are apparently kept in separate drawers, and at times they don't communicate.  I still enjoy reading, but I can no longer give you as many details of the book I just finished, or remember the title of that really good one I read last year when comparing lists.

 

    So, what's up with all of this?  Well, thinking historically, we're not generally constructed to live this long.  In 1500, the average global life expectancy at birth was roughly 30 to 40 years.  Note, however, that this low average did not mean adults routinely dropped dead at 35; rather, it was heavily driven by catastrophic infant and child mortality rates, where roughly one-third to one-half of all children died before reaching adulthood.  Adults who made it past their early years frequently lived into their 50s, 60s, or older, much like people in later centuries.  But we have stretched that expectancy even further, and so things that weren't a big concern in 1500 become common.  My brother the retired orthopedic surgeon maintains that joints didn't have to make it to age 85 in the old days, and my friend the ophthalmologist says that although cataracts will happen to everyone eventually, they weren't as big a deal when The Plague or bad diet were going to get you before that point. 

    So, what's really up with all of this?  Speaking from an evolutionary, biological point of view, it makes sense.  Having a bunch of old examples around with limited resources available gives less opportunity to experiment with new 'improvements' in the species, and thus the eventual continuation of that species.  

    However, I believe that there's something else going on.  I am convinced that this is only one (extremely important) part of a much, much longer existence.  We are here to experience and accomplish things that can best be done in this chaotic, cruel, beautiful, complicated, marvelous phase, but we're not supposed to be here forever.  There are other things to learn and to do, other spheres in which to progress and become wiser and better.  

    And so, as frustrating as this aging thing is, it's gotta end this way, opening another door.  Can something be learned even from the breaking down of this physical vehicle, marvelous as it has been?  It's hard to accept, but probably, yes.  Patience, acceptance, understanding, kindness in response to the suffering of others can all be learned a bit more thoroughly as one passes through this.  Some of us are given the seeming favor of a quick, clean passage, while others are not.  

    OK, but am I ready to quit trying to learn how to kite foil?  Are there places I still want to visit?  Grandkids to watch grow up?  Absolutely!  And I'll try to keep trying, but with the overall perspective of an ongoing existence after this part is over.   

    Now, where did I put that stupid heart rate monitor?

Dave    

I thought I was done with that!

      When I was twelve, one of my buddies in Scouts 'borrowed' his mother's car keys and made some copies.  On several occasions, three or four of us would melt out of the back of the Scout meeting and go drive their family's Simca 1000 around the church parking lot, figuring out the clutch and how to keep from crashing into other stuff.  

 

    There were other 'informal' opportunities along the way to figure out the mysteries of driving, and when I got my learner's permit and went out with my dad, he commented on how quickly I seemed to pick it up.  "Yeah, I guess I'm just a natural," I said, without bringing up The Simca School of Driving, etc. 

    Not many years later, I got to teach several of my siblings how to drive.  In particular, one older sister got home from a session with our mother in which Mom screamed and fainted every time they came within a yard of the ditch or another vehicle and my sister pronounced, "THAT'S IT!  I AM NEVER DRIVING WITH HER AGAIN!!"  

    Now that I think of it, my younger brother didn't seem to have a problem picking up the skill; I probably just assumed his gang had also gotten hold of some poorly-guarded car keys.

 

    Fast forward to my kids.  We made sure that the 'kid car' was always a manual so that they could drive anything in the future.  Paula and I split duties, but she did the majority of instruction due to my work schedule.  Whichever kid was learning to drive dreaded getting home from school and hearing their mom announce, "Clutch clinic!"  That meant looking for stops signs on hills so that they could learn to start uphill.  Ever smell a burning clutch?

 

    Half a dozen totaled vehicles later, they all survived and headed out to life, and I thought that was it for teaching people to drive.  

    HAH!  One of our daughters lives in Dushanbe, Tajikistan because of the State Department, and her kids are getting to that age.  Soooo, two of them are here for the summer to work, as well as (you guessed it) learn to drive!  Oh, BOY! 

    Sophia, their #2 daughter and a great kid is now eighteen, and so in North Carolina she just needed a learner's permit and enough driving to pass the test.  She and I spent a bunch of hours over the last three weeks practicing in the parking lots, streets and highways around Raleigh, and I finally thought she was ready for The Driving Test!

    I was so nervous going to the DMV office with her that I forgot to bring shoes.  It's summer, OK?  I snuck in the waiting room barefoot while she was presenting the reams of required documents and I snagged a back row seat.  Thirty minutes later she came out from the back with thumbs up; she passed!!  I asked about any problems, any gaps in my instruction and she said, "Nope.  The examiner was an old, short, really grumpy lady.  I tried to be friendly and asked her how long she'd been doing this, and she said, "Too long.  Turn right."" 

    When we got home, Sophia asked if she could take the car and go out for her first "solo" drive. 

    She came back, alive, about 20 minutes later. 

    There are five more kids in my daughter's family, and they still have a number of years overseas.  And I thought I was done with that.

Dave