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.

Redneck….

In the strictest sense of the word, Herman was a redneck.  He grew up poor in the rural South in a small house crowded with seven brothers and sisters. He was raised on a farm and never learned to read well because a formal education was not an option for him. But he learned to play music. The piano, the church organ, the guitar, and the fiddle helped him make each day his masterpiece.  He worked hard, raised a family, started a church and well into his 80's died, well liked and well loved.  He was one of my favorite uncles and I admired him so much.

The last time I saw Herman he was playing his new mandolin. I saw it leaning in the corner and asked him about it so he taught me a few chords, which I strummed clumsily, making an irritating noise.  I am educated but very musically challenged - and he knew it.  When I asked him "Can you play it?"  his typically humble response was "Maybe a little bit."  And buddy, he played it!!  With a toothy grin, he played it, happy to show me a thing or two and see the surprised look on my face. Two months later I got word that Herman had passed away.

"Redneck" is a term usually reserved for a rural poor white person of the Southern United States.  It appeared in 1893 as a description of the poor southern farmers of the Democratic Party who frequently showed up with their necks red from exposure to the sun to rally against rich men and their politics. North Carolina has a total population of 10 million people; as of the last census 72% of the population are white and 17.5% of the population are living under the poverty level.  That calculates out to a lot of rednecks.

Redneck is usually a derogatory word.  You’ve heard the jokes.  You are a redneck if…. the hood and one door are a different color from the rest of your car.  Or, you are a redneck if your momma has “ammo” on her Christmas list.  Or, you are a redneck if you own a home with wheels on it and several cars without one.  According to Miss South Carolina at the last Miss USA Pageant, 20 percent of those enjoying our neighboring state reside in mobile homes, because “that’s how we roll!!”.  North Carolina is not far behind.  Over thirteen percent of us live in mobile homes. Barely more than a tobacco spit from my home in the third wealthiest community in North Carolina sits a typical trailer park.  It looks real nice. 

Many of my family ancestors were poor white folks from North Carolina and Tennessee and Arkansas and Virginia.  I know them to be God-fearing, hard workers with conservative values and strong family ties who love country music and drive pickup trucks so, despite the bad jokes, I don’t take offense to the term redneck. And after all is said and done, they usually don't either. But use it prudently for several reasons - there are many of them, they have guns, and they would rebel if seriously provoked. They fought in the Revolutionary War, battled in the Civil War, and tussled with any other rascal who wanted to rastle ‘em. When their little redneck DNA, wearing blue jeans and boots with hair tied back in a red bandana, peeks out of my genetic makeup and shouts like Brad Paisley, “Let’s Get A Little Mud On The Tires”, I just smile and say “sure thing”.  It’s in my blood - and everyone knows you can’t deny the DNA.

We had us a few visitors from California last month, and took them on a Sunday tour. In a rented stretch utility van and with country music blaring, I hauled them on an excursion across the state line into South Carolina and back again to see the sights.  It was so cold chickens were begging to be fried.  I put on my heavy jeans, boots, a flannel shirt and my ball cap, and while Zac Brown sang “Ain’t In No Hurry”, we showed them where you could buy fireworks.  We showed them the ABC store where you could purchase liquor – any day except Sunday.  We flaunted where you could get cheap gas and fresh barbecue - at the same place.  We pointed out our Southern Baptist church with the charismatic evangelical preacher who had recently re-baptized me and my family by totally submerging us one by one in a tub of water one memorable Sunday morning.  

We then paraded by the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant and after passing an ominous sign that read “Evacuation Route” – from what I am still wonderin' – we steered through horse country and a community called Indian Land. Through the leafless trees this time of year you could see the expansive properties with large homes surrounded by white plank fences and speckled with stables and horses and goats and cows and even a donkey.  We saw tractors.  We warned them they were fixing to see a real trailer park.  And they did, too.    

My daughter and her new movie star husband rode with us and I am sure were reminded of when we took her then Los Angeles boyfriend to Myrtle Beach. We shot off fireworks. We caught fireflies. We listened to thunderstorms roll in. We sat on my front step and drank ice cold beer and waved at the neighbors as they strolled by. We toured a Wings souvenir store and, shocked to see it, he bought a token coffee cup with the Confederate flag on it for his mom and a genuine Confederate cap to show his dad.  Coming home we followed the Cotton Trail in our truck to see the historic sites on large southern plantations surviving a time when cotton was king.

