Michael Palmer. Any Age is Far Too Young

 
For years I'd entertained the fantasy of crossing the Colorado state line from wherever I happened to be, with the windows rolled all the way down and Rocky Mountain High blasting on the stereo. It was going to be my fanfare, like the opening bars of the Star Wars theme or Superman, announcing to the world I was home at last. 

On a warm Indian Summer day in October, 1997, I did that very thing, driving my Ford pickup truck across the invisible boundary between Wyoming and Colorado, leaving the East Coast behind, little knowing in a few years I'd find myself on the same highway, retracing the miles back. Also little knowing that in forty eight hours, I'd be awakened by a story on NPR's Morning Edition with news I never wanted to hear. John Denver had been killed in a plane crash. I felt like I'd crashed with him. 

It was the same autumn I met author Michael Palmer in print. Michael and I never met in the same way John and I had, but we corresponded briefly, discovering how our experiences dovetailed by email. He'd been involved in the Massachusetts Physician's Health Program, working with physicians, like himself, whose lives had been affected by psychiatric illness and/or substance abuse. As a psychotherapist, prior to medical school, I also worked with doctors enrolled in the Colorado Physician's Health Program. Michael was in recovery, as he revealed years earlier, and I was attempting to recover a life I'd never known. Michael was a writer, I was trying to become one, and he offered me generous encouragement.

I found his books while prowling the Boulder Public Library, looking to feed a growing interest in medical fiction. At the time, I wasn't convinced it was even remotely possible to include medical school in my future, though I wanted to, quite badly. Reading about medicine was becoming a kind of therapy, much as writing had been for Michael, and his books helped overcome my fear that, not only had I missed the bus marked "medical school," it was gone for good. I had yet to learn there is no optimal time for going after what matters most to us, there's only now and what we do with it.

Michael was my companion during the months preceding premed coursework, when I hung onto to the ridiculous fantasy that a doctorate in clinical psychology would be enough. He helped me face the inevitable truth that nothing would ever substitute for my becoming a psychiatrist and I'd best get on with it. I learned from him how recovering a life is just as grueling and just as rewarding as what he'd gone through himself.

I'm glad I shared some of these things with him, especially now. We never know how tenuous life is, not really. We go through the daily grind with the unconscious assumption time is on our side. We do this a lot when we're younger or at least I did. We think only older people die, whatever "older" means, and if it happens to a peer, unless we know them personally, we conveniently overlook the obvious fact it could easily have been us, had the cosmic tumblers turned up our numbers instead of theirs.

The reason I'm glad I shared those things with Michael is this afternoon I learned he passed away, quite suddenly, a few months ago. He'd been in Africa, on safari, and had barely gotten back to the States when he experienced a heart attack. I can't help but think how appropriate it was for him to have been on safari; for reasons I don't quite fathom, I've always associated him with Hemingway. Michael was 71 and far too young. I feel certain he would agree, any age is far too young.

(Obituaries for Michael Palmer, MD, may be found here: New York Times and Boston Globe. Michael's final novel, Resistant, can be accessed via michaelpalmerbooks.com)

(Creative Commons image by cdrummbks via Flickr)

Things Dads Do

For a long instant, it felt like Thanksgiving this morning, stepping into a warm living room from the chilly garage where I keep my ready access firewood. With four inches -- nearer six or eight if it was powder -- of firmly packed, heavy, wet snow covering the hayfield, it looks like Thanksgiving. It also looks like a few of the Halloweens of my youth when the end of October mistook itself for the beginning of winter. With a fire softly burning (thanks, JD, for the image) in my study...by the way, we didn't have a fireplace when I was growing up, have I told you?

Our house was small -- three bedrooms, one bath, kitchen/dining and living room, all heated electrically. The closest we came to a fireplace was a small wood-burning stove in our unattached garage that my father used as his saddle shop for several years. Hardly a stove, it was a twenty-five gallon oil drum turned onto its side with a door cut into one end and four welded feet. How he worked out there, winter after winter, is a testimony to a father's love and determination.

I split firewood for him. I remember grousing about it at first, as any kid might, torn from afternoon cartoons to trudge out to the woodpile near the barn. I'm supposed to play, not work, I thought. He overlooked my complaints and taught me how to set up a block of wood, take aim for the middle, and swing without missing. It wasn't long before I began enjoying standing there in the snow with my axe and carrying armloads of split logs into the shop, losing myself in a "living-on-the-ranch" reverie. Writing about all this, I recall a day when I grew up a bit, realizing how my "work" kept him going. I must have been around nine or ten, but I began appreciating my father more than I had before.

