Thursday, January 28, 2010

Procedure

A couple months ago my doctor suggested I go see a specialist for a “simple procedure.” The last time I went in for a “simple procedure,” was July of 1966.

My sister, Colleen, and I were duped into going in for tonsillectomies with the promise of all the ice-cream we could eat. Either the hospital was running a two for one special, or my folks needed her to baby sit me as they did not trust me to be alone. I remember we shared one black & white TV, although we each had a remote control attached to our beds. We flipped between a Gemini rocket launch and cartoons. Back in those days patients usually stayed at least one night in the hospital after an operation – none of the grab and go out-patient stuff we have today.

The procedure that I was told to schedule is decidedly different than a tonsillectomy. The doctor approaches the situation from an entirely different direction. Some people are too embarrassed to admit ever having this done. I’m not, but I’m not sure if I want to spell it out too clearly either.

To maintain some level of decorum and decency allow me to just hint at the name of the medical technique. Let’s say two friends are sitting around having a nice conversation.

The first guy asks “So what’s new with you?”

The second guy answers, “I had a colonoscopy.”

The second guy is me.

The few days before the scheduled day life started to get weird. Some of my favorite foods were prohibited which threw me completely off my feed. Normally a casual eater, I became obsessed with food and drink. Before I consumed anything I had to check the chart to be sure that I was staying true to the diet.

The thirty-six hours leading up to the appointed time was the toughest part; no solid food at all. Jello and clear liquids only, and then to really test my mettle I had to guzzle 64 oz. (8 oz. every 15 minutes) of an ugly-flavored mixture.

At the clinic I was given two gowns to wear – one for the front and one for the back. I was sternly reminded to leave my shoes and socks on which violated every accepted rule of fashion. The operating room had two large flat-screen TVs, much like a well appointed lounge. Although one of the TVs was positioned for my viewing pleasure no remote control was offered. They were playing only one program, and I, or at least part of me, was the featured attraction.

After the session was completed a nurse came into the room to tell me that even though I was exhausted, I still had to exhaust some of the excess air that had been forced into my body. Wanting to make sure that I had understood her correctly, I asked where she wanted me to do this. When she replied, “right here,” I was relieved to see that a thin cloth curtain would provide the privacy needed between me and the listening public.

To be truthful, the actual procedure is not a big deal. Dr. Colonoscoper (not his
real name) was a gentleman and a professional. It’s the preparation that I found almost intolerable. That’s the way it usually is though – the fretting, worrying and anticipation is often worse than the actual event.

Much has changed since 1966. The color TV had a better picture but there was no remote control or overnight stay. I still can’t be trusted to be alone though. Adam, my daughter’s boyfriend, had to bring me home.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Legacy

Little kids often get asked, “What do you want to be when you grow-up?” Men my age ask themselves a different question. “What do I want to leave behind, what do I want to be remembered for? What will be my legacy? Something that is uniquely mine, that which will outlive me.”

I first became aware of this strong desire after watching a “Little House on the Prairie,” episode. I know, not exactly “Masterpiece Theater,” but I learned a lot from it. Charles Ingalls, having become aware of his own mortality, wanted desperately to leave something behind, something that would tell people he had lived – something that would last. He had watched his friend die, and then two weeks later there was no evidence that his friend had ever walked the earth.

“My God, I don’t want that to happen to me,” Charles said to his wife, Caroline.

No man wants that. Charles built tables and burnt his initials on them. He hoped they would be his legacy. In the end, it was his children who fulfilled that dream. He lives on in his daughter’s books.

One measure of a legacy left behind is how a man is looked upon when he’s gone. A good place to witness this first hand is at a wake or funeral. I am not trying to turn the grieving process into a side-show, but this is where society and culture has deemed we demonstrate our love, affection and respect for the departed and their family. We owe them at least that much, so we pay our respects.

A couple weeks ago I said good-bye to Dick Mullin. I was deeply moved by what I saw at his wake. Dick had owned a trucking company – black Peterbilts pulling end-dump trailers. Almost fifty years ago he had started with one dump truck. During its peak the company had amassed 65 truck and trailer units. Dick built his company with hard-work and determination in a style that was his own. He expected everyone to work as hard he did.

In front of the funeral home were two Peterbilt tractors which had been polished and shined to perfection by his drivers. These trucks had been backed in and angled towards each other. They were parked as an honor guard – sentinels to the man whose name they displayed on their doors.

If stationary trucks can be moving – moving in a way that stops a man to look – then these were. As I stood outside admiring them a lone truck cutting through the darkness on the highway sounded its air horn several times in salute.

When I regained my composure I stepped inside the funeral home. The visitation line wound and stretched the length of the building. I felt a little out of place, for standing in line were dozens of men wearing the uniform of a truck driver: boots, jeans and big belt-buckles. These men, tough guys by any definition, were patiently standing in line to say good-bye. Depending upon the man, Dick had been their employer, their competitor, their contractor or their customer. But to all of them, he had been their friend.

I don’t know if there are any tables with Dick’s initials stamped on them, but you don’t have to look too hard for the Big M on his tractors and trailers. Dick Mullin’s legacy is his company, his reputation and his family. Dick built a company that is now run by his son Joe, and may one day be run by Joe’s sons. That’s a legacy that will last.