Years before, the redneck had peeked out again. On a Sunday morning picking up my wife from the airport I cranked up our dented pickup truck with the crack in the windshield and, excited about the day’s events, rolled down my windows and turned up the volume.  We were almost late to our son’s baccalaureate graduation ceremony at a big city church.  With the windows down and country music blaring, I sped in my pickup truck, drinking sweet tea and driving NASCAR fast to make the event as Toni gradually got naked in the front seat beside me while changing from her travel clothes into a respectable church dress. Naked. In a pickup truck. On a Sunday. On The Billy Graham Parkway.

Recalling my childhood back when a suburban lifestyle gradually replaced our modest rural heritage like a rising creek rinsing away the dust from unpaved roads, I remembered riding horses bareback and plowing vegetable gardens. Lord, that's where I come from! But in stages I became more like city folk.  Playing video games, driving a sports car, and getting through college replaced a simpler life as a country boy.  Then I witnessed my kids enjoying some redneck behavior like jumping from a train trestle into an Arkansas river, tubing down a homemade Georgia mudslide, and tying some boats together in the middle of a big ol’ Missouri lake to form a giant party raft. And loving country music festivals. And talking to their relatives with a sudden southern twang mysteriously appearing in their voices.  I chuckled to myself, muttering, “You can’t deny the DNA.”

Over a year after Herman died, I received a special call from his son, George.  Not knowing anything about the last time I had seen his father, George said  "We were going through some of Daddy's things and wanted to give you something of his to remember him by."  He added, "Daddy had always admired you for how hard you worked to finish your education. He would have wanted you to have this."  

Herman's mandolin. 

Life is like a good ol' country song, composed of multiple musical themes that rhythmically cycle in and out of our personal experience.  Energetic themes which jumpstart us to get to work, or to write, or to detail the truck.  Melancholy themes which encourage us to reminisce about family who have passed and remember days gone by.  And Redneck themes which, like Herman and his mandolin, give us heart and spirit and add character to our lives.

Rock Star….

Every time I look at an onion, I think of him.  He had this funny habit of sitting on his haunches, head up proudly, massive shoulders back, hairy chest thrown out like a proud peacock and the first time I saw him he was biting into a large raw onion like you or I might enjoy an apple.  His small brown eyes searched the horizon and his coarse black hair shielded his face from the sun. Autograph seekers crowded up like groupies at a rock concert, hoping to get a picture.  His smug expression rarely broke into a grin.  He walked with a brawny self-confidence that showed all what he thought about his position in life.  He owned this stage.  As I got closer to him, his menacing eyes avoided contact with mine. But I was captivated.  He was a rock star. And I could not wait to meet him.

Before beginning my job today, I had to visit with my department chairman.  His bearded assistant escorted me through a double-locked door marked ‘Employees Only’ and ‘Keep Out’ in red letters, and pointed down a long narrow hallway to an unassuming door at its end.  As the backstage door quietly shut, the crowd noise outside silenced.

“You will need to check in with him first thing every day.” his assistant said flatly, then added.  “Don’t worry about the smell.  You get used to it.”  

Handing me my security code and ID badge, he motioned me down the hallway.  

“Don’t look at his eyes.  He hates that.”  And he abruptly left.

I hadn’t noticed the smell until then.  A mixture of onions, ripe fruit and old wet towels tickled my palate like a trained sommelier.  My eyes reflexively teared up.  The door beckoned.  I studied the hallway.  Its cold cinder block wall on the right side rose fifteen feet to a brightly lit ceiling.  To the left was a complicated line of shiny rigid metal rods interlaced with strong wire leaving only two-inch spaces between and extending all the way from me to the door thirty feet away.  Puddles of water and wet spots dotted the concrete floor. Gripping my backpack a bit more tightly and taking a slow, deep breath, I held my nose and started down the corridor.

After two steps I could hear him breathing and my own breathing quickened.  The smell of onions intensified.  I felt his heart beating and sensed him studying me, knowing that at any minute we would finally meet.  I quickened my pace.  My shoes splashed along a puddle. 

