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This week, the high school class of 1959 will converge on Lubbock to renew old acquaintances, remember days of old, play catch-up, and swap life’s stories. Excitement reigns as the date draws nigh.

Lubbock raised us right. I had to leave to realize that fact. Mac Davis, a favorite son of our vintage, expressed it beautifully in Lubbock in My Rearview Mirror, an anthem for every youth with a false sense of sagacity who cannot wait to venture forth to greener pastures.

Now with too much white in the hair, but years of hard-earned wisdom under the belt, we return home. Yeah, in some fashion, Lubbock will always be home. This city provided a safe, nurturing cocoon in which adults cared for all of us, a rare environment thses days.

This week we will visit with faculty and staff who are still around. The surprising aspect is that they want to reunite with those who once tried their soul. Coaches, assistant principals, English, math, Latin teachers, and those who instilled within us an appreciation for the fine arts will check out each former student and issue a final grade.

We will belly laugh with old cohorts, sweethearts, and competitors. We will return to the people and place that made us who we are. Content with where we find ourselves, the conversation will flow like honey.

The final verse of Mac’s song echoes hauntingly in my brain.”Happiness is Lubbock, Texas growing nearer and dearer, and the vision is getting clearer in my mind.”

Ya’ll be there!

A beautiful Sunday morning–I’m up at the crack of dawn to irrigate a dry lawn with thirst quenching waters from the Rio Grande, much as the ancients have done throughout the centuries.

I stumble into the bathroom to wash the sleep from bloodshot eyes then dress, pull on my boots, and meander out to the back ditch to meet neighbors already congregated. David, next door, has opened the main gate and filled the ditch from which our block will draw an allotment of life sustaining liquid.

Yard dogs up and down the ditch holler just to remind us they are present. Once acknowledged, they cease yapping and eagerly await arrival of the flood through which they run and play in frantic glee. Later, these mutts will track mud and debris into their respective homes sending the lady of the house into a manic state of pissed.

Neighborly conversation flows with the rhythm of the current as we catch up on happenings in our lives–how the kids are doing, the health condition of ol’ man Jones’ at the end of the block, and such.

Once my gate is opened and water rushes into the yard, I wonder to the front to ensure the flow reaches that part unhindered, then go in the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. Once it is doctored to just the right shade, much the color of the muddy ditch water, I mosey onto the back deck to sit and soak up the morning.

Flights of egrets grace the sky, and wild parrots raise hell. As the water level rises, several species wade about the yard drinking and poking in the mud for bits of nourishment. A pair of mallards drop in to paddle around and root for decayed iris bulbs beneath an old uncultivated garden. The hen softly honks her love song while the drake follows her path wheezing his adoration for her.

A barn owl swoops to the boughs of a cottonwood tree, screeches an announcement of his return home from a successful night’s hunt, then disappears into a hollow trunk to sleep and find renewal. Sixty-three buzzards take to the sky from their roost in a stand of cottonwoods across the street, slowly circling, gaining altitude until they ride air currents at elevations that seem to rival the airliner billowing pencil thin vapor trails against the pinkish-orange dawn sky.

Tonight we will be serenaded by a chorus of frogs who interrupt their hibernation to emerge every irrigation weekend from the mud below.

My breaths come slowly now, as does the heart rate. The water gurgles as I sip hot coffee. Damn, life is grand!

I rose from bed this morning and flipped on the radio to catch the news while shaving. A voice reminded me of today’s date. Most of us old enough remember where we were when JFK was assassinated. Same holds true for September 11th.

My mind immediately drifted back to that morning eight years ago. I was shaving then, as today, when a radio news commentator broke into the programming to inform listeners that a plane had crashed into the World Trade center. I went quickly to the television and flipped on the set. The network bounced from commentator to commentator getting various perspectives and witness accounts. Speculation was rampant as to what kind of plane had caused the disaster. As I watched the burning horror LIVE and pondered how an airliner could be flying that low over the city, the silhouette of another airliner flashed from the right of the screen and plunged into the south tower of the Trade Center. Flames and smoke billowed from the fracture, provoking the instant realization that this was no accident. The United States of America was under attack and at war.

I sat before the television as news filtered in of two more attacks with our own airlines the weapons of mass destruction, the lives of the innocents on board and in the buildings instantly snuffed as collateral damage as in any war. The pentagon within our own capitol brazenly assaulted and defiled. A plane plunging into the fields of Pennsylvania.

Throughout that day the stories unfolded of tragic last phone calls to loved ones and heroic acts by victims and responders to the emergencies. Tears rolled down my cheeks as the magnificent assault by passengers gradually was revealed, the last words being, “Let’s Roll!” Their charge into battle saved our nation’s capitol.

This morning, the radio broadcast commentaries from memorial services to the dead of that tragedy. We forget the same organizations that committed those acts have not been defeated, and still proclaim us their enemy. We are still at war, like it or not. My ears listened in the present but the images in the brain were of those horrors eight years ago.

