Everyone should... (Part I)

Everyone should visit Dachau, the former Nazi extermination camp, now memorial, not far from Munich, Germany.

Everyone.

My visit many years ago accentuated, in bull-horn crescendos, a question and angst that has plagued me since my youth: How did the people around Dachau and the multitude of other concentration and extermination camps, chimneys vomiting human ash, not run up to the gates screaming: “STOP THIS. STOP IT NOW!”

And would have I?

It took a 2- or 3-year-old Ethiopian boy to give me the answer.

And it ain’t pretty.

That boy sat, alone, squatting on the side of the path that took me on my walk from the YMCA in Addis Ababa into the center of the city in my young adulthood. He wore ragged clothes, barely enough to cover his boyhood. Dirt was as much a part of his body as his dark skin. A small tin cup sat in front of him, its mouth clearly wanting to be fed. The boy silently pleaded his case easily and effectively with his appearance and plaintive gaze.

And he was beautiful, as all children are.

The first day, I gave him a coin. The second day, I gave him a coin. The third day, I gave him a coin. The next, and the next, and, perhaps, the next. But, then, it stopped. Not sure what day it was. But it stopped. I walked by, with a mere glance in his direction, then no glance at all. At some point, I just didn’t see. Him.

It was a simple act (or inaction) of self-preservation. I really couldn’t help him. He was everywhere. He was everyone. The poverty, the need, of the 99 percent that was Addis Ababa, was everywhere. You saw it. You heard it. You smelled it. You tasted it. You felt it. To the core.

You turned it off.

You had to. Or it would kill you because of the absolute and stark realization that there was nothing you could really do. No matter how many times you dropped a coin, or a thousand more, it just wouldn’t help. And that’s why you turned away, or turned off completely, the eyes, the ears, the nose, the skin, the tongue, the brain. It felt much like putting a Band-Aid on an amputation. It just wouldn’t help. Nothing would.

And it was killing me. So I turned it off. Just like Herr and Frau Dachau.

If you didn’t turn it off, it would eat at you until you died.

I know the people around Dachau had to know what was going on, but had to convince themselves it was not. The futility of their own inability to stop it beat them down until they simply had to tell themselves it didn’t exist, even as the ash fell on their homes and their fields and dirtied their newly-washed linen and Sunday best hung to dry.

That numbness to horror and futility is something I came to realize during my time in Ethiopia and a thousand other places like it.

I wanted to scream “STOP IT. STOP IT NOW! DO SOMETHING.”

No one, it seems, is listening. Or caring enough to listen.

That little Ethiopian boy, if alive, now a middle-aged man, is with me every day. And, yes, I’m ashamed. To this day, and beyond.

Maybe if everyone on the planet visited Dachua, it would change.

Maybe then everyone would stand up and yell: “STOP IT. STOP IT NOW! DO SOMETHING.”

And, maybe, maybe, someone would finally listen.

I have failed. But I feel as though I am alone, my voice in a vacuum.

Together, as a chorus, perhaps there is hope.

“STOP IT. STOP IT NOW!”

“DO SOMETHING!”

Visit Dachau. Everyone.

***

Note: When you read this, when you read anything on this page, please feel free to comment. Everyone needs an editor, every writer needs to know, especially me. Your comments are welcome, even if you disagree.

Serendipity, and an apology...

Serendipity is an important part of our life.

Joyce and I embrace it. We encourage it.
For example, I’ve relayed to many of you about my frustrating attempt to chase down an Army buddy from the ‘60s by the name of Andy Love. After more than a decade of failure, I finally found him on an Amtrak train from Lawrence to L.A.

During dinner with the New Mexico landscape whizzing by, I was chatting with our dining car waitress, “Charlie.” She, incidentally, was subbing for someone; it wasn’t her regular route, which punctuates the serendipitous nature of this tale:

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“A little town in northern Maine nobody’s ever heard of.”

“Madawaska?”

Her eyes popped large.

“You’re the only person who ever got that,” she gasped.

I then told her I knew Madawaska because I’d been looking for an old Army buddy from Madawaska by the name of Andy Love.

“I was in his sister’s wedding” she yelped.

Andy and I eventually hooked up. Andy lives in New Hampshire not far from our daughter, who lives in Nashua, N.H., and he once worked the bar at our favorite restaurant in New England: Warren’s Lobster House, a part of which literally sits atop the estuary in Kittery, Maine. Best salad bar ever. Oh, and fish and chips, too.

And:

I once ran into an old high school buddy, whom I hadn’t seen in 10 years – in downtown Nairobi, Kenya.