“Don’t look.” I reminded myself.  “Don’t run.  Don’t slip.”

The cold metal bars shined to my left, and my right shoulder brushed the cinder block wall as the passage seemed to narrow.  The tiny hairs on my neck stood up.  My ears tingled.  I knew he was closer now.  My gait stiffened.  I could feel him.

The air thickened, like it gets as a big thunderstorm approaches.  The ground rumbled.  A deafening growl filled the hallway, echoing off the tight space and stunning my ears.  Still many steps from the door, but no turning back now, I hurried forward. Another primal roar sliced through the air, then a rush of black as I glimpsed him charging from behind the metal bars.  His body slammed against the shiny grill like a truck colliding with a train, but the bars held.  I felt his warm breath inches from my face and the smell of onions ripped through my nostrils.  

Opening my eyes just long enough to peek at him, I looked into his eyes.  Then, I ran. Thick droplets of spit dripped from my hair and face down my left ear as I fought to catch my breath.  I have to do this every day?

Responding to my frantic knock, my department chair opened his door.  

“So you met him?” he grinned cheerily.  “He doesn’t like males.”  

Too stunned to talk, I just stood there.

He handed me a towel.  “Next time you might want to cover up." 

He was a 400 pound silver back gorilla named Tomoka.  He was a rock star.  

And I met him.

**Tomoka was only the second gorilla born into captivity in the world, in 1961, about when I was born, at The Ape House @ The National Zoo, Washington, D.C.  After his severe arthritis was cured and his life saved by doctors there, Tomoka, a vegetarian,  looked like this in his prime, when I met him in 1982.

Making Lemonade….

Slumped in her exam chair, her eyes partially blocked by droopy brows and her face furrowed with wrinkles too many to count, Vivian locked her familiar gaze on mine.  This was her twentieth exam with me and she was closing in on her ninetieth birthday.  The weight of her chart was impressive; thick from decades of documentation for her growing list of medical problems, it told her story. 

She had been a dancer in her youth.  Eventually marrying and raising her children, she had lived to enjoy her grandchildren and even great grandchildren.  Recently she had buried her beloved husband.  Life had been fast and furious and full of miracles then, but now Vivian, her bones weak and her eyesight failing, did everything slowly.  With much effort she raised a crooked hand toward me and slowly wagging her aging index finger, she lifted her head a bit and gave me some advice.

“Do it while you’re young.” she warned with a rasp in her voice but a twinkle in her eyes.

This wasn’t the first time I had been given advice from my old folks. 

“Don’t work too hard,” one sage advised me. 

“Are you taking some time off?” other elders had quizzed.

“Getting old is not for sissies,” many, many had warned. 

This wise choir’s sad chorus was common - and relentless- so after years of hearing their refrain, I had listened. You hear that enough times, you just about have to. Heeding their stories of health failing, kids grown, family moved away, friends no longer living, and not feeling well enough to do much of anything, I felt a panic set in. 

“What are you doing in your spare time?” I began to ask my generation of patients searchingly.

“What spare time?” was their glum and almost universal response.

Blocking off time to make some memories became my mantra. Getting home early when I could, stretching a weekend into three days here or there, and planning some great experiences became a priority and helped our family create balance.

So today, I was ready for Vivian’s challenge.

On this perfect summer day, I had arranged for our two kids, ages 9 and 6, to set up a lemonade stand outside the door to my office.  Like two squirrels in a field of acorns, their excitement was palpable as we spent the evening before making gallons of the sweet thirst quencher that everyone loves as well as signs directing customers to a table full of cups and napkins.  We worked out with them how 50 cents a cup would be a fair and profitable charge. My wife and I filled a cooler with ice for them and instructed them in how to serve their customers without contaminating their drinks.  And we delivered the entire family project to my office entrance that morning for them to set up.

My office is busy.  Lots of patients and their families pass through those doors on any given day, so I knew business would be good for them.  But I felt guilty at the thought of my patients feeling trapped into buying something from my children.  So I secretly planted a large bowl of quarters at the checkout window with instructions to my staff to offer each of our patients the quarters as tokens to purchase lemonade as they left.

Thankful for the advice of Vivian and her comrades, and for their wisdom and courage inspiring me to play a bit harder, to hug a little longer, and to create as many magic moments as we can while we can, I directed her down the hallway.

