Thistle Tea…

 When I was five years old,  the man I was named after died at the of age 62.   I have no direct memories of him.   I’m told he was a serious fellow,  a hard worker, a successful entrepreneur, strong in faith, family and frugality, and since he was married to my grandmother for over forty years, probably a heckuva good dancer.  

I will be 62 next week.  Well aware that the coconut does not fall far from the tree, I admit to being a little nervous.  Since photos were not commonplace back then, there are only two photos of him and me together, both black and white and fading and cherished greatly.   Rarely do I look at the photos but I still keep these sweet links to our past stored safely in the cloud with my digital collection of over 10,000 other photos.  

One photo shows the two of us soaking our feet in a bucket of warm salt water.  I’m looking at the camera talking about something.  He is smiling down at me.  Must have been quite the moment for us both.  I look awkward.  He looks great.   

So, last night I had a vivid dream.  Like in the photo, Papa and I are both soaking our feet.  It’s so real I can feel the warm water between my toes and hear my grandmother clanging in the kitchen.   Papa smiles at me.   

And in black and white, he tells me, “Drink thistle tea”.   Never heard of it.  But he repeats himself, “Drink thistle tea!”

I’m five.  I ask “How do I get it?”  

“You buy it at the store.  It’s two hundred dollars.  Go get it.  I’ll pay for it.”  

And he hands me his charge card.  

I wake up startled and more than a little curious about this unheard of bit of healthcare advice from a man who I am genetically aligned with and who died at the age I will be next week.  Popping out of bed I head straight to the computer and type in the Search Bar “thistle tea”.   I hit “Enter”.

The old photo of me and my grandfather soaking our feet pops up.    

Ordered that tea on the spot and been drinking it ever since.   

Finally, as I sip my grandfather’s warm thistle tea,  which according to the internet is full of a powerful antioxidant called Silymarin that fights cancers of the gastrointestinal tract AND is endorsed by my Papa,  I leave you with a few quotes, two from Englishmen who know their tea, and one from an American who knows his rum.  

“I have lived more of my life than is to come.  How do I face this imponderable idea that one day I am not going to exist anymore?  I make art.  I tell stories.”

— Sting

“When youth departs may wisdom prove enough.”

— Winston Churchill 

“Life is a journey that’s not measured in miles or years, but in experiences.

But if there’s a heaven for me, I’m sure it has a beach attached.”

– Jimmy Buffett

Cheers!!!

The Tree…

An old rusty and broken saw was all I had.  But with the wet season in full force the Caribbean almond tree had grown too large.  Its ever expanding branches encroached mercilessly on our favorite flamboyant tree and blocked our view of the hillside and bays below us.  Would the stressed flamboyant tree be unable to blossom this year  and feed our hungry herd of iguanas?  No doubt.  The almond invader had to go. 

The Caribbean almond tree, Terminalia catappa, is unrelated to the tree that produces edible almonds.  It sprouts up anywhere on the island and grows quickly.  I had hoped it was a mango tree or a key lime tree which would soon bear us some delicious fruit.  But no luck.  

This tree had decided to live on a 45 degree slope surrounded by loose rocks near a bundle of thorny “catch and keep” bushes below our new deck.  Here you sometimes have to make do with what you have to meet the challenges of the day.  So, covered up with long pants and sleeves, and a mismatched pair of gloves which was all I could find, I popped on my Beach Bar cap and my Maui Jim sunglasses to protect my eyeballs.  I was ready for anything.  Armed with an extendable pruning saw with an incredibly dull and rusty blade, I eased into the jungle which is our backyard.  

The cool prevailing Caribbean breeze on our deck quickly gave way to the oppressive heat and humidity you would expect on land that had previously been a Danish cotton plantation.  Fortunately no snakes here for centuries because the French brought the mongoose who ate them all.  But there is the terrifyingly toxic manchineel  tree with its poisonous “death apples” that Christopher Columbus’s crew fatally discovered on his second voyage here in 1493.  And I don’t know what it looks like.  

Then there’s the stinging nettle plants whose long thorns are like hypodermic needles and inject histamine below your skin when you bump into them intensifying the painful burn.  Don’t touch anything unless you know what it is. 

And the Christmas bush, which is very common throughout the island contains urishiol, similar to poison ivy.  Contact with this plant causes burning, itching rashes and lesions that can spread if untreated.  Great. 

I am watching out for Jack Spaniard wasp nests.  No relation to Captain Jack Sparrow but still packs a sting that would make a pirate cry.  These wasps are very aggressive and will chase you down if you disturb their nest.  Each can sting you five times with their strong venom which is a major antigen that requires a specific antidote if you are allergic to them.  I’m pretty sure I’m not allergic.  

And finally there are those pesky Arnold Schwartznegger body building mosquitoes which here seem to fly easily even on the windiest of days. They rarely may carry Dengue, Zika or Chikungunya diseases.  Not today so they’re probably gone to workout. 

