Grateful for the village...

“He who created us without our help, will

not help save us without our consent.”

– Saint Augustine

I don’t like getting sick. I try to avoid it like the plague. When it happens, my brain doesn’t function in a rational way. I try to tough it out and wait for the storm to dissipate, but in fact, it has never worked. Each time I have gotten ill, I have eventually seen a doctor. In my altered state of mind, I've gone only after a lot of outside encouragement.

This was no exception…

“I don’t know Leonard. I just don’t like the sound of this,” the Indian said. “I think you should get checked out.” By the time we were riding in the car I had been feeling funky for ten days. Molly, by the way, had been telling me this for five of them.

The way it began…

When I got back from New Zealand, I felt great. Going I had no jet lag, and coming home after a week and a half, I also had none. I have come to believe that jet lag is little more than high altitude sickness with a little biorhythm change mixed in. Older aircraft typically have an internal cabin pressure of around 8,000ft (2,400m), whereas the Airbus 380, double decker I rode to and from the land of the ‘Middle Earth,’ has an internal cabin pressure of about 6,100ft (1,800m). Hence much less high altitude effect.

Even the biorhythm changes were not that dramatic. New Zealand, because it is beyond the International Dateline, is 20 hours ahead of Tucson, but to the body's biorhythm, it is only four hours out. New Zealand is basically one full-time zone further away than Hawaii from Los Angeles (three hours’ difference). When it is 1 PM Tuesday here, it is 9 AM Wednesday morning there. The ‘next morning’ is an International Dateline convention.

I had a great night's sleep Tuesday on my return, and Wednesday morning I was ready to go…a full day’s work as if the trip had never occurred. Thursday morning, I had a bit of a sore throat, inconvenient, but workable. By Thursday night, however, things had gone south quickly.  The weekend passed, and by Tuesday, things were looking up. I was still not firing on all cylinders but gave a long-scheduled talk for the AARP Wednesday at noon. By the time I got home, I was exhausted and went straight to bed.

Thursday, the Indian came to town. I picked him up for breakfast, and we did what old friends do – caught up on our lives. On the drive, to and from breakfast, I mentioned I was feeling pretty fatigued. He asked a few casual questions and then said, “I don’t know Leonard. I just don’t like the sound of this. I think you should get checked out.” I have a natural aversion to doctor visits, so grunted something like maybe that would be a good idea and dropped him off.

A little background…

Dave is an old friend from the Vietnam era. After the war, we lived together before going our separate ways. During that last year, he became the ‘Indian’ and I ‘Leonard’…names we have called each other ever since.  The origin of these nicknames may have lost their sharp edges over the mists of time, but like the indelible ink of an intricate tattoo, they became symbols of brotherly affection and respect.

In subsequent years, he went on to a career in medicine. It was decades before we caught up again, but as with meaningful friendships, when we connected over dinner in a small Ohio town, it was as if it had been but a yesterday since we last visited.

The present again…

Friday, my friend Frank and I had a light lunch and hung out for an hour or two. He wondered out loud whether I should see someone. I assured him I was okay. When we were done, I went back to bed, slept for the afternoon and the night.  Saturday, I had an obligation that took the morning.  Once finished, I stopped by the Indian’s Tucson hideout and chewed the fat for a couple of hours. Then it was back to bed once again exhausted. The rest of the weekend I drifted in and out of wild dream-filled sleep.

A conspiracy is hatched…

I have a niece who is a doctor in Baltimore. I thought I would give her a call, and get a second opinion. After all, she knows me well and would reinforce fluids, a little Tylenol and rest.  She would tell me to let the thing run its course, and all would be well. 

After chatting a little, she said, “Teddy, I think you ought to see your doc and check it out. Maybe a chest x-ray and a few other blood tests might also be in order.” Really? I wondered whether she and the Indian had had a conversation. I hung up and whined a bit to Molly, who immediately reminded me I was NOT 50 anymore…to suck it up and go see the doctor.

The next day, the Indian checked in and reported he had spoken to his wife (a physician) and the guy he was staying with (also a physician), and their consensus was that I that I definitely needed to see my doctor. With all that wind at my sails and Molly at the helm, I made the appointment and had the visit. I grumbled a little through the exam, indicating I was only there because a ‘kitchen cabinet medical team’ AND MY WIFE, had insisted. He smiled and agreed I had done the right thing. It might have been even better had I come in a little earlier he gently suggested. He gave me a course of antibiotics and told me to report back to him.

Update...

