Woman in Gold

^ That's the title of the movie I watched last night. I recommend it.
 Here are the details if you're interested. (I LOVE Helen Mirren!)

Based mostly on a true story, at the end of the movie there's a statement that over 100,000 priceless art objects stolen by the Nazis have not been returned to their rightful owners.
Heartbreaking.

I read a book some years back about what happened to the Japanese when (Democrat!) FDR forced them into concentration camps.
They too, for the most part, lost all their worldly goods.
Is there a "Restitution" movement ongoing for the Japanese too?

Is That All There Is?

My title is an old Peggy Lee song. Haven't heard it? Go look it up.

Retirement is... okay.
I loved my job and hated to leave it. But there comes a point (more than once in my case) where regulations have ruined things in my life, and I had to move on.
When you begin to feel like someone is constantly looking over your shoulder waiting for you to make a mistake so they can terminate you from the workplace, it's time to move on.
Luckily, "moving on" in my case meant I could REALLY move on.
I retired in 2013.

But I loved the old job and loved the satisfaction I felt from doing what I thought was "God's work" and receiving a paycheck for it.
I'm not certain I'm over it yet. But my dreams of work happen less and less during the night now, (and they were always stressful anyway so I'm glad!) And I finally realized sitting in a chair with the remote all my waking hours was going to add so many pounds to my frame it would kill me, so Sara Jean and I share a couple hours a day
walking/talking/listening to "Oldies Radio" to keep "Mr. Cardiovascular Problem" as far away as possible. (We recommend it.)

Three years now we've spent the Winter in the Phoenix area. It's obvious to us now why many come here as "Snowbirds". Once in a great while the temperature will reach 39 degrees F. But even then the temp will rise to the mid 50's during the day.
Rain? In the three+ months we were here last year it rained three days. And those days were not bitterly cold.
It's wonderful here during the Winter. But I am BORED STIFF. You can only ingest so much irritating news before either going crazy, or relieving stress by SHOUTING AT THE TV!
I've done a lot of shouting at the TV.

There was a "Jiffy Lube" coupon in the Sunday paper last year offering a semi-synthetic oil and filter change, up to five quarts, for $19.99. We "do-it-yourselfers" know that's a darned good deal.
So I took our son's truck and had the Jiffy Lube people do the job. While in the waiting room we noticed the "Help Wanted" sign on the front door, and I asked the manager, "Could I, as a Snowbird, apply"?
And he quickly said "Sure!"

So I stopped by that store last week, got a job application, filled it out, and turned it in the next day.
I hope for a response tomorrow.
How much work will they offer? How much will the job pay?
I don't really care.
I just want to do something... anything... that needs doin' and will put a smile on my face.

Wish me luck.

Music's Impact

I'm in a melancholy mood. A family emergency is unfolding.
My Bride and Son are in Chicago, providing comfort and support to my extended family.
I'm left alone in Arizona caring and supporting our aged pup, Lucy.

At times like these my mind thinks of songs that fit my mood.
Today, this piece by Elton John is one of those.
I had never researched the situation that motivated him to write it.
If you are interested, the story is HERE.

I got home from Viet Nam late in 1969.
At some point soon afterwards I saw these guys sing this song at a club in my hometown of Indy.
I'm a free speech kinda guy. I think you ought to be able to say whatever you want, however you want, so long as speechifyin' is all you do.
I'm not positive what these guys are trying to say. I suspect in 1969 they were trying to convey some sort of anti-war sentiment. But the tune has stuck with me all these years to the point that when I'm in a club with a good bluegrass/country band and they ask for requests, I ask them to sing "Two Hangmen".
Most bands know of it.
Most of 'em won't do it, claiming it has "Too many words!"

For some reason it's been on my mind all day. So I thought I'd share it with you to see if I can get it out of my head.
Hope you enjoy it.

Pearl Harbor and Dad, Redux

I almost never repeat an old post.
Today I'll make an exception; I first published this in 2005:

My Dad was born on 7 December 1921.
So had he lived, he would have been 84 today. Dad started smoking when he was 13 or so, and succumbed to lung cancer two years ago.
He was truly a part of what we now call "The Greatest Generation."
Dad had joined the Indiana National Guard when he was 19. When the news came on his 20th birthday that Pearl Harbor had been bombed, I wonder what he thought about this surprise birthday present?
At 20, I suspect he was frightened, but like most of his generation, knew there was a job that needed doin' and was ready to get to work.
My Dad was typical of many Dads of that era. He didn't talk a lot about what happened to him during the war, but in the jewelry box I had found the Purple Heart and knew my old man was special. He was like that about life too.
He didn't brag. He was not formally educated, but he was the type of guy the neighbors would bring their broken appliances to because they knew if Greybeard's Dad couldn't fix it, it was genuine junk!
He was a carpenter, mechanic, bricklayer, roofer, electrician, concrete finisher... you name it, he could do it, and he could do it better than average.
I was proud of him for a thousand reasons.
When I reached manhood, I started hugging him and telling him THE WORDS.
You know "THE WORDS" don't you?
He was uncomfortable saying them, as were all the macho guys of his generation. And because he was uncomfortable, I was too... at first.
But over the years, the hugs and the words came more easily, 'til finally he was the hugger, and I was the huggee...
and he freely said THE WORDS...
"I love you."
I was glad I had made him uncomfortable for a little while.
So now you know, for our family this day is important for more than bombs and battleships, although we had family directly under the bombs on the West Virginia at Pearl, too.
I'd like you to share the importance of this day and honor my Dad by being the hugger.
Give all those you love a hug for me today, please, and say THE WORDS.
I know my old man would like that.
Happy Birthday Dad.
I love you.