A twig snaps.  I hear a sound.  Probably an iguana.  A bird I don’t recognize flies by.  A bug buzzes my ear.  “Arnold” I mutter.  Workout must be over.  I swat at it.  I miss.  I slide further down the slope. 

And then, there it is.  The tree.  I engage it with the blade several times finally getting the right angle with my feet placed at sturdy positions.  Back and forth, over and over again I get a cut started.  Deeper into the trunk slowly but surely, like a butter knife through a pineapple, I make progress.  Just like my Dad taught me except he had a chain saw.  I slip several times.  Don’t grab anything.  Sweating profusely and breathless but past the point of no return I press on.  Just like my Mom, a legendary hard worker, taught me.  She picked cotton as a child laborer so she would love this.  My shoulders ache.  My nose is running.  Is it getting darker?  An unknown thorny vine has wrapped itself around my leg.  The blade falls off the handle.  I retrieve it and stomp it back together.  I should have bought a new saw I tell myself.  I try a different angle with the saw.  

Then through!  The tree cracks and creeps.  But does not fall.  It remains suspended in the air, its trunk held magically aloft by the branches of our friendly flamboyant tree and all the other forces working against me.  I rest a bit in disbelief.  

Plan B.  I grab the trunk with both hands. (I hope this is not a machineel tree.).  I lean all my considerable weight plus the added pounds from all those Painkillers I’ve been drinking this week onto the tree.  And we both start sliding down the slope.  The trees above me creak and crack.  The flamboyant lets go.  And the almond tree follows me down the slope.  Success.  

The next morning we are greeted by a much better view of the blues and greens of the Caribbean Sea, a very happy flamboyant tree who has sprouted a few new orange blossoms during the night and four busy green iguanas enjoying their new home.  

“Well done!” they seem to say.

We Work.....

We work to play to feel the wind and sea
To cool the hot, tired soul that strives to rise
Again from ashes, sweat no more this tree
Stronger, vibrant, reach for the sun to live.

Work comes first to pave the heart’s way home
Bound no more once daytime toil’s done well
Free to fill the spirit and free to roam
To laugh and wonder at Earth’s grandest show.

Twilight will come, deep sleep to follow knowing 
The sun will rise to greet you with a song
This day will be a great one to embrace 
Before horns blow to start our work once more.

The Sign....

One could not help but notice them while driving around our new Caribbean neighborhood.  Each home had a style and structure unlike any other.  Each had a distinctive name.  Like “Sea Forever”, “Reef Madness” or “Great Expectations”.  And that name was displayed at its entrance on signs that were all the same style but customized by its creator, the old island potter in the village below us who for years had turned out hundreds of these popular signs.  On this diverse island they were a unifying spirit. 

We happily marched in to meet him.  An island artist with a friendly face and penetrating eyes, he went right to work to design what he described as an enduring work of art for our home.  Six weeks later we proudly held our expensive piece of custom clay with the word “Magic” scrolled on it.  Adorned with a calm blue sea and a palm tree, it was actually three pieces which fit together like a puzzle to form a serene scene befitting the name we chose for our new home in paradise.  “Magic”.  We loved it. 

During a family visit my son, my Uncle Dan and I carefully selected the best spot to place this masterpiece and after much consideration chose the flat face of a large boulder flanking our driveway.  With exterior construction adhesive we permanently bonded each fragile piece to the heavy granite block.  “That should hold it”,  Uncle Dan quipped admirably as we finished our work four hundred feet up a hillside.  That sign would last an eternity.

Eight years later, the storm hit.  Wind speeds higher than ever recorded headed toward our little island.  Back in the states I worked but in between patients kept checking the live satellite images, watching in horror as the eye of the hurricane crept closer and closer to our island community.  Wind speeds increased.  Forecasts worsened.  The computer images sickened me.  

An unexplained gap in my schedule allowed me a break just as the eye careened into land.  Closing myself in a private space,  I just sat.  Eyes closed.  Meditating.  My breathing quickened.  My heart raced.  With trembling hands  I prayed.  My skin tingled as if frozen and I could not move.  Like the voodoo rituals of the shaman of Obeah, I felt spirited into the center of the storm.  

Magically transported back to my island home I could feel the sand at my feet and the tropical foliage brushing against my skin.  My strength grew.  My sweaty arms wrapped around the body of the island buffering the horrible winds.  My shoulders braced against palm trees lending them support.  Like a stone wall my hands secured sandy shores.  With toes dug into the flooding earth my rain soaked body stiffened as the relentless winds pummeled our home.  A panicked child watching a sandcastle melt into a rising tide, I felt at once both helpless and empowered.  I grabbed for more and heaved against the strengthening storm.  The winds roared until all sound just disappeared.  At the moment the storm hit,  I was there.  