By now, I am definitely on the mend, meaning I’m getting more quality ‘up time’ during the day and am pretty sure this flu/cold thing will not be the beginning of the end. There is still a lingering fatigue, but each morning, I feel more energy for the day.

I suppose it is a sad commentary that I needed the kind of push that I got to do the right thing for my health. On the other hand, I was reminded there are people in my life who love and care about me.  The Indian left ten days ago, but has continued to text to see how I am doing. That guy and others who kicked me in the shins, will never really know how much their care and love has meant to me.

- ted

Two-way streets...

“Helping others has a double benefit...

to the receiver and the giver.”

– anonymous

We are generally at the YMCA between 6:50 and 6:55 in the morning. Class begins at 7. Almost every time we came, the kid was sitting on a bench in the hall…earbuds in and a distant look in his eye as he fiddled with his phone.

He was young, early teens, and slight in stature…brown hair and eyes…Hispanic.

After a while, I began to engage him. “Hey man, you should come exercise with us old guys,” I said. He just smiled and went on listening to whatever his ears were sucking up, as sounds were shoveled into his mind.

This went on for several weeks. The comments were different, but all intended to find a connection with this youngster. One morning, I asked his name. “Thomas (Tō-mas),” he said.

“I’m Ted,” I replied. And off I went to the exercise class. From then on it was Thomas and Ted.

Over the next couple of months, when we got to class a little early, he and I fist bumped for our morning greeting. You know how it is when a youngster is engaged by an adult. It takes time.

In the beginning, he had the look like, "Hey old man, can't you see I am busy here." Then it was an expression like, "You are kind of strange dude," followed by a smile. Over time, I found him looking for me when I came around the corner heading toward the exercise studio. By now, I was asking him about school and what the heck he was doing sitting on the bench so early in the morning.

As the story emerged, his father brought him to the YMCA where he waited for his mother to pick him up and take him to school. The product of a broken home, his parents, had sorted out a workable schedule.

In those early mornings and brief encounters, I talked to him about school and how important an education was. Nothing substantial, just passing comments…light, but consistent. I discovered he was fourteen and interested in the military. I told him about being an air traffic controller in Vietnam, and how much I enjoyed controlling airplanes.

A couple of weeks before school ended, he said he wouldn't be at the Y anymore, at least for the summer. I had continued the drumbeat of, "Hey, you ought to come exercise with us." His last day, he brought his shorts and tee-shirt and jumped into class until his mother came for him. YES!! It was a win.

That was the last time I saw Thomas, until…

A couple of months ago, as we arrived for class, a much taller fifteen-year-old boy came around the corner. It was Thomas! When he saw me, he smiled, and we immediately engaged one another. Yeah, school was going okay, and by the way didn't I tell him I was an air traffic controller? We talked for a few minutes before I had to go. "I want to join the military when I am old enough," he said with more certainty than the year before. "Is air traffic control a good job?"

“Yeah, it is,” I said. “And, it can be a very good after the military too. If you get trained in the service, you could stay in, or when you get out, control civilian traffic."

I knew, of course, he really had no idea what air traffic control was about.

Sometimes, however, the stars align in the most unpredictable ways. I sit on our local YMCA Board of Managers. It so happens one of our Board members, Sergeant ‘E,’ is in the Air Force AND was an air traffic controller. I talked with him to see if it might be possible to arrange a tour of the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base tower and radar facilities. He thought that it might be.

The next task was to get in touch with Thomas's parents to get permission to communicate with him. I got in contact with his mother, met her and the tour was arranged.

Saturday morning, a couple of weeks ago, a fifteen-year-old kid, his mother, an Air Force Master Sergeant and an old ex-military air traffic controller, found themselves in the control tower at the Air Force base, followed by a visit to the Tucson Radar Approach Control Center (TRACON).

Thomas's eyes were wide and shining as they looked in wonder at the magic that is air traffic control. It was a weekend, so the tower was relatively quiet, but the darkened radar approach control center, run by civilian controllers, was alive with aircraft. All air traffic approaching and departing the Tucson air space was displayed on large digital screens. The supervisor let him listen to the controller/aircraft chatter. Watching his focus as he listened to real-time conversations was gratifying.

When the day was done, I felt Thomas had a sense of the excitement and energy air traffic controllers have for their profession. He and his mother thanked Sergeant E and me for the time and opportunity. 

I don’t know what direction this young boy’s life will take, but he and I found a small common place in our lives on which to stand. I’ll do what I can to continue to encourage him…maybe even get him back in that early morning exercise class.

