GOING HOME

It was Thomas Wolfe who said, "You can't go home again," but, he was wrong.....sort of. Not that you would necessarily want to go home again. Things change over the years. People move, the ditch where you had the Tarzan swing is now condos and there's a parking lot where the little store used to be where you knew how to get a ball stuck in the pinball machine to rack up points and get free games. It won't be the same home you left. You can, however, with the right people involved, invoke all of the memories and emotions that allow you to go back home in your mind to the point of even dredging up sounds and smells, albeit psychological. I was able to do just that a few of years ago when, thanks to Facebook, I was reunited with a friend I had not seen in 45 years. He lives in Miami, but, happened to be in Dallas for a convention. What a remarkable visit we had. Let me begin by telling you that I went to high school at a boarding school after the public school I was attending in Manchester, Ct. realized they had an issue with my being there. If memory serves me, and it doesn't always, it had something to do with an experiment to see if a plastic cherry bomb would explode when flushed down a toilet in the Boys Room. It does. The school I was sent to was then known as Laurel Crest in Bristol, Ct. We ate, slept, studied and created friendships in old Victorian buildings that were beautiful from the outside and felt like prison on the inside. Fortunately for our sanity and our appetites, we perfected the art of climbing down the corner bricks from the 2nd floor late at night for our forays to McDonalds or Dunkin' Donuts, who provided the erstwhile nutrition for our all night poker games in one of the big closets in our dorm rooms. Marvin was a good friend with whom I would play poker, play guitars, study and, yes, climb down the wall and go downtown. Marvin taught me a very cool blues riff that, when I pick up a guitar now, convinces everybody that I possess some prowess at the instrument. I do not. It's the only thing I can play, but, I have to admit that even I am impressed at how good it sounds. Marvin and I graduated together and lost touch. He went on to become a professor at Miami-Dade College and is now retired, watching the dolphins and whales from his beachside balcony. We found each other on Facebook and he told me he was going to be in Dallas for an upcoming convention and wanted to see me. We made it a point to get together when he got to town. As he was walking across the hotel lobby to meet me at the concierge desk, I knew instantly who he was. He told me that without the goatee and grey hair, I hadn’t changed at all. Nor has he, aside from the normal aging signs….a little less hair, a liver spot or two, but, nonetheless, he too was unchanged. We reminisced ourselves back to the mid 60’s and suddenly, looking at Marvin, I saw his brown curly hair, his bright youthful smile and imagined picking up a couple of guitars to play our little blues piece. It was a truly wonderful visit that took us both back to a different time and place, even though passersby saw a couple of old guys chatting in a hotel lobby. When Marvin returned home, he found that another “Crestie,” named Doug, was living mere blocks from him. Shortly after their reunion, I moved to Miami and, for the past three years have been spending time with my old pals on a regular basis. We and our wives get together often and it always conjures up great memories of days when, to quote Billy Joel, “I wore a younger man’s clothes.” We also found, much to our delight, that a number of our classmates spend their winters in the area and we have been able to reconnect with some them. Marvin, Doug and I recently had lunch at a local “rib joint” with Mike and Steve, two other members of the Laurel Crest class of 1965. Other diners saw 5 old men cutting up and laughing a lot - we were back in a dorm room, plotting our escape down the wall to get donuts, meet up with a “townie” girl or just play a little pool. It was at that lunch that I realized that Thomas Wolfe was dead wrong - under the right circumstances…..you CAN go home again.