A month went by before we got the news.  The worst storm to ever hit the tropics had for five horrible hours blown 200 mph winds across our island demolishing homes and dreams.  Trees snapped.  Boats sank.  Roofs were blown away.  While two homes above us succumbed to a tornado which spewed pieces of it onto our land, “Magic” had leaned hard into those winds bending but not breaking.

When we returned two months later, the community was unrecognizable and damage was extensive but our home was still standing.  Digging through the pieces of twisted metal and broken lumber under the watch of our resilient palm trees, it was hard to find paradise.  Whole trees were gone.  Parts of our home were missing.  Including our beloved sign, boulder and all.

As I explored the rubble, a rustling sound caught my attention. Under a fallen tree limb and a pile of debris, something was moving.  I pulled back a tree branch and there grinning back at me was a fist-sized hermit crab busily crawling away.  “Hey little fella!  What’s your name?”  I asked, halfway expecting a response.  He was half a mile from the nearest shoreline, high up our hillside but looking none the worse from the storm.

Following the tiny traveler a bit, he led me to another fallen tree but I lost him when he ducked under another branch.  Pulling back that branch, the little visitor had disappeared.  But there, hiding under the chaos, sat our sign.  “Magic” was unbroken and still clinging to that big boulder which the storm had somehow shoved down the hill.  

Removed from that boulder too big to move, "Magic" now rests in a different place but still a welcoming spirit to all creatures who visit us, great and small.

Day Five....

Day Five.  

Today we were not naked. And we were not afraid.  Just alone.  Except for the mosquitoes.  The generator doesn't work.  Our solar charger broke.  We lost our wifi signal.  The gas station is out of gas.  No ice at the store.  A pretty hot day made working on the villa repair list extra tiring.  We need two new windows, a new roof and replacement gutters but without parts we could not do much more than paint and clean.  A short hike to a secluded bay sounded like a good way to cool off so we packed our gear and headed to a beach. 

The hike was a familiar one but because of the storm damage to trees the aggressive growth of low plant life encroached eerily on the footpath.  Fewer hikers over the last two months meant lots more weeds.  Thorny Catch an' Keep grabbed at our legs.  Fallen prickly cactus and pieces of Monkey No Climb littered our trail.  National Park Service volunteers had cleared the fallen trees but the growing grasses lining the trail were now six feet high and thick.  Thankfully there are no snakes on the island but I would not have been surprised to see a lion jump out at us from the surrounding thicket.  We plodded onward sweating from the humidity and swatting at bugs gnawing on our necks.  To our right wild pineapples sprouted.  To our left a tree branch tied with a red ribbon with the words "killer tree" and a skull with crossbones warned us to think about turning back.  We ducked under another fallen tree and climbed down a rocky trail to the isolated beach. 

This had been a thin white sandy beach with coconut palm trees providing shade. We mournfully stepped over those same palm trees now lying on their sides sad and lifeless and scanned the now rocky beach for signs of life.  We were alone. 

Plunging into the sparkling water we snorkeled over the traumatized reef.  A couple of territorial lion fish hid under a ledge terrorizing and eating our harmless baby reef fish.  Lion fish quills are beautiful but poisonous so we kept our distance, noted our location relative to the beach and made a mental note to report these two criminals to the National Park Ranger office.  They will send out divers to spear the fish and keep them from doing any further damage to our fragile reef ecosystem.   A school of needlenose fish threaded past us.  A large barracuda appeared beside us like Batman, then disappeared just as suddenly.  Surfacing beside us for its obligatory three gulps of air, a big sea turtle said a big hello then retreated to the safety of its sea fans below.   Some parts of the reef looked just fine. 

On our walk back along the water's edge we dodged boulders from a recent rock slide.  We detoured around two massive boats deposited on the rocks completely out of the water by the hurricane's huge storm surge.  We recognized one of the boats as the sailboat we had enjoyed our first St. John cruise on nearly ten years ago.  An octopus startled us in the shallows siphoning and squirting water as he charged us, angry that we had interrupted his search for food.  He grabbed a rock and tried to disguise himself without success so charged us again.  He grabbed another rock.  A terrified crab scurried out of the water at our feet, claws extended and ready to pinch should we interfere with his escape from the hungry octopus.  A small lemon shark swam over to investigate all the commotion.  We laughed at this collection of silly sea predators behaving badly at our feet and visible to us from the safety of dry land. 

A tropical rain shower blew in quickly, thunder echoing between the green hillsides, its droplets stinging our skin and pushing us back along the trail.  We crossed a small stream that had not been there before the rain started.  A bashful egret took wing while a brave heron just stared at us stoically.  Two frigates soared high above us.  A mile later we arrived at our jeep and looking back where we had been we were graced with a full rainbow. 

God blesses this place. 