“Vivian, when you leave today grab a couple of quarters at the checkout and 

buy some lemonade from my kids”,  I offered.  “My treat.”

With a quick and knowing grin, Vivian nodded her approval and disappeared unhurriedly down the hallway.

At the end of the day, I had two unsuspecting kids, as happy as tourists finding a deserted beach, gleefully splitting $37.50 for their day’s work.  And another memory to keep me warm when I get old.

A Donkey Christmas...

We knew very little about St. John the first time we visited.  Just another beautiful island created by God with a great resort created by Rockefeller for us to enjoy some snorkeling and sun while we waited to reunite with our son after his summer sailing experience.

Our first morning there we walked the lush green grounds of the resort following a path lined by flamboyant foliage and swaying palm trees through an expansive clearing which gently sloped up to the edge of the rainforest.  The air was fresh and lightly salted.  The breeze cooled our sweaty skin on this humid tropical summer day.  It was early and we were alone.  Stirring at the forest edge, a commotion of animals headed this way, slowly at first but picking up speed. A large herd of donkeys had decided at that moment the grass WAS greener on the other side and they were headed for it.  Donkeys?  It seemed silly at first.  But we stood transfixed, directly in the path of this asinine stampede as the dashing donkeys now at a full gallop gained speed and threatened to engulf us at any second.  

Like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday, the rambunctious group of jacks and jennets converged on us too quickly.  Our survival reflexes kicked in and, as juvenile as it may seem, our only way out was to dart awkwardly behind the safety of a large palm tree.  There we stood as skinny as possible behind its protective trunk with donkeys speeding by us to either side.  Donkeys to the left and donkeys to the right, their unassuming gray and white coats shining in the sweltering sun, some snorting and others just kicking up a little dust but all thump thump thumping with their hooves on the soft turf.  And passing by us to the grassy field beyond, as quickly as they had started, they stopped. 

Today they came from the protection of the National Park territory to eat breakfast, but generations ago, they came from a land much farther away.  Donkeys don’t swim.  This is an island.  They got here by boat.  Over five hundred years ago.  By Christopher Columbus’ ship, on his second voyage to the New World in 1495, the first donkeys landed in the Caribbean.  With weathered stays rigged to a creaky mast each of the four jacks and two jennets were harnessed and lowered to this sandy soil.  Back then, a donkey was respectfully called an "ass"; far from silly or stupid, they were important companions and beasts of burden.

They were brought to work.  To carry loads and people as they went about the business of settling this new frontier and building St. John.  Since way before the days when Jesus rode one into Jerusalem, donkeys have been excellent workers.  They eat less and live longer than horses, and take up less space.  On St. John they were excellent rum makers. They hauled bay leaves from the mountaintops and sugarcane from the fields.  They turned mills to grind the cane to sweeten the rum.  They transported the coveted concoction to the docks to ship to the world’s markets an export that is to this day the region’s number one commodity. 

And they were attentive witnesses.  If they could talk they would enlighten you on the historic battles for the island, and detail for you the raucous behavior of rebellious pirates as well as the ugliness of slavery from its beginning to its end.  They would tearfully describe the horrible hurricanes and earthquakes, and the 35 foot tsunami of November 18, 1867, and gratefully explain how Laurence Rockefeller arrived to create a National Park haven for them and others over fifty years ago.

Relaxing in a two-person hammock on a Christmas visit years later, we noticed some of the wild herd again in the shade at the edge of an alabaster beach.  One of the males, the leader, broke away from the group and made his way slowly and deliberately toward us.  He approached me, closer and closer until his nose was beside my cheek.  His whiskers tickled my skin.  I froze.  I did not even breathe.  He sniffed my shoulder, then down my side to my thigh and back to my face.  Then stepping forward, he positioned himself directly between me and my island girl.  And there he stood, for what reason I don’t know.  Posing. 

Twenty-one donkey generations after Columbus, we rested under the shade of a welcoming palm tree, and enviously watched their wild donkey descendants, with no predators to worry about and no more work to do, peacefully retired and munching happily and deservedly on the dewy sweet green grass of paradise.  And we were filled with the spirit of Christmas, the peace and goodwill toward man symbolized in the harmony of that moment, thankful for this gift from our donkey friend and happy to share this gift with you.