I toweled off remnants of shaving creme and dressed. Filled with a burning desire to make a statement, I carried a ladder to the front porch and mounted my stars spangled banner on the eaves of the house. It was a glorious morning today, daybreak just busting forth. Glancing up and down the block no other flags could be seen. That’s OK. My own meager remnant, slightly tattered, slightly faded, is gallantly holding forth the notion that this is the land of the free and the home of the brave.

A well-worn symbol of our freedom, God’s magnificent gift to each of us.

Over the Fourth of July Weekend, my son visited us bringing along our beloved granddaughter. She is three and a half and gorgeous–sassy and prissy. Miss Madison owns my wife and I. She had not yet experienced a zoo, so Saturday morning we made the trek. It has been a couple of decades since I toured a zoo. We had a great time and after 3 hours staggered to the car completely exhausted. But that’s part of the game, being a grandparent. Sunday afternoon, we put the two on a plane back to Dallas, then headed home to rest and recover. I wallowed in immense joy, yet tinged with a bit of melancholy.

My life has been a wonderful experience, warts and all. I have borne the freedoms only this country affords in such a complete way–pursuit of happiness tempered by the ultimate of responsibilities. We watch our politicians, both parties, gambling the future of Madison and her generation on the pretense they are saving the day. Their tiresome circuitous explanations defy logic and the horse-sense with which we mere citizens must live our own lives. There is no way trillions of dollars of debt can be a miracle panacea for what ails the economy. The value of the dollar has to fall dramatically eroding the retirement many have set aside. More importantly, the younger folks will bear the burden of pay this albatross off long after my generation has moldered beneath the daisies.

It is downright shameful how my contemporaries and those following have squandered our birthright. The baby boomers have justified every desire for personal comfort. Homes have become larger and more luxurious, yet the divorce rate is screaming past 50%. So much for the sanctity of family. Amoral behavior has led to the stretching the boundaries of honor. The banking industry sees fit the establishment of derivatives and other security shams, creating a house of cards that now comes a tumblin’ down around all our ears, and politicians use that opportunity to mortgage the future of our grand children by creating a governmental house of cards, the crash of one pyramid scheme solved by the erection of another.

Our government has intituted the largest pyramid schemes in history in the name of social security and medicare. Now our witless wonders in Washington have cranked the Ponzi games up another notch.

They should be ashamed. And we should be ashamed of having voted for the bastards, of allowing them to ply their crooked trade.

So, I must beg the question: will my Madison grow up with the opportunities to chase those dreams of happiness as I did, and to realize the burden of responsibility that accompanies the gift of freedom?

ACS

This is just an observation. The other day we learned of the death of Farah Fawcett. It received a notices in the news and some biographical blurbs. It was all pretty much in good taste. She had hit the bigtime as a sexy starlet, but developed herself into an accomplished actress. I admired her performances in several made-for-TV movies, particularly “The Burning Bed”. I consider her death premature and a loss to the entertainment world.

Then yesterday we were hammered with news about the death of Michael Jackson. Through the early eighties he was a helluva entertainer. Even this old man enjoyed “Thriller”. But since that time, he has been famous for his bazaar behavior and hideous plastic surgery procedures many would consider self-mutilation. He transformed himself from a fine looking young man to a sideshow freak. His escapades with children, if not abuse, were certainly abnormal. I find it hard to dismiss the charges of abuse as a jury did. But what do I know? For a grown man to encourage sleepovers with small children is bazaar and unhealthy.

So for this individual who had a phenomenal career for fifteen years, then never produced meaningful work for the next twenty-something years, the media created a bazaar circus of coverage as strange as the man’s last two decades. Networks replaced regular programming with hours of retrospective looks at the life and times of Mr. Jackson. He was hailed as one of the greats of the entertainment world. We are bombarded with the tragedy of this moment in history. The public obviously buys this tripe as exemplified by the crownd in front of the Apollo Theater in New York where Jackson gave his first performance.

The tragedy in my view is not in the death of this man, but in the last twenty years of his life–a life of strange behavior and questionable moral conduct with children. Must we deify such a life? We should take proper note of his death, engage in a quick retrospect of his life and talent, then move on shaking our heads over the waste of a human being of huge talent falling to such depths. But to put him above an alter of greatness, enticing a public that craves the bazaar to bow down before his memory and pay homage is as insane as he appeared to be.

Grow up folks! There are real heroes out there deserving of our attention and accolades.

ACS

Six years ago my 91 year old father came down with pneumonia and was sent to the hospital. His old body had even more hard miles than the advanced years warranted. We watched as he withered away, never responding to conversation, touch, or the presence of food. The nursing care was non-existent. In my mind this was expensive warehousing while waiting for death to come a calling. Mom and Dad lived in a retirement center in an independent living apartment. The facility contained a health care unit with full nursing care downstairs. I had been impressed with the way the caregivers provided for the folks ensconced there. They really loved those seniors.