Shared tasks, working together, those were his values and he passed them along to me. He was raised in a time and place where everyone had a task and everyone contributed to the family's welfare. He and his siblings had chores, a word one rarely hears anymore and tends to be associated with black and white reruns of old western television shows like The Rifleman on AMC. When used now, it's often in the pejorative sense, life is a chore. And some of his were all of that, especially when he was too young to ride after the cows and had to content himself with milking them, instead. Reality fails to imitate art every now and then.

He wasn't heartless about chores, though, and perhaps that comes from his own experience. One afternoon after school, he'd been too busy to cut wood into sections as he usually did, leaving them for me to split. So I started in with my axe, intent on doing both the man's job and the boy's. He came out a short while later and in a gentle tone he reserved for just such moments, told me I could stop, he had enough wood for now. I was hesitant -- the wood box was nearly empty as anyone could see -- but he assured me he was fine and to go on into the house and get warm, The things dads do.

A person has to wonder where the desires of the heart come from. I still love fireplaces and going out into the forest to cut wood. The axe of my youth has been replaced with a splitting maul, five pounds of steel at the end of forty inches of Ash. There is a sectioned tree trunk, well over a hundred pounds itself, sitting in the garage, the legacy of the doctor who lived here before me, that is our common chopping block. The open rafters are high enough for a full-armed swing.

Sheltered from the weather, it's not the barnyard of my childhood. Nor is my work that of my father. But the appreciation for a warm fire on a cold morning we share, as well as the effort to bring it to life. From whence comes the desires of the heart? I can't always say. What I know with any certainty is, I can't plunge my maul into a block of wood without thinking of all those afternoons, splitting wood in the snow, and my father who taught me how.


(Creative Commons image by Gadget_Guru via Fkickr; "a fire softly burning," Back Home Again, words and music by John Denver, copyright 1974)

Looking Forward to Monday

I've thought about writing all week and while it's been a good week, my best in recent memory, it's also been a long one and I'm glad today is Saturday. Admittedly, my weariness can be traced, in part, to the distance I'm driving, nearly fifty miles from farm to hospital parking lot. In itself, that's really not a big deal. The landscape is pretty, the traffic minimal, and there are zero speed traps, but it's another couple of hours tacked onto an already busy schedule. There's student housing on site -- taking advantage of it, however, means not coming home in the evenings to find the dogs and cat waiting at the door. I'll take the drive.

The days themselves are fast and furious. My attending is known for the rate at which his long legs propel him down the hallways; I find that refreshing since mine do similarly. We go from patient to unit, upstairs, down and back, crisscrossing St. Mary's as though Guinness is timing our attempt to set a land speed record. With luck, I'll arrive at mid-July having shed those five stubborn pounds I've been working on the past few months.

The very best part of this rotation is waking up every morning, even if it's been a short night, with the anticipation of being scarcely able to wait until I get to the hospital. Walking onto the psych unit on Monday was everything I'd hoped it would be. The staff was cheerful and friendly and the routine as comfortable as a well-worn and obviously well-loved pair of Sketcher Shape-Ups (the best all-round footwear for the hospital, in my humble opinion). By the time my cohort, another medical student whom I've known from school, and I finished our tour of the premises, I was so charged if they'd plugged me into a light socket I could have powered the unit for a week.

One thing I've discovered in previous rotations, was how much I actually enjoy physical medicine. I think I may have mentioned how concerned I was when beginning medical school, that things might not turn out that way. Based on experience I knew I loved psychiatry but had nothing comparable when it came to listening to hearts, lungs, or palpating prostate glands. In particular, my rotation in pediatrics had me wondering if I hadn't misread my calling. My first morning in psychiatry, the clouds parted, the sun was shining through, and I swear I heard a heavenly choir under the direction of John Denver singing, "Hey, it's good to be back home again..."

It wasn't just the familiarity, though, it was the atmosphere, the sense that this was the here where I'd always belonged. A dear friend of mine struggling with choosing between psychiatry and internal medicine for residency, got it right when she said, she wasn't ready to hang up her stethoscope, like Gary Cooper hanging up his guns and riding off into the sunset with Grace Kelly in High Noon (1952). Physical medicine is where her heart lies and once a person finds that place, it's time to stake their claim. For me, nowhere else have I been even as remotely happy as I've been the past week. I am so looking forward to Monday.

Yesterday, while chatting with an internist on the chemical dependency unit, I used the phrase, "our patients," referring to the ones my preceptor and I have been working with. On strictly medical rotations, I've always tended to think of patients as under the care of my attending while I tag along, wearing shoes too big for me to fill. Yesterday, rounding on my own, I knew I had something of my own to offer, something I'd made my own by hours and days, weeks and months of hard work, and my shoes were a perfect fit. That, I can tell you, is an incredibly good feeling, indeed.