Day Four....

Day Four.

Today we hunted and gathered.  After a breakfast of Juice Plus Complete nutrition drink and some dried fruit Toni had gathered from back home we hunted our entire neighborhood this morning and saw upclose the damages a storm like this can do.  Most homes have significant damage; some are blown away.  We were fortunate.  We repaired the damage to our deck by replacing some missing floor panels with salvage pieces we had to saw with a tree branch pruner, then we shored up a broken corner with long galvanized screws and a special drill bit we had to hunt down at the St. John hardware store.  That is part of a routine here.  Start a project but realize you need to charge a tool battery or go find a part or a tropical rain shower bursts on you and that requires you to interrupt the repair.  So you improvise, or change and work on a different project. Things take more time to get done.  Everywhere we look there is something that needs attention but it gets done in segments. 

Without refrigeration we shop daily for food and ice if we can get it.  Ice even in a cooler will only last a day.  We eat a meal or two at local food places and since most are near hot spots we use that time to pirate their free wifi and get some internet stuff done.  Gas and material shortages are still a concern.  Every day we use a generator and our solar panels to recharge our devices.  Communications with insurance people and property manager team members and people back home are slow and erratic but we know they are doing their best under the circumstances.  Three people who helped me today each lost their homes but they continue to help us and others while dealing with their own personal chaos.  We are so grateful for them. 

After reading the book Sapiens by Yuval Harari, I compare the lives of our ancestors who were hunters and gatherers way back when to what we are experiencing.  They spent most of their day hunting for food and water and gathering those things they needed and then did it again the next day.  So are we, but life is much easier now.  Or is it?  Back home I work a 50 to 60 hour work week.  Our ancestors spent maybe only 35 hours a week hunting and gathering.  So I have little time to create and enjoy art and music; they had an abundance of time to watch the stars, dance, tell stories and be with family.  I stress about patient care decisions, money, and business challenges.  They worried about being eaten by a lion but that didn't happen often.  Instead of being scattered hundreds of miles away, their protective families and communities were close and supportive.  And since their food was fresh and organic they likely had a lot better nutrition than we do and consequently less disease. 

This week I have not checked the news or watched TV.  I have not worked for money.  I have not engaged in stressful business dealings.  My interactions with our community have been kinder and more meaningful.  Instead each day I absorb the peace of a sunrise and a sunset and soak in the sound of a tropical rain tapping on my roof.  My interactions with our small community have been kinder and more meaningful.  I have read books, written stories and watched the night sky.  Last night in the darkness of the island with no lights we were entertained by a stupendous meteor shower performing over our deck.  There will be another one tonight. 

Scanning the clear blue horizon with a even clearer mind I ponder frivolous ideas like why the first voyagers bravely paddled to this island, whether invading pirates of days gone by could sail into Rendezvous Bay below me to reach me with their cannonfire, and how a hermit crab under my stairs got there, six hundred feet from the ocean.  In a quiet bay today I snorkeled upon a large spotted eagle ray and a school of cuttlefish.  As they circled curiously under me over and over again I wondered what they must be thinking about me.  About my species.  And how we spend our brief time here. 

Day Three....

Day Three.

Today we played.  The cloud cover finally evaporated enough to let the sun work its magic.  A rainbow welcomed us from our sleep.  New vegetation glowed green as the jungle here reclaimed its dominance.  Our iguanas warmed up enough to crawl out of their trees.  Donkeys paraded around their newest kin and she nibbled happily on the low leaves. Waterfalls burst from the rocks as the recent flooding worked its way down the hillsides. The bays glowed an iridescent array of blues and greens and beckoned us from our home high above it all to come play.  So we did. 

Let the island come to you, I advise our friends and family when they visit.  It will call you.  With its history it will call you.  With its people it will call you.  With its beauty it will call you.  The phrase "island soon come" encourages patience while you wait for the call and promises a spiritual connection when you do.

We head to one of the top ten beaches in the world to say hello again to Trunk Bay, afraid to see firsthand the damage to it from the storms. There were only eight people on the beach including me and Toni and we tentatively explore the destruction.  I hold my breath as we follow the familiar path to the white sands and with relief we see the beautiful colors of the water erupt before us.  A fish jumps. Two frigates glide overhead while a couple of pelicans speed past.  The mesmerizing panoramic vistas of distant islands are unchanged but looking down the beach the damage to the vegetation is obvious.  Palm trees down.  Sand shifted.  Seagrapes ruined by the storm surge.  But these will come back and are already showing signs of rebirth.  I exhale.  Grin.  And run to jump in.  

The warm cerulean water is renewing.  Its healing powers massage my soul.  Its waves buoy my spirit.  Relieved to see the clear bottom below, I swim out and see more signs of life.  A sea fan waves.  A school of fish plays along the stressed reef, still covered with a thin layer of sediment but improving with each passing month.  As I soak it all in, I reflect on the beauty of the paradise that has been here for millennia and am reminded that we are just passing through, caretakers of this playground and guardians of its spirit.  