On the third day in the hospital, the doctor came to check on Dad. My father had not been bathed or cleaned since arriving there. The stench in the room would gag a buzzard. “Bob, I want to get him out of here before they kill him with neglect.”

Dr. May replied, “I agree. Where do you want to take him?”

“Back to Monte Vista, but down in the health care unit. Mom lives upstairs and can walk down to visit when she wants. Plus, the nursing care there is a helluva lot better than here.”

“Call an ambulance to transport him. I’ll writer the orders.”

That afternoon Dad was sleeping in a room having been cleaned, shaved, and dressed. A nurse dropped in every ten minutes to check on him and adjust IV’s, oxygen, and administer meds. They found he would eat ice cream, so they made cold nutritious shakes which he promptly sucked up. I sat with my mother to make funeral arrangements we knew would soon be needed. That night I went home to get some sleep.

The next morning, I walked into his room and confronted a made-up bed. In the corner by a window Dad sat in a chair freshly fed, showered, shaved and dressed. I said, “Hey, Pop, how the hell are ya doin’?”

He looked up and nodded, “Well, pretty good–pretty good.”

I tell this story to make a point. The old man did not need all the bells and whistles of a big, impersonal hospital. He simply required personal attention and physical therapy. The cost per day at the health care facility was one tenth that of the hospital and led to recovery rather than slow death. In 3 weeks he recovered and returned to the apartment to live another two years.

I remarked to my wife that if I ever needed inpatient recovery to be nursed back to health, get my butt out of the hospital and take me to Monte Vista, or some place like it.

Fast forward to April 20th this year. The surgeon has explained what happened to my hip and why a replacement is needed. Though tanked up on morphine, I still have some semblance of thought process and resign myself to my fate. I do exercise rehab for folks with problems professionally. I am not supposed to be on the receiving end. Yeah, right! The thought crossed my mind that God does have a bazaar sense of humor.

I heard my wife ask, “Okay, we know what is going to happen, so what can we expect as far as time line?”

The surgeon responded, “We will operate one o’clock tomorrow, and he will spend 2 to 3 days in the hospital. After that he can go home, but will need 24 hour supervision.”

“Well, I work everyday.”

“I can write orders for home health care to come in.”

Though mind fogged, I interrupted, “Look, Mary, you are only five months off of a knee replacement. You don’t need to wet nurse my ass. Remember what I said after my old man recovered in Monte Vista. Let me transition there until I can function at home during the day. Besides they have a great physical therapy department.”

The doc looked at me, “You’re willing to go there? Most men want nothing to do with a nursing home. That would be the best solution. I’ll write the orders.”

I stayed in the hospital until Friday and was transported to the health care facility. I probably should have gone a day sooner. This facility has a new “rapid recovery wing” for people like me who need a transitional stay for a few days or weeks to receive therapy and prepare to function at home. The nursing care was more intense, the setting less institutional, and the food superior to the hospital. For an hour in the morning and hour in the afternoon, the physical and occupational therapists kicked my sorry butt through the rehab process. I told one young man, “Son, I am a cantankerous and obnoxious old fart. I am going to bitch and moan and feel sorry for myself. But if you let up on me, I’ll be in your face.” I did, and he didn’t. My recovery was fast and furious. In two days, I was motoring around the place on a walker. In 8 days I went home.

In my opinion, progressive nursing facilities can better meet the needs of most hospital stays. The patient (insurance provider) does not pay the freight for exorbitant fixed costs for services and equipment not needed. Resources can be focused on what is required in most cases–personal care from nurses, aides, and therapists.

When considering solutions to rising health care costs, perhaps back to basics is often more effective and better financially.

It Worked for me.
ACS

Life has a bad habit of getting in the way of good intentions. Medical flair-ups always seem to slip up at the most inopportune time. My wife underwent a planned knee replacement the Monday before Thanksgiving. She did wonderfully, and we were getting back on track. April, I got involved breaking up a dog fight in front of the house and popped the right hip out of joint. I slipped it back in and made my way into the house and hobbled around on it for the next two weeks. On a Monday morning, I tripped in the living room, thrust my right leg forward to catch my balance, and she blew. I had probably etched a hairline fracture the first fall, and this finished it off. Next day I went through a replacement.

I have some observations on the health care system as a result, at least in El Paso. The hospital personnel, with only one exception, were extremely caring and proficient. The problem seemed to be with hospital management. The folks were so thinly scheduled, service took a big hit. There was one registered nurse for the entire floor, so that person was often out of pocket when pain meds were needed. On one occasion, a nurse from another floor had to run up and take up the slack. I waited almost two hours for medications.

It is a shame when competent professionals work in an environment that obstructs their ability to perform at a high level. I found that on a one-to-one basis, they were quite good. The trick is pinning them down to get that one-to-one attention–an unfortunate and inaccurate reflection on their desire to provide good care.

More Later
ACS