(Creative Commons image "Line Study at St. Mary's (Lewiston ME)" by Jody Roberts via Flikr)

Pink Hats 19: Together

"I's sorry to disappoint you, Ladies, but ah don' know no John Denver lullabies 'r anythin' else. He is or he was, ah should say, mighty fine, but all ah know is good ole Gospel, so thas' what you gonna get. It's eye-ronic fer him to die flyin' and you two pert near doin' likewise. Maybe there's somethin' in dat, but t'ain't fer me ta figure. Tha' Lord, he knows dese kinda tings and I leave 'm in his capable hands. Meantime, les' try us some Amazin' Grace."

Of course, little did they know, the Saturday morning while Bob and Jessie were driving to New Hampshire for her father's birthday, their foster father had sung in one church choir or another, most of his life. Halley was raised attending what is called in New England, a United Baptist Church, affiliated with the American Baptist Convention. Baptist history is a like a stew made with a little bit of everything in the spice cabinet thrown in for good measure. English Baptists were the first to actually use the name, but once they got to the New World, all hell broke loose, as Bob would say. What was once a fairly unified body ended up with more branches than Medusa's head.

Ted was a Baptist, too, but as tends not to be the case in most predominantly White Baptist Churches, Halley discovered worship in a Black congregation meant hand-clapping, amen-shouting, and a minister who preached while pacing back and forth, only stopping when it was time to pray and go home. She liked faith being treated as though it was something worth getting excited about for a change and fit in nicely.

Jessie and Bob left early, having decided to take the scenic route west along route 4, the Old Portland Road, through Sanford and the Berwicks, over the state line to Concord. They had just pulled into a parking space in front of the Donut Hole Cafe in East Buxton for refills and homemade pastries, when Bob said, "I've been thinking about living space. Mine. Yours. Now the twins'. Mine wasn't a house built with a family in mind and neither was your apartment. Mine would do short-term, but honestly, I haven't felt 'at home' there for years."

She looked over at him as if pondering whether to finally tell him the truth, there really was a Santa Claus and she'd met him personally, or to keep him guessing. Finally, she said, "Let's get some coffee. I want you to see something."

A few minutes later, she directed him down a long road in the  direction of Salmon Falls on the Buxton side of the Saco River. "Drive slowly," she said, "the property starts...here," indicating the corner of a cedar-rail fence line, "there, that's it." She pointed to a large white two-story Cape Cod with an attached barn at the crest of a long, well-kept grassy slope. He slowed the Escape to a stop and she said with a deep, longing sigh, "Isn't it beautiful? I've adored this place for years. I saw it the first time while taking a drive in the country the week after we met."

"Beautiful is right. Is this all there is? The house, barn, and the field we passed?"

"Oh, no, there's a total of 90 acres, most of it pasture that includes, are you ready for this? A cross-country course -- you said you wanted horses again. And there's a grandmother's cottage, two more smaller barns, and almost a mile of river bank." Her voice got higher as she became more animated. "It was built in 1779 and has four bedrooms -- three upstairs including the master, one over the barn -- a great room, a library, a huge kitchen, and three fireplaces, one of which is in the master bedroom. And it has a garden."

He gave her an amused look and said, "You missed your calling. You should have become a realtor."

"Don't get me started. I love old historic houses, but it wasn't until I saw this one that --"

" -- you knew you'd found your dream home." At the unspoken question on her face, he said, "It's your expression, describing it. You've already got your name on the mailbox." He smiled at her and asked, "I don't see a sign, is it on the market?"

"It is," she said, slowly, "but it's not inexpensive." She told him the asking price and he suggested calling Monday for an appointment to see the interior.

"You aren't concerned about the cost?"

"Not that much. I never touched my weekend salary; I put all of it away thinking someday I may want to move or fund college education for the children I didn't have. The house in Stroudwater is paid for, so it should bring a healthy sum. Off hand, I'd say there's enough to set aside money for the twins, two or three more, and still make a substantial down payment."

"And even with my student loans, together we could make the monthly." Together, she thought, that has a lovely ring to it.

"Together," he said, reflectively. "Mm, that has a nice sound to it. Maybe we should talk about that, too, sometime?"

"Oh-kay," she said, a smile slowly forming at the corners of her mouth.

(Photo by the author, copyright 2010, all rights reserved)

Getting Past the Cover Art

If I was inclined take advice offered by the professionals, I'd entitle this piece "How to create a good title." That's where I'd have to stop, however, because the hardest thing for me about writing is coming up with an interesting title in the first place. Ordinarily, you'd think the topic would be the determining factor, but not necessarily. In the book publishing business, with the exception of academic works like mine, author titles are rarely seen in print. Usually the publisher makes the final decision.