With our love the island of Saint John will call us again. 

For you.  For all of us.  Island soon come.  

Day Two....

Day Two.

Today we worked. 

The sun did rise again over St. John.  But not for long.  Apathetic rain clouds roll in letting only enough light through to reveal the work in store for us.  Along the distant hillside brave, industrious crews are thirty feet up, already busy erecting new power poles and replacing downed power lines but they are still a long way from our neighborhood.  I open two solar panels and connect them to a charger to help us recharge cell phones and a laptop as well as a portable lantern which will be our only source of light tonight.  Our phones show a strong cell signal but only at the far end of our deck so communications have to be done outside. Please don't rain!

Our gutters were blown off our house and are scattered in pieces all over our property.  Because we rely on rainwater landing on our roof to be collected by our gutter system and stored in a cistern under our house, we have a water problem.  Lifting a heavy floor plate allows an opening just big enough for me to squirm into this dark cavern which is only half full.  Toni laughingly hands me three buckets which I lower into this abyss and retrieve enough water for us to take a cold shower.  And for her to wash her hair.  We spend much of the day salvaging gutter pieces into a makeshift network which will collect enough water for our needs for now.  Please rain!

We realize much of the debris is from our neighbor's home which was demolished by what probably was a tornado.  A friend tells us there were many tornado cells within the hurricane and witnesses watched helplessly as the twisters shared in the random destruction.  Under the curious eyes of our iguanas, piece by piece we collect the debris, trudge it up the steep hillside covered with loose rocks to our growing pile of junk and deposit it there.  Twisted metal panels, splintered boards, parts of our neighbor's roof.  A sofa cushion we don't recognize.  Not sure who will help us carry it off, or when, or to where.  It is a Caribbean CrossFit Class but it feels good to do something.  

A team of disaster assistance island volunteers surprises us with some basic supplies.  Like gifts for the Magi, they parade down our stone staircase bearing six gallon jugs of water, cleaning supplies, joyful smiles and more news about the storms and the status of the community.  They are energized by our arrival and our spirits are boosted by their optimism.  A generator gets delivered but it doesn't work which is okay because it is a noise and environmental pollutant.  There is talk of Kenny Chesney generosity, Bloomberg philanthropy, Musk's Tesla batteries, and how this will happen again so we need better energy solutions.

The St. Johnians are patient and kind and focused on the challenges ahead.  A St. John Strong stranger smiles and says "One Love."  A beat up car drives by; its license plate reads "GR8FUL".  Another goes by with a bumper sticker "Positive Is How I Live."  We offer to help others but they say they are doing okay for now.  Another reason we love this place. 

On our way into town we dodge a few chickens trying to cross the road, pick up a hitchhiker named "Jamaikee", then devour one of the best dinners we've eaten in recent memory at one of the few restaurants open.  Happy to be contributing to the economic recovery, we share a bottle of wine, then retreat to our home.  I kill another scorpion with my dive knife, this time cutting him in half, and watch his top half crawl away like a zombie before I scoot into the safety of our bed.  Like vengeful vultures, two mosquitoes glare hungrily at us from outside our net.  Watching. Always watching. But we are too tired to wonder whether they are Zika carriers.  

It is dark.  Our aching bodies tell us to rest a while and finally our busy minds give in to sleep. 

Day One....

Day One. 

Today we listened.  

Conversations about the future of the island economy were expressed by strangers on our flight.  We heard FEMA representatives and fellow homeowners describing their challenges.  We listened to islander stories of what the storm felt like that day two months ago.  Water shooting in through barricaded windows like a fire hose trying to put out a flame.  Ears popping as the sounds of a freight train engulfed their homes with tornadic winds clocked at 287 miles per hour.  Sustained winds over 187 mph for five hours. Tears welling up as each told a story of what their paradise looked like as they crept out from their hiding places.  Homes destroyed.  Jobs lost.  Stories of neighbor helping neighbor long before the National Guard and Red Cross arrived with much needed rations of Vienna sausages, MREs, Pringles and Skittles.  It has been two months. Things are much better we are told.  The island will recover.  

Arriving just before sunset we witness the devastation. Too many boats to count rendered helpless by the storm now rest on waterfronts where some of our favorite restaurants that three months ago welcomed us with food and fellowship are now barricaded shut.  They will open again soon but the quiet among fellow passengers trying to take it all in was deafening.  Pictures do not capture it.  So we listen. 