CHANGING HABITS

It seems like a thousand years ago that I was first diagnosed with diabetes. I know that it wasn’t because B-O-B does not spell Methuselah. It was closer to 16 years ago, when, after some routine blood work, I was told that the doctor wanted me to see an endocrinologist because he suspected diabetes. I went to see the endoc and, sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed. I was a Type 2 diabetic and I had some serious changes to make. I walked out of his office a little slower, head down, not wanting eye contact with anyone, and sat in my car without starting it for what seemed top be an hour. What did this mean? I didn’t know very much about diabetes other than stories I had been told by friends whose grandparents had lost a foot or needed a kidney transplant or died because of complications from it. Naïve is a kind word to describe how much I knew. I saw this as a death sentence and, in a moment of self indulgence, I cried. Why me? I was never overweight, I was not a junk food glutton and nobody in my family was diabetic. Why me? I cried some more. A number of years earlier, when my first wife and I had divorced, I remember thinking about the choices I had to make. Did I go to a bar, get drunk and cry in my proverbial beer or did I turn the car in another direction, go to the gym, get in shape and start dating again? I contemplated that choice for about 10 minutes before I found myself throwing out what became my last pack of cigarettes, “pumping iron” and getting ready for a date. It wasn’t long before I found my true soul mate - the woman I have now been married to for 18 years. This was no different. I had to make some hard choices. I went home and told my wife, through the tears, that I was diabetic. She had just returned to our home in Dallas after flying to Chicago to give her brother a kidney, so, her initial response was, “Ouch, this hurts,” but, being the bastion of strength that she has always been, within moments, she was getting proactive about my situation. My wife grew up in an African-American family and community that deep fried a lot of food, so it was only natural that we ate foods that were prepared in the “Fry Daddy.” I grew up in a Jewish-American family where the foods contained a lot of salt, which I had backed off from years earlier because I didn’t want “the gout.” The “Fry Daddy” was the first thing to go. She threw it in the trash and started to researched menus where it wasn’t necessary to fry everything in gallons of oil. We would fight this thing together. We found recipes that were amazingly more delicious than fried or salty foods and so began our culinary journey. It didn’t take long before I dropped what little extra weight I had and she found herself having to buy smaller clothing. Within about 6 months, I had come off all diabetes meds and was feeling terrific. We have never gone back to our old ways. We continue to eat the right things, cooked the right way. I take Metformin again, but, only because I had a bit of a setback during a recent move and the “stress” caused the numbers to get a bit out of whack. But our proactivity as regards diabetes has simply become our way of life; our comfort zone. Just the other night, while eating dinner, my wife made me realize that my diabetes has been a blessing for our entire family. We have been eating healthy for so long now that my 17 year old daughter just can’t eat junk food or drink soda. She doesn’t like candy and prefers to “snack” on fruits and vegetables. For her, it is just the way things are. This was nothing that she had to “learn the hard way.” I still, however, wondered how I could possibly be diabetic with no weight problems and no genetic disposition. We may, however, have found the answer. When I was forced out of a job I had been doing for 25 years, I lost my insurance and had to start getting my medical treatment at the VA. I went into the service in 1966 and was sent to Vietnam in 1968, where I spent nearly 2 years, landing back in San Francisco in January of 1970. While there, I handled huge drums of chemicals that were to be sprayed over the Vietnamese country side for defoliation purposes. They gave the chemicals names of colors. The orange drums were dubbed - Agent Orange. I was informed, by the VA, that exposure to Agent Orange has been known to cause a number of problems and that Type 2 diabetes was recognized as one of them. I have no complaints about being diabetic. It has caused me, and consequently, all of those around me, to eat, think and act healthy. I have walked two of my daughters down the aisle. I have two more daughters and two granddaughters and I plan to be there for them as well. I wrote a bumper sticker a while back, that says - “Eat Like a Diabetic and You’ll Never Become One.”