Merry Christm"ass" To All!!

    **a friendly beachcomber with a camera walking by at just the right time snapped this shot for us.

Our Island Wedding...

Instead of writing today, I watched.    Please enjoy my daughter and her new husband's wedding video by clicking the word "wedding" in this link...

Thank you Nazareth Road Productions, US Virgin Islands, for making this day even more special with your creativity.

It's Four O'Clock Somewhere...

Each day my staff and I set aside our four o’clock appointment for a person in need of eye care who does not have insurance and cannot afford to pay.  Eligibility for this is determined by a local free clinic and those patients are then referred to us.  Our surgery center donates the time, the operating room, and the anesthesiology staff.  We donate the care.

Many of these new patients are foreign nationals who have immigrated to America to be with their families and to find a better life. Because we have been doing this for years, we have accumulated a significant group of international patients.  Too many to list, they come to us from five of the seven continents and represent many of Earth’s 193 countries.

We look forward to what our four o’clock patient may reveal to us about the world, and many do not disappoint.  Liberians and Congolese arrive proudly wearing their traditional, brightly colored African kaftans and boubous and kufis.  Japanese display less flamboyant attire but rise and bow ceremoniously each time we enter and leave the exam room.  Appreciative South and Central Americans greet us with grateful, toothy smiles while Europeans communicate more with gesticulations and body language, but they always convey the same hopeful and obvious message:  If they could only see better, they could do better.

Because most speak little or no English, and we cannot possibly understand or speak the hundreds of languages and dialects they do speak, we require only that they bring a family member or friend who can translate well.  And what we hear them say is they are grateful to be living in one of the best countries in the world.  They feel free to pursue their dreams, happy to be in a place where they are protected equally in the eyes of the law to do so, and fortunate to have a support system to help them create a better life.  They are proud to be in America.  They are proud to be American.

I arrived at the surgery center on this day feeling especially thankful for my American heritage and proud of the position our country plays in this cumbersome world game, because we have been in the news a lot lately, solving humanity’s problems.  Ebola virus spreading through your country?  We have our own domestic health care problems, but sure thing, we’ll be right over with more medical and Marine support than you can ever imagine.  Tired of seeing the environmental deterioration?  Our air is now cleaner than ever, and our President will get the Chinese to agree to controls that will keep our coral reefs and polar caps safe and healthy.  Got some ISIS varmits in your Middle Eastern backyard?  Count on Mother Liberty to send you a military crew to help you exterminate your pest problem.  Want to go to Mars?  Maybe you can hitch a ride with the good ol’ USA on Spaceship Orion, which blasted off recently, and we can get you there like when we went to the Moon fifty years ago.  Being attacked by Communists or harassed by Socialists? Last year we spent $37.6 Billion in foreign aid, much, much more than any other country and much more on a military trained to defend those countries and protect humankind from savagery; I am sure Uncle Sam has something for you.

In the preoperative holding area were my patients, lining up as usual for a chance to see better, but today the activity was more frenetic than usual.  The privacy curtains for each patient cubicle were bulging, each crammed full with a patient, some family members and an interpreter.  Behind curtain number one were the Japanese, their questions being answered by a compassionate nurse.  Curtain number two shielded the Congolese family, chattering and interpreting to our tolerant and kind anesthesiologist.  Curtain three sheltered the Argentinians, comforted by a concerned staff.  The discord was disorienting.  Fifteen patients today and so far, it was International Day at Charlotte Surgery Center.  As Walt Disney liked to say, ‘It’s A Small World’.

In the operating room, my staff was waiting, our first patient prepped and draped, my familiar anesthesiologist and circulating nurse team ready and able.  But my surgical assistant was a new face.

“Hi, Doctor. I will be assisting you today.”

“Good.” I replied brusquely. “We are busier than usual.  Lots of needy people from other countries are counting on us.  I hope you’re up to it.  We are their only hope.”

“I’m sorry,” my Southern etiquette taking over, and I asked, “What is your name?”

Her strength and confidence shined through her surgical gown.  Her red hair hidden by a surgical cap and her nose and mouth protected by a white surgical mask, only her kind blue eyes were visible and, like stars, they twinkled as they met mine.

"My name is 'America'."**

** Her name really was America.