The ride to our home showcases the damage.  Blue FEMA tarps secure exposed rooftops and dot the landscape where thick tropical trees once hid the hillside homes.  National Guard troops in full gear head to the ferry to catch the last one back to camp as the sun disappears.  Despite the lack of electricity there are no stars tonight.  Our neighborhood does not look familiar and our property is a mess.  Debris still fights the tortured greenery trying to make a comeback.  The hole in our roof is covered now thanks to the heroic efforts of generous friends who despite losing their homes in the storm found their way to our home and secured it.  Too sick to our stomachs to eat, we unpack our survival gear and down some concentrated nutrition.  No running water.  No power.  Our dark bedroom welcomes our new flashlights.  We unpack a mosquito net and figure out how to secure it around our bed then open the windows to lessen the heat and humidity.  We cry.  When a scorpion tries to share the toilet with me,  I kill him with my dive knife.  A startled gecko nervously escapes into one of our suitcases.  We cry some more.  

We climb into bed and embrace the warm breezes that stir our covers but the unfriendly whine of generators compete with the soothing sounds of the surf and keep us tossing and turning all night.  A single gunshot echoes from down the hill.  A thunderstorm breaks the heat.  Dogs bark.  What will the light of day torment us with tomorrow?  We say our prayers, grateful for the safety of our island friends and that our home weathered the storms, and finally fall asleep.  

We love this place.  The sun will rise again soon and we will hear it when it does.  






Sent from my iPad

G.I. Joe And The Very Hard Day….

Today was a hard day. 

What should have been another Friday to enjoy seeing patients had turned sour.  Instead, various employees had waited for me in the hallway one at a time to reluctantly give me bad news.  Our new electronic medical record system mandated by ObamaCare had cost me $70,000 to implement but was not working as predicted.  Our building needed a new roof and the parking lot needed resurfacing.  An unhappy patient wanted a full refund for his glasses purchased a year ago and demanded to be seen today.  An insurance company had suddenly announced it would not pay for some of our patients to have surgery at the local surgery center, forcing our patients and us to use a more distant and less familiar center.  A post-op patient called and wanted to be seen because she was not doing as well as she thought she should the day after her surgery but could not come in for a visit until after hours so would I wait and see her before going home?  The air-conditioning was not working in our surgical suite.  My partners could not decide how to pay $32,000 more this year for our staff to get the same health care insurance, requiring an unscheduled meeting at noon.  I did not get lunch. 

Then, an irate patient made sure to point out in front of our full waiting area that she lived in Sharon Country Club and worked as a Airline Customer Service Rep as she criticized our excellent front office staff about their attitude.  Our hard-working and friendly staff didn’t deserve that treatment from this demanding, self-absorbed mom and the irony that it was coming from an airline employee (don’t they always make us happy when we fly?) hit everyone like a dirty, wet towel.  And, with all the distractions, I had predictably fallen far behind in my afternoon clinic.

Then, I saw Joe.

His chart told me his age was 93 but as I walked into his exam room feeling beaten and battered by my medical practice, he stood to greet me.  I had seen him many times before.  A familiar and pleasant smile creased his face as he extended his arm to shake my hand.  Scanning his chart to determine how best to treat his glaucoma, I refocused hard on my task, trying to be as efficient and accurate as possible and complete his care.

I asked him one of the many questions our new and burdensome electronic medical record system requires me to solicit from every patient, every visit. 

“Do you smoke?”

Interrupting my train of thought, he announced to me.  “I was in World War Two.”  His eyes twinkled.

Joe had a story and this was the day he was going to share it with me.  So, despite knowing this would make my waiting patients wait even longer, I reluctantly asked.

“What did you do over there?”

At the age of 22, Joe was flying over Hitler’s Germany in February, 1944.   He was part of a crew on a B-17 Flying Fortress on a mission over Berlin when his plane was hit, setting fire to one engine.  He and his fellow American soldiers had little time to decide what to do, but fearing the engine would explode and blow up the plane, they evacuated.

Joe jumped out of a burning airplane.  At 30,000 feet.

He went into a free fall, reaching terminal velocity of 200 mph before pulling his ripcord to deploy his parachute at 10,000 feet above a battlefield.

Joe descended into Nazi Germany, landing on the flat roof of a two story building in downtown Berlin.

Gathering his parachute, he heard a voice from the ground below calling out to him.  A German Officer was pointing a gun at him, directing him to slide down a gutter to the ground.

Joe was escorted at gunpoint to a holding center.  He was crammed into a cattle car with other American soldiers and taken by train to a prison camp in Poland.

He lived at that prison camp for ten months on meager rations with just the clothes on his back.

When the Russian Army broke through German lines from the east, he and the other prisoners were forced to walk 700 miles weaving their way west through war torn German towns and countryside.  In the winter.  It was 14 degrees.

Stumbling into the Battle of the Bulge, Joe and his fellow POWs became part of WWII's largest operation as Allied Forces overcame Hitler’s offensive into France.  There were 89,500 American casualties in that battle: 47,000 Americans were wounded and 19,000 Americans were killed.  But somehow, America won.  And Joe survived.