LET'S MAKE SOME NOISE

A lot of people have been making a lot of noise lately about a lot of things. That hasn’t really changed much over the years, but technology now allows us to disseminate all of it so much easier and more quickly than ever before. It’s gotten a lot noisier and, in some cases, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. We are subjected to a steady stream of “news” from the time we get up until the time we go to bed. 24 hour “news” channels, social media, the internet - the list goes on and on - and everything we know about everything that’s going on around us is fed to us, be it subliminal or superluminal. The media is responsible for a lot of the perceptions we leave the house with every day. So, it comes as no surprise to me that the recent shooting of Trayvon Martin by George Zimmerman has become the media circus it has. Why would Zimmerman follow Martin in the first place? His perception that a black kid dressed this way had to be up to no good. The media is directly responsible for his reasoning to begin with. The noise being created by this case has reawaked a discussion about race in this country that is long overdue. A discussion that should have ended a long time ago, except that the only images most people have had of black teens over the years have been firmly implanted by media portrayals. Watch your local news and count the stories about violent crime that involve people of color and weigh them against the stories about crime involving whites. Would Zimmerman have acted the way he did had those images not been prevalent? Maybe! But, his preconceived idea that this black teenager, dressed the way he was, was up to no good, may have pushed him faster. What do you do when you see a group of teens of color coming your way on the sidewalk? Do you cross the street? Probably. Do you clutch your purse a little tighter when you get on an elevator with a person of color? It’s probably not even a conscious response, but, I’ll bet you do. Many Americans have not been exposed to people of African origin throughout the rest of the world. Have you ever met any African-Germans, African-Italians, African-Chinese or, for that matter, African-Africans. All members of their respective societies at all strata of life. We seem to be the only place where a group of people is trapped in such a narrow definition. We like to think that we’ve come a long way in closing our racial gap to where all Americans are seen as Americans - cultural differences being the icing on our melting pot cake, but even though we finally elected a President of color, we’re not even close. Justice is still blind for a large portion of our citizenry and the double standard is, perhaps worse than ever. Tyler Perry a very powerful media mogul and filmmaker was recently racially profiled. He wrote, "It was so hostile. I was so confused. It was happening so fast that I could easily see how this situation could get out of hand very quickly. I didn't feel safe at all." It wasn’t until an African-American cop pulled up and suddenly got an “Oh, no” look on his face and told the other officers what they had done did he feel some semblance of relief. He now says he believes that racial profiling should be classified as a “hate crime.” I don’t necessarily disagree. Closer to home, my son, who has brown skin (my wife is Black - I am not), was pulled over 2-3 times a week in our own neighborhood. He spent 10 years in private school and grew up in a walled community in a very nice Dallas suburb, but, the cops had e preconceived notion that he didn’t belong. Granted, I thought a hoodie and baggy, sagging pants looked ridiculous. They looked as stupid to me as bell bottoms, long hair and a dashiki looked to my parents, but, it’s just clothing and that’s how teens define themselves in order to find themselves. My son is now finishing the last year of a 7-10 year incarceration (a first offense) in North Carolina for a very stupid decision, not unlike many of the decisions most of us make at 21. The white kid who was involved, to the same degree as my son had political connections and walked….scott free. It made me see the “double standard” from a whole new perspective. Richard Pryor put it best - “Is is “justice” or “just us?” This isn’t to say strides haven’t been made in the way the media portrays all of us and the way we see each other. In the 50’s my parents knew where they, as Jews, would be allowed to buy a home. Although any minority that has the advantage of white skin could always “pass” when necessary. My in-laws couldn’t even legally vote until 1965 - the year I graduated high school. We have a very long way to go. With the Martin/Zimmerman case making as much noise as it is, perhaps it will get a dialogue back under way that’s too important to ignore or push to the side under the presumption that things are fine and we are in a “post racial America.” Situations like this happen all the time, but this time, the media is, perhaps, playing a major role in healing some of the wounds it has helped to cause by making the noise that it is. Sometimes we have to make so much noise that everyone has to stand up and take notice. THAT’S HOW I FEEL………WHAT CAN I TELL YA’