And:

Joyce and I always take roads less-traveled just to increase the opportunities for “surprise.” That’s how we found the wonderful Groveland Hotel in Groveland, Calif., that I’ve written about previously in this space.

Hence, my time on the Loneliest Road in America this May.

That’s where serendipity (and the need for an apology) struck just west of Ely, Nevada, this May. It’s where I encountered the intrepid German couple, Marita Weber and Cornelius Hummel. In my “age group,” the two adventurers were on bicycles laden with enough gear to live on their own. Yep, bicycles loaded to the gills literally in the middle of effing nowhere. (“Can you hear me know,” Mr. Verizon sez. “Nope.”)

Cornelius Hummel and Marita Webber, whom I encountered on the Loneliest Road in America. The Miata can be seen down the road a bit in the background.

Marita and Cornelius (we came to first-name status quickly) were biking and camping across the United States. They had started in Florida, they told me, circumnavigating the Sunshine State (I guess for practice on relatively level ground) before heading west, mostly uphill, I would think, until you cross the Sierra Nevada range and head downhill to the Pacific. Each, it must be told, received a bit of a boost on their many-thousands-of-miles trek from a fist-sized motor that, Marita told me, helped on the hills. But they still had to do a lot of pedaling to crest the hills.

They’d been doing it for months, and they planned to put their kickstand down for the last time in San Francisco. (Though I love San Francisco, I’d have picked a flatter spot to stop).

We exchanged pleasantries with promises (that I hope to keep) to hook up at some point either in Kansas (they have an open invitation) or, more likely, in their native Germany.

After the promises, I wished them well, hopped back in the Miata and whizzed off on that lonely, but magnificent, road in Nevada.

It was made more special because it was in the Miata, top down. No cops. Twists and turns. Great weather. And speed! (That’s the “no cops” part.)

So today’s lesson is to embrace serendipity so you run into good, intrepid and interesting folks like Marita and Cornelius (and “Charlie”). But do a better job at keeping promises.

I had promised Marita and Cornelius that I would tell all y’all about my encounter with them and keep in touch, but I’ve neglected my duties as a blogger and an emailer (though Marita did send the photo I took of them with their camera, and you can spot the Maita in the distant background). I hope this begins to make up for my lapse, and I apologize (to them and to you) for being such a slacker.

I’ll try to make it up when Joyce and I visit them (as promised) in Germany.

The beer’s on me.

"I'm back..."

Hello all, and no apologies for being so silent for so long because all would fall flat.

There are significant distractions in my life, including/especially my aging parents (who are in varying degrees of declining health and demand a good deal of attention from my patient wife, Joyce, and me), the UDK (which had a trying year on many fronts and continues to face the same "challenges" that all traditional media are facing), and other issues that, for those who know me, will find interesting (or, at least, I suspect as much given our conversations).

I will post in the coming days details about all of those topics and more, including a serendipitous encounter with a great German couple this summer on the Loneliest Road in America, and a bone-rattling moment (which was a "moment," shortly before that encounter with my new German friends, that lasted about four hours) when Ms. Garmin sent me on what I have dubbed the Scariest Road in America.

And just a quick note on this past weekend: Wonderful. UDK alums gathered this weekend, about 50 at our house for a tailgate before the KU football game, and 150 or so Sunday night at the Grenada. It was great seeing everyone. And, as promised, I reminisced with and kissed as many of those good folks as I could. It was a wonderful time seeing how most have, well, become adults! Proud of each and every one.

So, stay tuned folks. More to come -- and soon. Promise.

"All clear..."

I've been silent for too long, but there was a reason: I was on cruise control as far as my health was concerned. Nothing up, nothing down, just day-to-day maintenance as I was weaned off the anti-seizure med.

Well, that's over, with no discernable side effects.

During that weaning process, I had to wait two months for the "final" CAT scan, which was Monday. On Thursday, the call came: "All clear."

I will avoid the obvious reference to "nothing there" re the "all clear" reference. It simply meant that the brain cavity was filled with only what should be there: brain. No leaks and no gasses filling empty spaces. Just brain.

Yippee!

The "all clear" also meant "life as normal," and that's a quote, meaning "as it used to be" BBS (before brain surgery).

Yippee!

So, martinis on Sundays again (though, to celebrate, we kicked off martini night Thursday night shortly after the "all clear" message).

Thanks to all who kept me (and us) in your thoughts and prayers.

All that positive energy from folks I love and respect really did help.

I am forever grateful. For everything.

The circle of life...

We had a visitor this weekend, and it was humbling.

He was 13 months old and, if you were to paint a picture of "beautiful," it would be of Eli.