Epilogue: It should be noted there was another young man in the tower and radar site that Saturday morning. While the technology is light years ahead of the day when he worked a radar site in the military many decades earlier, watching those folks doing their jobs reminded him of a time when he did something he really loved...memories have no age...a gentle smile crossed my face.

Thanks, Thomas…

ted

It was never the game...

“The moment the ball went into the air, they played as

one…so it was in the game…so it was in their lives…”

– Anonymous

Imagine yourself the Canadian woods sometime in the month of January. It's a snowy evening with temperatures hovering around zero Fahrenheit (-18C). It's early evening, and you have come out to gather an armload of cedar from the two cords cut last year to dry.

The black sky is filled with stars. The waning moon reflects against the snow covered ground like an enormous eiderdown blanket. Just before picking up the wood, glance around, shiver and feel the total solitude that only a winter’s night such as this can bring...sensations of piercing cold, smoky evergreen-scented air, and the crispness of each breath.

Inside the mudroom, arms full, the first thing to notice is the smell of hot chocolate mixed with the musky odor of a crackling fire. The wood goes into the box by the fireplace. The toque (woolen cap), gloves and coat are put aside. The sensation of warmth oozing into your body as it dispels the cold winter’s night brings a small tingle. Stepping into the main room of the cottage, voices of the small group of people playing a rousing game Crokinole, express their gratitude that it was you who drew the short straw to get the wood.

Wait! Crokinole! What the heck is that?

I can’t remember when it began, I only know that as I passed through puberty, there were a two of things that I thought about as the dog days of summer approached. One was baseball, the other was beating my father in the game of Crokinole! It was a while before I figured out the girl thing.

The month of August from my youth was spent in the woods of Central Ontario. Muskoka was a mythic place for an imaginative youngster. There was the cottage itself. Lake Joseph upon which it sat was surrounded by Maple, Birch, Pine and Cedar trees, bringing a cacophony of subtle odors to the air. Stand in one place, and the scented mixture would tell one story…a gentle breeze and the narrative changed. Even as I write, I can feel the familiarity of this place as comforting as an old friend.

The days were filled with adventure. The land was always the same…it was always different. A mistress with many mysteries bringing me back, again and again, never once feeling full.

The nights, however, took on a very different flavor. What does one do at night in a cottage in the woods, in the waning hours of the day, waiting to go to bed? I’ll tell you what one does! He plays Crokinole!!

While my days were filled with curiosity and exploration, the evenings I played Crokinole with my father are by far the best memories I have of him. The church was his seductress, and truth be told, it took preference over everything. But on those August nights, with the fireplace standing as a barrier to chilly the Muskoka air, I had my father completely to myself.

The origins of the game are not entirely clear, but it is thought to be the late 1860s. The circular playing surface is 26" (66cm) across and is divided into four segments. There are four concentric circles worth 5, 10, 15 and 20 points respectively. The game pieces are small wooden discs that look a little like checkers. They are flicked with a player's finger toward the center of the board.

The point of the game is to move your pieces as close to the center as possible (preferably in the center) and to knock your opponent's pieces into the surrounding gutter. Making the game more difficult, pegs surround the 15-point ring acting to protect your pieces or as obstacles to hitting your opponent's pieces. 

Each player takes turns flicking one piece until all twelve are gone. At the end of a round, pieces on the board cancel each other. For example, if one player has 15 points (a 10 and a 5), and the other has 20 points, the score is 5 to 0.

The game is played to 100. Because of the score canceling the process, the winner always finishes 100-0.

These games could go on for hours, and for my dad and me they often did. Over the years I became a good player but never beat my father. There were many times I led the game 95-0. He would look across the board, smile like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, and go to work. The next thing I knew, the game was over…a win in his column. The thing is, he always made me feel like I could get him the next time…another chance at the old man.

On the wall in my office is the board my father and I played for so many hours. It is worn and has a missing peg, but it serves as a daily reminder of hours and hours we spent together.

This last year, I decided to look around to see if people still made them. They do, and I now have a brand spanking new board sitting nearby my desk. As it turns out, my friend Frank likes to play.

On those cold winter night's in Ontario when small groups of friends gathered together, Crokinole often occupied much of their time. One can almost hear the laughter and fun this old Canadian game brought so many people. While I can only imagine those times, the evenings I spent playing Crokinole with my dad generate a warmth of spirit no winter’s nights chill could penetrate.  When I close my eyes, I can see that knowing Cheshire Cat's smile across that board as he once again goes to work....

- ted