A MATTER OF TASTE

The best things in life are often right in front of our noses, but, we often take them for granted. William Bell put it best in 1961 when he recorded the “soul” classic - “You Don’t Miss Your Water (Til Your Well Runs Dry)” on Stax records. He realized just how true his words were when, in 1965, when Otis Redding re-recorded the song and had a much bigger hit with it. Even the Byrds had a semi-hit when they released the song in 1968 and again in 1990, as did Peter Tosh with his reggae version in 1972. Poor William Bell……his well never even got to fill up before it went dry. The concept is quite simple, really - All that goodness surrounding each and every one of us and we don’t have a clue until it’s gone. To me, some of the best moments have involved food. I like to eat and I like to eat well. I have to shop for my food in bulk because it costs less at Costco, but, I can get “prime” cuts of meat cheaper than what I pay for “choice” at our friendly, neighborhood grocery chain. I like to eat well, but I have to watch how I spend because most of the time these days, I can’t afford to pay attention. Of course, anyone who is in the least bit creative in a kitchen can whip up some wonderful gourmet fare without having to take out a second mortgage. My wife is living proof as she takes our inexpensive “bulk” and turns it into food worthy of , at least, a 4 star restaurant. We eat well and we don’t spend a lot. I’m also very adventurous when it comes to food. I have tried things most people have never heard of and one or two other things most folks would never imagine putting anywhere near their mouth. The experience that stands took place in the Philippines back in the late 60’s. I was with a group of people at some kind of a party in Angeles City, the bar laden little village just outside the front gate of the now defunct Clark Air Force Base. I seem to remember (these were the late 60’s after all and there isn’t much that I actually DO remember) someone coming in with a plate full of skewered meat, very similar in appearance and texture to the satay in a Thai restaurant. I took one from the plate and took a bite. It was delicious! After finishing that skewer, I grabbed another one and scarfed it down. That was when I mistakenly said, between bites, “This is some of the best beef I’ve ever had,” to which one of our Filipino hosts responded, “That’s not beef……that’s dog.” The concept made me sick, but the taste made me realize why this is a staple in many places. I’ve eaten some weird stuff. I love rice, the grain that, essentially, serves as the main course in many countries. I’m a huge fan of potatoes and I don’t care how they are prepared: riced, diced, fried or baked……mmmmmmm! If I could find a way to to get vitamins and protein from baked goods, I could probably exist on chocolate éclairs and cream puffs and wash it all down with chocolate egg creams (google it) and cream soda with maybe a little birch beer on the side. I love to eat. I’m adventurous and creative with simple ingredients. I’ also diabetic. There are no éclairs, no cream soda. There are no more potatoes, so it really doesn’t matter how you prepare them. There was a time when I could eat an entire order of shrimp fried rice by myself……I seem to remember that it was really delicious with salt (can’t do that anymore either) and hot sauce. Diabetes is an insidious disease that attacks from the inside. I can no longer be adventurous. My diet is very strict. For me, it’s never been about losing weight, although, from the description of some of the things I’ve eaten, it would seem like I should weigh about 600 lbs., but, I’ve never been overweight. In my mid 60’s I’m still the skinny kid I was at 18.….OK….maybe 30. Diabetes does not run in my family either. It just seems to be the straw I drew. So be it. I have become a boring eater out of necessity and I miss the amazing food experiences, but, it gives me the opportunity to speak out and make a lot of noise about diabetes. If you don’t have it - please get checked. If you do - please take care of yourself. I have diabetes….but, it will never have me. It did, however, make me realize just how much you don’t miss your egg cream til’ your mug runs dry.

PATIENCE IS NO VIRTUE (at least not on Google)