He's the son of Katie Nelson, a former student and now dear friend, and Eric Owles. Both are exceptional journalists, she with The New York Daily News and he with The New York Times. Eli is, as they are, of Brooklyn. And if his intense gaze at his surroudings is any key, he'll be a great journalist, too.

I met Eli in Weston, Mo., at the wonderful wedding (they're all wonderful, aren't they?) of Neeley Spellmeier (to John Watkins), another former student and now good friend (though she tends to ignore that part by not communicating as often as I'd like -- even though she has MY book! More on that later in the P.S. below.)

Eli and I bonded. Though, I must admit, he bonded with just about everyone, but I'd like to think we bonded, well, more! After all, I am the one who proudly caused the need to have his clothes washed because of the abundance of chocolate wedding cake residue on his clothes. (To be fair, my suit is heading to the cleaners because of cake residue, too.)

He and Katie then came to our home both Saturday and Sunday nights, so we had lots of time to play with Eli. He slept well, both nights. He was busy. I'm just sore, can barely stand, from crawling, lifting, bending, jumping, carrying, crawling (did I mention crawling?) and playing endless sessions of Peek-a-Boo, which always brought a chuckle from him -- and everyone else in attendance. Either Eli looked silly or, perhaps, it was me. But who cares? It was fun.

The reason for this is to take note of how beautiful Eli is, how beautiful all children are. And how Eli, and Katie, and Eric are beautiful, too. And how amazing, challenging , invigorating the raising of children remains, especially when it's done so well by them. And how virtually everything else in the world is infinitesimally less important.

Including brain surgery, especially in my case: The doc, last Wednesday, gave me a big thumbs up after my latest CAT scan with another scheduled in two months "just to be sure." And another welcome edict: I'm being weaned off the med I'm on, so martinis on Sunday in about four and a half weeks!

So life is beautiful. Especially with special visitors like Katie and Eli. So rejoice. I will.

* * *

P.S.: A friend of Neeley's, on graduation, if I recall correctly, gave her a book, "The Natural," by one of my favorite authors, Bernard Malamud. She showed it to me. To her surprise (but not so much to mine), the inside flap had an impression -- the stamp I put in many of my books noting that the book was the property of one Malcolm Gibson. I'd loaned the book to a student, whose name had long slipped from my memory. Apparently, he had sold the book, likely along with a lot others and not noticing mine was among them, to the Dusty Bookshelf downtown. We laughed about it, and, of course, I said the book was hers. At Saturday's wedding, the couple had placed an old typewriter on a table for guests to write something special for that special day. I decided to write a limerick (and for those who've taken my editing classes, they know that it's appropriate because it's something I use to teach word use, cadence and headline writing). It read:

Neeley once was given a book

That from Malcolm someone had took

Amazed they sure were

When the stamp did concur

But no clue to who was the crook.

Brain blips: "Poor soul..."

The big problem with having had brain surgery, whether once or, as in my case, twice, isn't the big ass Y-shaped scar that decorates my scalp. It's not the med I'm taking, which has some puzzling side effects and has barred my consumption of martinis for the time being. And, no, it's not, now, as I wrote about earlier, the uncertainty of healing fully and avoiding seizures.

It's perception. It's you. Or, actually, my fear of you and what you'll be thinking.

Here's why.

This past week or so has been an adventure in misplacing things or overlooking things.

I lost my glasses and had to buy a pair of off-the-shelf reading glasses from Walgreen's. (Those glasses, by the way, broke, and I had to buy another pair tonight because my new tri-focals won't be ready until Thursday.) Then, a lens fell out of my sunglasses, and we haven't been able to locate it.

Oh, and I misplaced my office keys. But they turned up a day later (thanks to Joyce). She found 'em where I'd left 'em -- in the spare car, the Nissan Altima, which was safely parked in the driveway. The keys were there because we had been checking to see that all the lights were working (one tail light was out), and, yep, I had left the lights on, so the battery was dead. (Hey, it was daylight when we did the checking. Lighten up.)

And earlier, just this past Thursday, I'd pulled into the garage with the Miata, dashed into the house, and, next morning, when I went out to start it, the Miata was stone-cold dead. Yep, a dead battery because I'd left the lights on. Thankfully, the Nissan worked (until that next morning after Joyce and I did the "check the lights" exercise. But the Miata was working by then, thanks to Triple-A.)

Yes, I know it's confusing, but, now, you know why we own three cars!