My problem is complicated by the fact that I tend to write using the Nike philosophy, i.e. just do it, and then try to figure out what to call an essay after it's finished. Interestingly, even in a small venue such as this, a well-crafted title is more important than content, when it comes to attracting readers. Good content keeps them coming back, but they won't stop by at all if the title doesn't grab their attention. Ironically, some days I think I've got a winner and my visitors counter indicates everyone is at the beach, reading Michael Palmer's new novel (The Last Surgeon). Other days I think I've blown it completely and readers are lined out the door.

Ideally, blog post titles incorporate key words or a phrase within the body of the essay so web search engines can pick them up more easily. I don't understand how that works, but it's what the Google people tell me, so I assume they know what they're talking about. Suiting the needs of the techno geeks, however, doesn't necessarily mean a title will be intriguing, particularly when content leans more toward the creative side of the spectrum. So, this explains why, every now and then, you may expect one thing from me and get another.

People are like that, too. Men with names like John and Bill, we're told by those who know such things, are considered solid, grounded, and dependable. If there's any truth in that, John Denver and I lucked out, big time. Then again, there's John Wilkes Booth and William Bonnie (Billy the Kid), so names guarantee nothing. What ultimately counts is content, and with people as well as literature, that means getting past the cover art, however appealing it may be.


(Public Domain image of Billy the Kid via Wikipedia)

Clinging to the Curves

It was my 19th Fourth of July weekend and I was beginning to feel grown up in ways I'd never known. Up until then, my uncle and I drove across the mountains together to visit family over the holiday, frequently in his 1966 Mustang GT. The GT model had a 289 cubic inch V-8 with four-barrel carburetor, four-speed stick shift, and a nice, tight suspension that made the curves on Berthoud Pass a teenager's delight. This particular year, however, I drove myself in my own 1966 Mustang.

It struck me as appropriate to be driving through the mountains in a car designated the "High Country Special," though I never figured out what made it "special" except that it was mine. I could have ridden with my uncle and he offered, but the idea of being "lost and alone on some forgotten highway, traveled by many, remembered by few," was too great and I yearned for the freedom of the open road.

I've written about my Mustang on other occasions and if you recall, I mentioned it had a 200 cubic inch in-line six cylinder engine. In-line means the cylinders were quite literally placed in a straight line, front to back, unlike the newer V-6s that place three cylinders on a side at oblique angles from one another. Like my uncle's, mine had a stick shift, but only three forward speeds and first gear was non-synchromeshed, which meant double-clutching to downshift from second. I guess you could say it was a transitional gearbox, incorporating elements of the old and new, perfect for someone in transition from youth to manhood.

Anyhow, my Mustang, with its Dunlop radials, clung to the curves with the same smooth grace every woman wants in a slinky black silk dress. Uphill was another matter, because those six cylinders couldn't generate enough power to get me out of second gear. So, there I was, being passed by everything from eighteen wheelers to grandparents towing aluminum Airstream motor homes behind massive Chevy V-8s. It was embarrassing, for sure, so I kept my eyes straight ahead and waited for the downhill when I'd make them eat my dust.

I knew the route by heart and every stop and start was like an old friend, but it still felt as though we were being introduced for the first time. At long last, the road was mine and I was meeting life head-on in a rush of cold mountain air. I'll never forget that first trip -- it was like my first date, only better. There was no kiss at the door -- neither had there been on my first date, by the way, but since I didn't know how to kiss it would have probably been a let down for both of us. Still in all, each one left me feeling I'd done something meaningful and in a perhaps small but decisive way, I was becoming a man.


(Creative Commons image of the view from Berthoud Pass, Colorado by ajaswa via Flickr; Sweet Surrender, words and music by John Denver, copyright 1974)

Bat Bleep Crazy

I used to think it was a liability associated with being a minister, but now I know it's simply a fact of life. People assume you're interested in morality and ethics because anyone who pursues a professional relationship with God is likely to be the kind of person who prefers to stay within the lines while coloring. You know what my problem was? I could never quite do that. My crayon books would have made Jackson Pollock proud (see photo). I wasn't being stubborn as a kid, or independent, or recalcitrant, I just couldn't keep my crayons between the lines to save my life.

I should have known this was a portent of things to come, but as a second grader, my vision of the future had a somewhat narrower focus, i.e. how many more weeks is it until Christmas? I'm still that way, as you may have guessed from the litter of holiday essays I manage to produce between Halloween and December 25. I mean, here we are, it's not even the end of June and I'm talking about it already. But this post isn't about Christmas. It is, however, about morality, ethics, and a disinclination to stay within the lines.

The reason I say this is partly due to the fact I have trouble seeing them. The lines aren't as distinct as they were in my coloring books depicting black ink on white newsprint outlines of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. It's not a matter of eyesight because mine has improved substantially over time to my doctor's amazement. It's really a matter of experience, and discovering that human nature needs grace most of all. Legislated morality is an open invitation to go bat bleep crazy.