When I told my wife that this month’s topic was “Patience,” her response was practically automatic. “Well, that should be pretty easy for YOU - go look in the mirror and write about anything else.” Of course, I immediately took offense and was about to fly off the handle and say something completely ignorant, when I broke character for a moment and actually thought about what she had said. “Maybe she’s got a point,” I heard myself say, totally stunned by the amount of patience it apparently took for me to tackle such arduous tasks as taking a breath and considering a point. Of course, the self-kudos were instantaneous. “Good for me,” I thought, “I’m showing a modicum of patience.” (I believe a modicum is slightly less than a thimble-full) I’ve always wanted results yesterday. When I start a project, I prefer to be done the moment I begin. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember and the fact that we live in a “fast food world” is no excuse. We didn’t even have a TV until I was about 8 years old. The news was always at least 3 days old by the time it got to us. We listened to the radio for everything. I suppose having to use my imagination for everything kept me too busy to be impatient about anything. I think one incident that really drove home my impatience was while vacuuming recently, I saw something on the wood floor that looked like it might have come from someone’s shoe. After running over it with the vacuum cleaner about a half dozen times, it was still there……so, I bent down and picked it up. Rather than patiently walking over to the trash can to throw it away, I threw it back down on the floor in front of me and vacuumed it up. As ridiculous as that sounds, though, I’d be willing to wager a shiny dime that more than a few of you have done the same thing. There isn’t a lot that I am patient of. When my family is getting ready to go somewhere, for instance, if I am ready to go (and I usually am the first), I begin to pace and mumble. That’s usually when I say, “I’ll be in the car,” in the hope that nobody wants me to not have to wait too long, so they’ll hurry. In my heart of hearts I know how full of crap I am. Nobody cares that I’m impatient. They will be ready when they are ready and, in reality, are probably happier that I’ve taken my impatient ass out of their spaces. Over the years, when waiting for results of any kind, be they test scores, job interviews or medical results - If I don’t have them in what I consider an appropriate amount of time, I will pick up a phone turn into a stalker. It’s kind of ironic because, sometimes the results are not what we want to hear - (sfx of tearing open envelope )- “Finally, the results of the test that shows what job I’m best suited for - hmmmmm - Pest.” Actually, the good news here is that I no longer have to wait, impatiently, for an envelope to arrive in the mail that I have to tear open. I can get the results online in moments. See …..things are already beginning to pick up. Well, I’m starting to lose my patience with this piece and I’m about ready for it to be finished……………….

BEGINNINGS (MORE THAN JUST A SONG OFF “CTA”)

As I was preparing to jot down a few notes regarding this months topic, I was struck by the irony of the Sirius/XM 40’s channel playing Ella Fitzgerald’s version of the Cole Porter classic “Begin the Beguine”, which, in the second irony in this sentence alone, was recorded in 1956. It immediately got me to wondering, “what the hell is a beguine.” Turns out, it is a slow couples dance that’s indigenous to the Caribbean islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe. I found another definition that said it’s a member of any of several lay sisterhoods in a branch of the Roman Catholic church founded in the Netherlands in the 13th century. I’d go so far as to say - that ain’t what Mr. Porter had in mind.

With the beguine begun, I started to think back to significant beginnings in my life. The beginning of life as part of a team with my first marriage. But, that didn’t work. My first marriage took place while in a drunken/drug induced stupor in Southeast Asia. That was how many of us got through Vietnam, We assured ourselves a semblance of sanity after the war by making sure we would never remember what we were going through. After nearly 2 years there, I don’t have much of a clue about what happened after getting off the plane. That marriage lasted as long as my memory of being there. Mission accomplished.

Next I went back to what many consider to be the end of their freedom - the birth of one’s first child. For me it was the beginning of what came to be a lifelong calling - raising children to be productive adults. I have 5 with 20 years between the oldest and the youngest. That was when I finally realized what caused it and was able to restrain myself.

The beginning of a great 46 year career began in a less than auspicious manner. I was home from basic training. It was 1966 and there was a new “soul” station in my hometown of Hartford, Ct. I loved the music (no Beatles fan I) and, on a whim, took a ride to the radio station where I met a young DJ named Don Tracy. I was fascinated and smitten by the biz. This was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. During one particular visit, Don turned on my microphone and said, “I’d like you to meet my bouncing’ baby brother, Bob Tracy.” I opened my mouth to respond and absolutely nothing came out. Thankfully, I’ve never really been one to pay much attention to “signs”. I might have ended up with a career in aluminum siding.