When an African-American Tank Battalion finally broke through German lines, Joe was freed.

His reward?  A can of Spam - and some cigarettes. 

“And, no, I don’t smoke.  Never did.”  Joe finally answered.

I sat captivated, amazed by each morsel of this buffet of living history served before me and I devoured every last bite.

And despite falling farther behind in my lousy day to listen to his incredible story, suddenly my day didn’t seem that hard.

When our lives seem challenging, it is comforting to know there are others we can rely on to give us a better perspective, to remind us of the powers of perseverance, faith and hope, and to lead the way.  

The next time I have a hard day, I'll think of Joe. 

The Yard Sale….

Back in the halcyon days before Velcro, FM radio and the riding lawnmower, my parents went to yard sales.  Every spring Saturday morning they would rise early before we kids got out of bed and join hundreds of other eager Charlotteans in the happy hunt for a bargain.  Today, somebody’s old junk would become someone else’s new treasure.

With satisfied smiles my parents would return delightedly displaying a used fish bowl bought for a dime, or a three-dollar real pushmower, or a ten-dollar old banjo.  And even more valuable items we would now be proud owners of, like a radio headphone or some ankle weights, would be placed in a position of honor on our breakfast table. The trophies collected much attention that day but eventually began collecting dust in our big ol’ basement for years to come.

But not today.  This Saturday Dad brought home the bargain of the century. 

“G’morning, everyone!  Look at what we got today.”

Peering up from our cereal bowls, we paused.

“I got a horse.  His name’s Dan.  Got a great deal on him.  He’s beautiful!”

Our mouths dropped, cereal and milk spilling out onto the table below. Out the door was a horse trailer.  And in it, a horse.

We crept to the door and quietly peeked in.  Shadows in the dimly lit trailer obscured our view.  The air was thick with the smell of wet hay.  We covered our noses and peered deeper into the darkness.  A deep, snorty breath broke the silence.  Then a shuffling sound and as Dan turned to look at us, we saw it immediately.  Dan was a one-eyed horse!  No wonder Dad got a deal, we thought.

While out visiting yard sales, my parents had seen Dan behind a fence in a small yard a few blocks from our house.  Eager to fill the vacant acre in our backyard left empty by the retirement of our previous two ponies, Dad approached the owners.  Leaning against an aging split rail fence that held a sign, “Horse For Sale”, cool in the summer shade of a stand of pine trees, Dad bargained expertly for his prize.  The owners, who were English and moving back to the old country, relayed Dan’s story.

Before Dan was blinded in one eye by a large pine cone that had freakishly fallen and irreversibly damaged his cornea, and before Dan had been gelded to, as his English owners politely and properly put it, temper his stallion-like behavior, Dan had been Tap Dancer.  Progeny of Northern Dancer.  The same Northern Dancer who in 1964 won the Kentucky Derby, the Queen’s Plate AND the Preakness Stakes.  The same Northern Dancer who despite his small stature set records on and off the track by winning 14 of his 18 races, commanding a $1 million dollar stud fee and siring 357 foals.  Of the 19 horses in last year's Kentucky Derby, 18 were related to Northern Dancer.  His semen, breeders say, was worth its weight in gold.  Dan’s father was a celebrity.  And a prolific stud.

Tap Dancer looked like his legendary ancestor.  He was a quarter horse, with short, stocky legs that made it impossible to believe he could outrun the larger horses.  Only 15 hands tall, brown and with white markings, he carried himself proudly, no doubt aware of his famous pedigree and still having a little stallion left in him.  But he had to turn his head to see.

Dad closed the deal, never sharing with us exactly what his latest yard sale prize cost him, but no doubt thrilled to get him.  And the Brits even threw in some feed and a saddle.  Tap Dancer was ours.

That summer, like every summer, it was my responsibility to cut grass.  I called our home “Grassland” because there was a lot of it.  To stay in shape, I would put on my red yard sale ankle weights held together by blue shoelaces because Velcro had not been invented yet.  And to break the monotony I would strap on my football helmet-sized yard sale headphones, extend the antennas, and listen to AM radio.  To find that weak AM signal I would tilt my head like Dan turning his head to see.  On rare days, with my head at just the right angle, I could pick up a soul music FM station, WGIV, “the black spot on your dial”, and really cut to the music. 

Then, dragging out the old pushmower I would commence the chore of cutting Grassland.  The backyard was so large that by the time I got it cut it was time to do the front yard again.  But Dan was a hungry grazer so with his help, I could now do the job in half the time.  Watching me push that mower over brilliant green grass and around piles of his horse droppings, my red ankle weights glowing, my head tilted and singing loudly to music from the BeeGees, Dan would stop munching the grass long enough to raise his roped neck from the ground and stare at me with his one eye.  He must have been fascinated.  And, I think, because of our shared interest in grass cutting, we bonded.