A good friend of mine, now in his first week of residency, passed along a wonderful comment he overheard the other day: "Make sure you know the rules inside and out so you can discern when and how to break them." Some folks are very good at telling others what they should or shouldn't do and justifying it on the basis of any number of social considerations. What I've found, over the course of more years than I'd like to admit of doing pastoral counseling and psychotherapy, is that most people genuinely struggle over poor decisions or relationships gone sour.

It isn't that they want to screw up, but things happen that no one can anticipate. Life is far more complicated than a "do this and not that" orientation can manage. The gray areas are as common as frost heaves on a Maine country road after a hard winter, and believe me, frost heaves are really common. One can't always know with absolute or any other kind of certainty what is the best thing to do.

I'm bringing all of this up this morning because I'm thinking about all my friends who have begun residency this week. Technically speaking, they're involved in orientation meetings and the real work of doctoring starts next week. But eventually, they are going to be confronted with decisions that aren't crystal clear and situations they've never encountered before. They'll have the support of attending physicians, senior residents, and hospital staff, thankfully, but they'll still have to wrestle with the necessity of integrating training with conscience.

As they do, as we all do, I hope they find the grace of self-forgiveness in the process. No one is omniscient, everyone makes mistakes, rigidity breaks rather than strengthens the flailing heart. Granting oneself permission to ask for help, to be less than perfect, to be less than God-like, is the blessing of being human. We do far better seeking grace with every step we take, as my friend John Denver would say, and it's how we make ourselves better at the same time.


(Image of unknown license by Wallyg via Flickr; Rocky Mountain High, words and music by John Denver, copyright 1975)

A Late Night Chat with The King

I don't keep a dream diary, although some writers have suggested it's as a good idea. They say one ought to place it on the night stand so dreams can be recorded upon waking. I tried that once; the next morning what I'd written made absolutely no sense whatsoever. It was gobbledygook -- word salad, we call it in psychiatry. Some people can be coherent at 3.00 AM but apparently, I'm not one of them.

Fortunately, I was doing a little better when I dreamed about Elvis Presley last night. Now, as best I can recall, Elvis has never dropped by for a nocturnal visit with my unconscious. John Denver, yes -- and often -- The King, no. Nor have I been thinking about him lately. Since I don't usually listen to oldies stations, how he found me out in heaven's left field is a mystery.

Anyhow, the dream went like this. A friend of mine had won an internet contest for an opportunity to meet Elvis after an upcoming concert. Having already met him once previously and wanting to share his good fortune, he passed the winning email announcement on to me. Talk about a pal. The next thing I knew, I was backstage, but Elvis' manager was trying to impress some gorgeous babe he'd brought along with him, and presented her as the winner.

I watched all this unfold with the kind of detachment we try to maintain in psychotherapy -- not unfeeling, but withholding judgment. Eventually the room emptied and Elvis was left alone, at last able to fill a plate of snacks from a buffet that had been prepared and enjoy a little solitude. I walked up and introduced myself as the real winner and gave him a printout of the email as proof. Reading it over, he said, "Looks like you got short-changed."

"It depends on how you look at it," I replied. "At least I don't have 10,000 people around while I'm talking to you." It was one of those times when being "last" really meant being "first."

"Mm. Okay, I'll give you time for one question. What would you like to know?"

I thought for a few seconds and said, "You've got to have people asking you for something all the time. How about, what can I do for you?"

He was taken aback, fell silent, then said, quite seriously, "Don't be impressed with me."

I thought about all the disguises he surely had to wear in order to have a little anonymity. "I can do that. It must be hard, when you're not able to pull on a pair of jeans and walk down the street unnoticed." He looked at me and nodded. He had ceased being royalty and I had ceased being a peasant. We were just two guys talking about life.

The first thing that came to my mind on waking, was how impressions create expectations and expectations inhibit a person's ability to be themselves. Perhaps without even realizing it, we find ourselves fulfilling a fantasy rather than being genuine. Some relationships won't permit anything else, partners or whomever having become so invested in our fulfillment of an image. Others, the kind in which we thrive, support us as individuals, encouraging us to take risks and grow. I know which one Elvis wanted and since it was my dream, he's offered a clue as to which ones are best for me, too. I guess you never know what's going to result from a late night chat with The King.


(P.S. A "guilty pleasures" admission: I love "Jailhouse Rock.")

(Creative Commons Image by hlima via Flickr)

The Human Connection

Watching speed skater Apollo Ohno last night, I thought about how few sports heroes I had as a child. Part of it is context. If one or both parents are into sports, you're going to be exposed to what they enjoy. Mine weren't and it wasn't until fourth grade in a country school that I had physical education. By then the die was pretty much cast. I idolized rodeo cowboys, though, like seven time world champion bull rider Jim Shoulders.