So, I decided to go with the beginning of a less than stellar educational life. Education was very important in my house, so, excitement for my first day of school was building. I couldn’t wait to be like the big kids and go to school. I was beside myself with anticipation. My mom came into my room to wake me, but I was already up and dressed as well as a 5 year old can dress himself in the dark. I shared a room with my younger brother, who was NOT joining me on this great new adventure and I didn’t want to wake him, which I’m sure I did while fumbling around in the dark looking for a pair of socks. My parents took me to Bowers school where my kindergarten class was ready to have our fears allayed by Mrs.Donaldson and Miss Smith. I’m sure it was a wonderful day, filled with the smell of finger paint and the terrific culinary treat that was kindergarten paste. We were only 5, so we went to school for half a day. See we were baby boomers and there were just too many of us for tiny Bowers school (it seemed huge at the time, but, I’ve been back as a grownup), so they split us up into morning and afternoon sessions. When I got home, I was totally satisfied with my “school experience” and just exhausted enough to go to bed at a decent hour. If I remember correctly, that would have been 7pm. The next morning, the anticipation was gone and my mom had to wake me up. As she shook me and told me it was time to get up, I asked, “What for?” to which she responded, “school, it’s time to go to school.” With all the logic I could possibly summon up at that tender age, I said, “But, I went yesterday,” as I turned over to go back to sleep. Hey - I tried!

As you can see, I’ve never been real good at beginnings. I’m much better with endings!

Letting Go

I have 5 kids. Four daughters and one knucklehead, right smack, dab in the middle.

My goal has been, with each and every one, to instill a system of morals, ethics and values that would see them into adulthood with the least amount of anxiety and hassle amidst what has to be, these days, peer pressure like has never been felt. These days, someone can kick your ass by text or make you look like a fool online. Technology makes it tough, but, with the right foundation, it all works out…….most of the time.

The girls have been relatively easy, so far, and, although there will always be a connection, opening the door and “shooing” them out has been, for the most part, painless. The oldest got married, became a doctor and likes to help people and surf. The next one spent time as an EMT, saving peoples lives, until she got married to a great guy and gave me two amazing grand daughters. The third one recently got her masters degree in psychology from SMU and is doing her internship with the goal of helping people with eating disorders and addictions. The fourth, and final, daughter is immersed in high school study and intense music, thriving as she avoids as much teen drama as is humanly possible.

Then there is our good friend - the knucklehead!

The phone call came on an early April evening just about 5 years ago. We were undoubtedly watching “Jeopardy” and I was most likely getting ready for sleep, knowing I had to get up at about 3:30 for work. I could see the look of pure shock on my wife’s face as she covered her mouth with her hand for a brief second and began to weep. “What do you mean he’s been shot,” she asked in disbelief. The voice on the other end of the phone said she was with the hospital in North Carolina and had no idea what the circumstances were, but, that we had better get there as soon as we could. Clueless as to what was happening we found that the soonest flight to Raleigh was the next morning, so we booked it and spent a sleepless night pacing and pondering what could possibly have happened.

We sat silent on the plane, holding each other and hoping that our son was still alive.

The taxi took us right from the airport to the hospital as we held back tears, still without an inkling of who may have done this to him.

We told the receptionist who we were and were told to have a seat. I saw a local newspaper on a nearby chair and picked it up and immediately saw the article that made me feel like I had just gotten kicked in what was left of my heart. The headline read - “Man Shot During Home Invasion.” As I read on, I learned that two young men in ski masks had invaded a couples home and, that one of the men had a gun and fired several times hitting the home owner and the other bad guy. They said the two were in custody. I read my son’s name. My wife fell to the floor in horror and disbelief. They brought us in to see our son, who was under police guard, as he was under arrest. We went in and, as if to add even more insult to injury, found him in a coma. We held his hands. My wife cried and prayed. And, then we did the only thing they would allow us to do - we left.

My son eventually improved and went on trial. He was given 7 to 10 years without parole. That was fairly lenient since he was a first time offender. His past had been relatively stellar, but, this shows clearly that even a middle class upbringing and an education in private schools don’t make one immune from making stupid decisions.

The homeowner, by the way, recovered from the gunshot. I don’t know what happened to the 15 year old who did the shooting. My son is in the last 2 year and a half of his sentence and is learning some very hard core and valuable lessons.

Letting go - in this case - was nearly mandated by the specter of death that hung over his bed in the hospital that day. We have made sure, however, that the connection remains as strong as ever. It’s giving him hope while in prison and will give him the support he’ll need to prosper when he comes home.
As much as you want to get them out of the house…..you can never REALLY let go!