(A note of defense with both the Miata AND the Nissan -- and not with Joyce's HHR, the lights of which switch off automatically. I don't hear well, even with my hearing aid, so the high-pitched "beep, beep, beep" the cars emit when you leave the lights on after the ignition is turned off is lost on me. So, on Saturday, I went in search of a solution from auto parts stores, looking for a device that either increased the volume or changed the sound to a loud truck-proud "ayooooogah!" when the lights are left on. No such device apparently exists. Interestingly, all the clerks at the counters of the auto parts stores said they'd like one, too, because they'd done the same thing!)

Ah, but back to me. And you.

I know what you're thinking every time one of those memory "blips" leap to life these days: "Poor soul. Those brain surgeries sure have taken their toll."

But, nope. Always been that way. Forgetful as hell when it comes to stuff like that. We were hoping the brain surgeries had fixed it, dammit. Still the same ol' me.

But in all this lies my real fear: That folks will, in fact, with every one of those little blips in my behavior, give rise to the "poor soul/brain surgery" response.

Well, again, it ain't.

So, family, friend or foe, please don't do that. It truly is my greatest fear.

Just chalk up quirks, any and all, to the real reason I switched from doing journalism to teaching it.

I truly am an "absent-minded professor." Always been.

And quite happy with it, thank you. Makes life more interesting.

Part of the plan: "Oh, Canada..."

We're movin' to Canada.

Not today or, even, tomorrow. But Joyce and I are serious.

(And now it has less to do with the prospects of a political loony being elected to our nation's top office.)

I've checked out rentals in both Vancouver, B.C., and Nova Scotia. (It, by the way, appears to be but a one-day's drive to Chelmsford, Mass., where our daughter, Jennifer, her husband and grandson live. Vancouver is but an overnight train ride away from our son, Ian, and his girlfriend, Andrea, in California.). And housing is affordable. Plus, after three years, we'd qualify for Canadian citizenship, if my sources are reliable, which would then put us under universal coverage of the Canadian health care system at little or no cost. And health care is the biggest scare with our pending retirements.

The boot in the butt to head north came because I just got the bill from the doctor who roamed the ripples of my brain.

Now, I think he deserves to be paid -- and paid well -- and (or, rather, but) he had to do it twice. (You'd think the second one, at least, would be like the Men's Wearhouse -- buy one, get the next at half price. The doctor even admitted to Joyce that the second one would be easier because he'd just have to remove the staples and plunge back in.)

But no. Same price for both (a hair under $10,000 each for sub-scalpal surgeries that left a Y-shaped bald spot), plus a hefty $3,600-plus for something called a "pierce skull implant device." (Isn't that from a scene in "Young Frankenstein"?)

My beef is not with the doctor (though I still think the second "emergency" surgery two days after the first unsuccessful effort should have been at a reduced price because I've never been told what happened with the first to demand a second unless . . . "Oops, nurse pick that -- er, him -- up, please").

It's with Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Or, more truthfully, with our health care system in general.

Seems I have to pay the doctor -- all but about $2,000 -- out of my own pocket.

Yep, $20,000-plus. (Hope he ships the pierce skull implant device. I'll have it mounted.)

I thought I had health care coverage. Apparently not.

In the interest of full disclosure, Blue Cross did cover about $270,000 -- yep, more than a quarter of a million dollars (though it paid less than half that because the hospital was "part of the plan") for my 15-day stay (seven in ICU) in the hospital. (But I'd like to note again, had the first surgery "taken," I was told that I'd have spent but three days in the hospital.)

Confusing. Yes. (And if you think you're confused, what about me? Remember, I've had brain surgery. Twice.)

Interestingly, the first bill we received -- and the first call we got from a detached, rather unsympathetic young woman demanding blood from this turnip -- was from the ambulance company that transported me the 13 miles from the Alameda hospital to the brain palace in Castro Valley. She insisted that we had to pay a good chunk of the bill because the ambulance company wasn't "part of the plan." And we had to do it within 12 months or, she said, she'd have to turn it over to the collection agency. That bill (you do the math) was about $300 a mile. (Hey, Joyce, call a damned taxi.)

What was I supposed to do? "Excuse me, you'll have to remove the IV from my arm unless you're 'part of the plan.' Got the number for Yellow Cab?")

Same with the doc. Why is the hospital "part of the plan" and he isn't? (And I don't recall him saying, "Oh, by the way, I'm not 'part of the plan.' Scalpel, please.")

Now, we are, thankfully, in a position to pay (though it does eat into our retirement plans somewhat). But what about folks -- most of America, by the way -- who aren't as fortunate? No one should go bankrupt because of the need to be healthy or to save a life, as in my case, especially in an emergency.

So, "Oh, Canada, where good health care for thee..."