Some guys memorize baseball statistics -- I knew the RCA (Rodeo Cowboys Association) championship statistics, who had been All-Around Cowboy or Saddle Bronc Champion, how often, and so forth. The afternoon I encountered Shoulders, my father had arranged to take me behind the bucking chutes at the National Western Stock Show -- it was like having access to the locker room of your favorite pro football team at half-time. While he visited with a friend, I wandered, looking for faces I'd memorized from the pages of Western Horseman magazine.

In my mind I can see the scene unfold and recall the delight I felt meeting one world champion after another. I was thirteen and close to six feet tall, but around them, I felt much younger and they seemed much taller. It was as though I'd been transformed into a seven year old, four feet something version of myself, just making my way through the crowd. Maybe it was the atmosphere or maybe heroes really are larger than life. It's hard to say, but that's how I felt.

Although I must have the autographs in an album somewhere, the only name I remember clearly is Shoulders'. Since he was retired at the time, I hadn't expected to see him, and my father told me, "Don't get your hopes up." But I had them anyway, you know? No reason to believe he'd be there, just hoping he might. The way a kid hopes while looking for an autograph from someone he wishes to emulate.

I never did get on a bull, nor do I think there's enough money to convince me to do so now, though there have been times when medical school has certainly felt like one. Still, I haven't outgrown the delight in meeting someone I've come to admire. A few years after John Denver died, I ran into his manager at a book signing and introduced myself. Naturally, we began to talk about John, how he and I had met and gotten to know one another a bit, but that I'd never considered myself a fan. He replied that was okay, not everyone cared for his music. I said, "It wasn't that -- I loved his music -- it's just that I always felt like a good friend that, up until meeting him, John didn't know he had."

My eyes swam, he choked up and after a few seconds silence, said, "John would have liked that." It's the human connection. That's what I love.


(Creative Commons image by Jami Dwyer via Flickr)

P.S. Reading over this post I realized I never told you whether or not I met Jim Shoulders that afternoon behind the chutes. I did and that's something else I've never forgotten.

Canada: The Gold and Beyond

We really are different countries, the United States and Canada. Before you say, "Well, duh!" let me tell you what I mean. While watching the opening ceremonies of the 21st Olympiad last night, I couldn't help but marvel at the emphasis placed on the role of Canadian First Nation aboriginal peoples. The entire show was incredible and the creative dance depicting a young man soaring over the plains of Saskatchewan had me in tears.

I love the Olympics, particularly the winter games, and am an unabashed fool for heroism. Give me a story about someone overcoming the odds knowing full well they'll likely accomplish only a personal best, and I'm on my feet, cheering. Show me a medal winner overcome by emotion and I have to reach for my handkerchief, no matter which country they're from. John Denver said it, "There's a fire in the heart and it feels like a hunger, the spirit is burning consumed by the flame, to be one of the best of the best in the world is its name."

But as I watched the First Nations dance and celebrate their wide-ranging heritage, I couldn't help but think how difficult, if not impossible, it would be to have a similar presentation in this country. To begin with, America is very much a melting pot, to borrow a well-worn phrase. Most of us, at some time or other, have come from somewhere else. And, at the same time, our history, with respect to Native Americans, is complicated.

The settling of the American West was accompanied by encroachment onto tribal lands and the subsequent outbreak of war. Although I hesitate to use the word, "conquest" does seem applicable. Manifest Destiny -- the belief that America was destined, even divinely ordained, to expand to the Pacific -- provided sufficient justification for eliminating interference by native cultures. As a consequence, I think it's safe to say our national identity is not substantially rooted in the contributions of those who were here first. And certainly not in the ways Canadians demonstrated in Vancouver.

My intuition tells me that a similar broadcast in the United States would require some alteration of our national consciousness, lest it appear as little more than entertainment. While films like Dances With Wolves go a long way toward enlightenment on a popular level, we need to pay closer attention to what our children learn. If education can be the magic bullet, then the history of Native Americans should comprise more than a few pages in social studies. By the time a student graduates from high school, s/he ought to be familiar, not only with who lived where, when, how, and why, but who they are today and how they define themselves, for themselves.

That nearly all of us can trace our ancestry to another place and time, doesn't change the fact that we are here, now. Who we are as a People is marked by two hundred plus years of slavery, a Civil War, and our country by several thousand years of habitation by individuals who, at one time, also came from someplace else. This land was their land, to borrow from Woody Guthrie, and in many ways, it still is -- theirs and ours together. It does us all well to honor that relationship

(Creative Commons image of the statue of Ilanaaq the Inunnguaq, mascot of the 2010 Winter Olympics via

(The Gold and Beyond, words and music by John Denver; This Land is Your Land, words and music by Woody Guthrie)

Simple Gifts

In case anyone's counting, we've gotten about four inches of snow since last evening. I shoveled two at midnight and now there's two more. What possessed me to shovel snow at midnight? Well, I took the dog out for his last "business trip" before bed and seeing how much had accumulated, I figured a head start wouldn't hurt. There was no telling how much additional there would be by sun up.