Saddling up a stallion, even one who has been castrated, can be an ordeal, but not near as challenging as riding one who can’t see.  Dan allowed me to brush and saddle him and eventually ride him.  A few times he would bolt, his DNA resurrected, running hard with me frantically hanging on like a baby baboon on his mother's back.  His muscles rippled as he snorted wildly.  He'd dodge trees and holes that would appear suddenly in his restricted vision until, getting tired of carrying someone who weighs twice that of a jockey, he would run broadside into a tree, knocking my leg loose and eventually me to the ground.  Then he would eat some more grass.

Because of Dan, I learned about being a stable hand and was able to convince my son when he was young that before I met his momma, I was a cowboy.  And years after Dan was gone and I had left for college, Dad bought a riding lawnmower.  No doubt he got a good deal on it at a yard sale.

March Madness….

The concert finished with an encore and the audience leaped to their feet.  With me was my college roommate and best friend, “Duck”, named because someone thought the way his feet pointed out made him waddle when he walked like a silly aquatic bird.  He had gotten us great seats.  Except for the big guy and his wife immediately in front of us, whose enthusiasm limited our views a bit, it was still a fantastic show.  When the house lights came on, we lingered to savor the moment and people-watch as the fans lined up to leave. 

Not surprisingly we recognized no one.  We were students at the University of North Carolina but the venue tonight was in Durham near Duke University.  Despite the intense rivalry between Duke and UNC, we had ventured out from the safety of Chapel Hill to experience a concert with plans to return quickly before we got hives or threw up or something worse from being so close to the Dookies.  Just by attending UNC we had a natural and deep distaste for them.  We hated Duke.

Gathering my things I noticed a wallet lying on the floor under the chair in front of me.  Must have been the big guy’s, I thought, but he was nowhere to be seen.  “Duck” opened the wallet and explored it.  Some cash, a few charge cards, a photo of his attractive daughter, and finally, an ID.  Tom Butters was the name and we recognized it.  Duke University’s Athletic Director.

Back in Blue Heaven, we returned to the familiar security of our dorm room with our hostage wallet.  Not wanting to invite bad karma by tossing it down the garbage chute or into the pool, we repressed our Duke animosity for a moment and did the right thing. 

Before the days of cell phones and the Internet, contacting people who were out of earshot could only be done by mail or using a shared telephone attached to a wall.  Opening the window and yelling just wouldn’t do it.  We made several information calls to an operator before we finally got Mr. Butter’s phone number.  Dialing his number and holding the receiver close between our faces, we stifled our snickers and tried not to make stupid comments as the coiled plastic cord bounced annoyingly between us.  A surprisingly nice voice answered which became elated as we told him the good news.  We had found his wallet.

Between gushing thank yous and exchanging information, Tom said he would send over one of his assistants (likely another Dookie) to retrieve his wallet.

“You boys did good.” he bellowed.  “I’ll have my assistant leave you something for your trouble.”

A reward!?!  Now we gushed gratefully as we fantasized about what it might be.  Cash?  Awesome!  A date with his daughter?  Unlikely.  Food?  Even better!  A couple of Domino’s pizzas would finish out the night just right.

We left his wallet safely with our front desk clerk as instructed and when we returned an hour later,  a plain white envelope was handed to us.  Inside were two Duke basketball tickets.  First game of the season.  Third row seats.  Center court.  At Cameron Indoor Stadium.

Surprise!  We love basketball, but mostly UNC basketball.  Most people would have been thrilled to spend an evening with the Cameron Crazies.  A generous gift for most but for us a trip back to Duke country to witness our hated enemy beat up a lesser opponent in their season opener would be like a day at the beach in a tropical storm.

 

Hurricane Earl, 2010

We made the best of it.  No, we didn’t sell the tickets.  Realizing we were going to be in very visible seats, and urged on by our fervent and fanatical friends, we dressed in the Duke opponent’s red colors and headed for Krzyzewskiville.  To root for ...Yugoslavia!

Our seats were so close we could smell the body odor radiating from the Yugo players’ unwashed uniforms. Or was that the Dookies?  Standing for every basket made by the Yugoslavia National Team, and vocally taunting the refs for every call made against the Reds, we exchanged obnoxious low fives (high fives weren’t invented yet) at every missed Blue Devil shot and cheered loudly for the Communists to beat Duke.   

In 1981, Duke went on to finish their season with 10 wins against an embarrassing 17 losses, ranking 218 out of 273 teams in the country and a sad sixth place finish in the ACC conference.  And, of course, no March Madness for them.

And UNC?  We won the ACC tournament and made it to the NCAA Championship game.

I like to think “Duck” and I had something to do with that.

Go Heels!  Anybody but Duke.