All men should be so lucky.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Season's Greetings

Some (many?) people think I’m a kook. I certainly have qualities and characteristics that could earn me that label. That’s O.K., I don’t mind – I’m just trying to improve the world, or at least my world.

Let me address the exchange of customary greetings, seasonal first, and if space allows, the other kind. “How was your Christmas?” I never know quite what to say when asked this. What do they mean, what information are they looking for? I think it’s a much harder question to answer than the simple “how are you?”

To answer “fine,” to the Christmas question seems to suggest a problem. You can read the guesses in the frowns of the interrogators. “Is it your family?” “Yes, the holidays can be tough on a family’s budget.” “Did you goof-up your wife’s gift again?”

No one is supposed to say “fine.” The correct response to “how was your Christmas?” is “very nice thank you, how about yours?”

There are of course the well-intentioned who truly want an answer. With that bunch there is always a follow-up inquiry which begins a series about family, food, travel, holly and the ivy.

I’m sorry - I usually am not that interested. I say usually to allow for exceptions – you see there might be somebody reading this with whom I have had this conversation, so for you, please know that I care very much about your Christmas experiences. You know I do.

I was talking about this with my friend Lance the other day. Is it a genuine question that demands an answer or is it a quick polite exchange to note the passing of the holiday? Is it fluff and filler or a conversation starter? Whether I am over-analyzing it is up for discussion; but you can be sure that I am offending someone. Sorry, I think my own problem with the question is I never really know what direction to take the answer.

Let’s start with the materialistic angle. An alternative question gets more to the point: “Was Santa good to you?” But some folks would rather ignore the jolly saint so they ask “did you have a nice Christmas?” when what they really mean is “tell me about your presents.” So, do I go down the list of the things I got, pausing for effect on the really cool stuff? Or are they looking for “very nice thank you, how about yours?”

Perhaps the question is asked from a religious or spiritual perspective. But to make that assumption and answer with a carol by carol recounting of “midnight mass,” or a recitation of “The Christmas Story,” may sound kind of preachy, and could risk offending people who think Christmas has just “got too religious.”

Maybe it’s the social aspect. They may be looking for details regarding the parties I attended (one), the friends who came over to “see the tree,” (four), or the places we traveled for Christmas (one). Again, I must tell you I just never know what to say.

The weather was fine, the food was good, I got some stuff, saw some friends and family, went to church (twice, I think), did some last minute shopping, listened to my favorite Vince Guaraldi CD. Yeah it was nice. How about you?

Well anyway it’s the middle of January and I probably (hopefully) won’t hear that question again for another year. So in the meantime let me address another greeting that gets to me. When I am asked “how’s Jerry,” I stutter and stumble. Why are they addressing me in the third person? Do they think I’m crazy?

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Harold

I made myself a cup of tea the other day. Since I’m not starving I can stave off false hunger with some tea. But, to make it more interesting I will add some honey to the mix. I learned this trick from a neighbor a long time ago. He added it to his coffee – I, to my tea. It’s close enough to stir up a memory.

Some time ago (my new favorite phrase for a time reference as I struggle with the whole space/time continuum) Rhonda and I, along with our baby girl, moved to Prior Lake. Living next door to our new home were Harold and Opal. We quickly became good friends and spent many hours at their house playing cards.

Opal was always kind with time to share. But it was Harold who I was drawn to.

Other than an invisible property line, Harold and I had very little in common. He was a member of the Great Depression/WWII generation. I was born during the baby-boom and was just starting out with a young family. His children, already grown, were now bringing his grandchildren to visit. Whereas pliers and hammers usually pinched or smashed my fingers, tools were puppets in Harold’s large hands. When driving a screw his wrist rotated with a machine-like movement. Through his tolerance and my fascination, we became friends.

Men like Harold usually have a workshop on the premises. Harold’s was in a space beneath the garage. His shop opened up to the backyard which overlooked an encroaching swamp.

Sometimes I felt that I was playing the part of Dennis to his Mr. Wilson, but Harold never complained. I would usually find Harold working in his shop. We would go through this little ritual. I would knock and he would invite me in and offer me a chair near his Steelcase desk. Always the polite host he would then offer me a beer. The first time was on a warm July afternoon. When I accepted I expected him to go in the house and grab one from the refrigerator. Instead, he reached underneath his desk and pulled a Pabst right from the box.

“This is the way they drink beer in Europe - room temperature,” he said as he handed me the beer.

I nodded in agreement to this cultural lesson, but wondered to myself “What if the temperature of the room is 75?”

Usually Harold’s best friend Tubby sat with us. Tubby didn’t say much – most dogs are like that. Nevertheless, Harold spoke to him as if Tubby understood every word. One time Harold felt compelled to explain Tubby’s sullen mood.

“He’s mad at me. I left him in the shop all night – forgot to let him out. He won’t even look at me.” Then as if to prove the point he called his name, “Tubby!” The old dog would not even lift his head to look at Harold. Tubby was pouting.

As a young man Harold was a cook in a logging camp. After careers as an electrician and a plumber (each lasting about twenty years) Harold acquired all the necessaries required to become a locksmith. He even outfitted a van as a mobile shop. Most men look at retirement as an opportunity to sit back and open the mail. Harold saw it as a chance to learn a new skill.

I learned a lot from Harold. But the one thing I will treasure most is the taste of honey in a hot drink. It may not be how they do it in Europe – but it’s the way Harold did it.