Keeping track of this particular snowfall is important because I have a friend who has been kidding me about the extent of my foul weather preparations. I've been more diligent than usual because we're supposed to get up to sixteen inches by tomorrow night with a potential for power outages. Now, it's true that reliable weather forecasting lately has taken on the quality of a Las Vegas casino game, so I could just as easily end up "broke." If not, then I want to be able to kid him back.

That said, last night held an unanticipated surprise. It was peaceful, as you might imagine, so much so that I actually "heard" the sounds I make for the first time. The shovel sliding under the snow coupled with the crunch of my heavy hiking boots while moving forward, then the more rapid thump-crunch walking back to my starting place. Sometimes a metal-against-blacktop scrape if I went too deep and the shush of powder when I shoved the new snow into a the rapidly forming bank. John Denver once said, "If we would only listen," and last night was one of those times I'm glad I did.

If this was Colorado, I'd be eager to drive up into the mountains this morning. There's something wonderful about being in the high country and watching the snow tumble down against the shadowy backdrop of the spruce forests. Clouds drift low until the boundary between them and the peaks looks like a huge, diffuse grey-white snow-making machine, kicking out flakes faster than the wind can catch them.

At the moment, the cat is exploring the magic of sack filled with Christmas tissue, his head barely peeking out of the opening like a camper snug in a sleeping bag. Composer Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Spring draws upon the Shaker hymn, Simple Gifts, and both last night and this morning are like that. No fanfare, no grandeur, just the quiet, continual, gentle falling of new snow, the sounds of life going on, and the playful delight my cat has discovered in an ordinary brown paper bag.


(Image of a Steamboat Springs, Colorado blizzard by gregor_y via Flickr)

Pumpkin Pie a la Therapy

It all started out harmlessly enough. I thought I'd get a head start on Christmas cooking last evening, so I made cranberries and then dove into a pumpkin pie recipe. I laid out the ingredients, had a nice crust, and shared my progress with friends on Facebook. This morning (I wrote this post on Christmas Eve afternoon, even though it's dated 12/25), while my dog and I were finishing a few last minute errands, I ran through my recipe for maple chocolate chip cookies, a treat I like to leave for Santa. All of a sudden, I had a terrible thought: what if I had left the sugar out of the pie? Oh, no.

Since the grocery was our last stop, I decided I'd better pick up cans of pumpkin and fat-free evaporated milk on the off chance my creation was unpalatable. When we got home, I took a bite of what I hoped would be the crowning pleasure at tomorrow's dinner, warmed up and accompanied with a dollop of pumpkin ice cream. A quick turn around the taste buds and, you guessed it, no sugar. Talk about bland. So, now here I sit, listening to a marvelous CD, John Denver: Christmas in Concert, and waiting for another crust to chill. Mm, there goes the timer. I'll be right back.

Okay, now that the pie is in the oven and all's right with the world, where were we? Oh, right, so I was going to say the good thing about all this is it's given me something to write about. If you've ever been friends with, dated, or had any kind of relationship with a medical student, you know we tend to be slightly preoccupied most of the time.

It's not that we're going around thinking "medical thoughts," as the fact that there's only so much a person can stuff into their brain at one time. As a result, a few things get shifted to the periphery: birthdays, anniversaries, today's date (unless it's for an exam), and what season it happens to be. Seriously, I've heard (or made) the comment, "It's winter already? What happened to September?" As a result, leaving a key ingredient out of a recipe is par for the course.

It could have been worse. I might have remembered at the moment we were about to eat. Exactly what excuse I could have offered is beyond me. Maybe, "The blandness is all in your head. Would you like a little therapy to go with that instead of ice cream?"

May you have the merriest of Christmases and the happiest of Holiday Seasons (and please, don't forget the sugar when you make your pie)!


(Image via Wikipedia)

The Inside Wreath

“I want a wreath for the house this year,” she said.

“Don’t we always get one?”

“Sure we do, but I want one to put in the house, too. I'm going to hang it on the wall in the dining room so I can look at it without having to go outside to see the one on the door.”

So, that’s the person I married, he thought. She likes the idea of having a wreath on the front door to welcome guests at holiday time, but she also wants the pleasure of seeing one whenever she likes. Actually, I hardly blame her; I like wreaths myself and I especially enjoy coming home and having one hanging on our door, but I never thought of putting another inside. That’s how she thinks: While I’m following an idea in a straight line, she picks it up in the middle and makes a circle. Next thing I know, we’re somewhere entirely new.

“We can do that,” he said, “but we’ll just have to keep an eye on it since it’s going to dry out.”

“I’m way ahead of you: I plan on spraying it lightly with water every day through the Season. Afterward, we can hang it on the patio so the Finches can build nests in it,” she responded.

Just in case you’ve ever wondered, that’s how traditions begin, or at least how this one did. And sure enough, five months later when the Finches made their annual pilgrimage back from wherever they spent the winter, the wreath became a hot prospect in the nesting real estate market. Several potential tenants looked it over before one couple decided humans could be sufficiently trusted to raise a family around.

So it went, year after year, the inside wreath that was the subject of conversation at Holiday parties became the home for one family of Finches after another. I was a guest at one of these casual gatherings and asked what made them think of sharing the spirit of the Season thusly. I was told the idea came from the words of Alfie, the Christmas Tree: “In your Christmas prayers this year, say a prayer for the wind, the water, and the wood, and those who live there, too.”

I thought it was a fine idea, indeed.


(Image by kev747 via Flickr; Alfie the Christmas Tree by John Denver)

To See What I Might See

You can blame John Denver, he's the one who got me started. Well, that's not strictly true, but it sounds good to say. For years, his identity was tied to long hair and granny glasses. Then came the Dreamland Express album in the mid-80s and with it, shorter hair and yes, contact lenses.

I've worn glasses since age nineteen and while I won't tell you precisely how long that's been, let's just say my first pair had glass lenses and turtle-shell frames. I'll let you do the math. Anyhow, then came the miracle of plastic and gone were the days of pushing glasses off the end of my nose every five minutes.

Why not get contacts? Well, that's complicated. For one thing, I've always had a thing about putting anything in my eyes, and that must have frustrated the dickens out of every optometrist who tried to get drops into them. For another, contacts never came in my prescription. So, even if I could have tolerated wearing them, there weren't any I could have used in the first place.

But now we have soft contacts and that's had me thinking. Maybe I could, at long last, cease viewing the world from behind what I've come to regard as a pair of windows, and be in the world, less an observer and more a participant. I certainly felt that way whenever I left my glasses on the desk, but the problem was, I couldn't see well enough to keep from getting in trouble. Besides, my distance vision was blurry, and it's hard to be engaged when you can't see what's coming down the road.

So, today was my day. During my frequently less than regular exam, I told my doctor if he could fit me in a pair, I was determined to make them work. After about 45 minutes of sweating through learning how to insert and remove them, I drove away feeling like John must have felt in the summer of his 27th year, coming home to a place he'd never been before.

I hadn't planned on writing about this experience but it feels so good, keeping it to myself seems selfish. It's not anything transcendent, it's just been a long time in coming and I'm glad I finally got up the nerve to take the step and see what I might see.


(Dreamland Express album cover, copyright 1985, Rocky Mountain High copyright 1975, both owned by the estate of John Denver, image via Wikipedia)

My Anal Retention is Showing

Looking in the mirror this morning I had a terrible realization. I'm never going to be one of those "not a hair out of place" kind of people. Not that this has been an ambition or anything, but the obvious is obvious. It doesn't matter how well I brush, comb, or pat, by the time I get wherever I'm going, I look like a caricature of John Denver (without the hat). I guess I should just thank God I'm a country boy and call it good.

There are those, however, who manage to keep their hair -- and everything else, it seems -- in place. Their clothes are never wrinkled, their desk never messy, and their homes look like a showcase for an architecture magazine. They are meticulous, always on time, and drive the rest of us crazy. What's up with that?

Some call it perfectionism and others would say, "S/he's a neat freak." Wilhelm Reich describes it as compulsiveness. For the record, we're not talking about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder -- people with OCD are inhibited by their repetitive behaviors and frequently miserable. The compulsive, on the other hand, is generally happy with the way they are and thinks the world would be a better place if everyone was a little "neater." I know, you almost have to be anal-retentive to figure all this out.

Well, the compulsive is driven -- it's like a compulsion -- to be detail-oriented, organized, in control, and not too emotional. It's probably no mystery that they attract mates who are prone to be free spirits -- or scatter-brained, depending on who's talking. Anyhow, someone has to do the feeling in a relationship and it's not going to be the compulsive, if they have anything to say about it. Emotions are too unpredictable and compulsives like predictability. Me, I like surprises.

So, forget my hair, anyone who has seen my desk knows I got short-changed when compulsiveness was handed out. The same is true for being on time, much to at least one professor's chagrin. I do have this thing about straightening crooked pictures, though -- oops, my anal retention is showing.


(Album cover copyright 1973 by RCA records; Thank God I'm a Country Boy lyrics by John Martin Sommers; Image via Wikipedia)