"Smart" TV's

"In America you watch TV. In Russia, TV watches us!"

Now our cell phones, TV's, and Alexa watch (and listen intently) to us.
And we gladly subsidize it.

Names.

We are in Destin, Florida.
If you've never visited here, you should put it on your "list". The beaches are the color of driven snow, and the water changes color with the angle of the sun or coverage by clouds, but is almost always some spectacular shade of green.

Destin is located about midway 'twixt Pensacola and Panama City, Florida.
U.S. Highway 98 connects the three.
Forecast temperature today was 75 and mostly sunny. I had an errand I needed to do in Pensacola for a friend, and decided it'd be a great day to get the Piaggio MP3 out and exercise its legs.

I took 98 West to the beach town of Navarre, then dropped South a little and picked up the coastal road that skirts the Gulf all the way to Pensacola. That road takes you through the "Gulf Islands National Seashore". It runs through dunes, with now-and-then glimpses of the Gulf, and is a reminder of what this area must have looked like before man started building houses and condos everywhere near the water. Again... spectacular.

Navarre is 30 miles from where we're staying in Destin. The ride was as our weathergirl had predicted... mid-70's temps and mostly sunny.
And then my lifelong irritation with weather prognosticators struck again. Fairly thick clouds that had formed over the water Southwest of me moved overhead, and started spitting at me. The wind got chilly. Stupid me... I didn't bring coat OR rain gear. I hunkered down behind the windscreen and soldiered on.

I rode through Pensacola Beach. The rain stopped. As I made my way further North- inland, the temperature rose and my ride became comfortable again.
I completed my errand for my friend.

Pensacola has a park dedicated to Veterans on property within sight of the Gulf, just Southeast of the old part of the city. It's a quiet, beautiful setting.
One of the memorials there has a Marine "Cobra" helicopter on a pedestal, overlooking a miniature version of the Viet Nam Wall, complete with all the names inscribed on it. I've passed this park many times while visiting the area, but never stopped.
Today, I remedied that.

When I visited the Wall in Washington, D.C., I was surprised at my reaction-
I couldn't stop myself... started to cry.
Today, alone, under clouds and the threat of rain, my personal rain began again.
I don't know how anyone can look at 58,000 names etched into that black edifice and remain dry eyed.

Heroes.
All.

"Can You Hear Me NOW?"

We continually hear our cell phones have "some order of magnitude" more computing power than was available on Apollo 11.
Watching my son use his Apple device, I know that to be true.
I want my phone to make and receive calls...
How much "computing power" do I need?

"The Times, They Are A'Changin' "

My mind is going off in six different directions.
In the mid-80's, I was surprised by the reporting of an acquaintance that Yassir Arafat preferred boys to women for his sexual fulfillment:
"Women are for breeding. Boys are for enjoyment."
No expert on Muslim men, I have no idea if this is as big a deal in the Islamic world as my friend suggested it was.

Segue to today's political world-
Sara Jean and I discussing democrat candidates for president...
Me: "Can you imagine fundamental followers of the Quran  having to discuss world issues with homosexual Pete Buttigieg?"
And then I wondered about where those same Islamic leaders might have put their genital probes.

I'm really confused about the world we live in today.

Hippies?

While we were in New York in May we went to see The Temptations "Ain't Too Proud" just off-Broadway. Our 36-yr old son sat alongside his parents and knew all the words to the songs.
And I remembered:
He grew up buckled into his seat in the rear in our car listening to "Oldies" or "Classic Rock" radio.
And we liked it LOUD.
On a road trip when he was about 13 or so he asked, "Mom, were you and Dad Hippies?"
And we LOL'd.

During the day I wore OD Green.
But after hours I wore Bell-bottom pants with flowers embroidered around the cuffs, and gave the "peace sign" to every motorcyclist I passed on the highway.

I'm glad to have lived that life.
I'd also bet he's glad he knows all the words to "Ain't Too Proud To Beg".

Tazio Nuvolari

Doesn't it happen to everyone?
But it seems to be happening to me more often now.
Aging? I dunno.

We have one of those alarm clocks that projects the time onto the ceiling so you can learn the time without lifting your head from the pillow.
3:37 it said.
And I'm wide awake.
"Tazio Nuvolari" says my brain.
Okay... maybe I was NOT QUITE awake!
Mulling it over, I was pretty sure Tazio was another of those superhuman race car drivers from the past, like Juan Manuel Fangio. But I wasn't absolutely sure.
"I'll have to look Tazio up after a couple cups in the morning", I said to myself.

"Leopold and Loeb", shouts my brain."
"Why are you doing this to me?"  I ask.
3:38 says the ceiling.
I KNOW who Leopold and Loeb are. I read a fictionalized account of their story while I was in High School.
It obviously made a pretty big impact on me.

"Sacco and Vanzetti"! 
ARRGH!
3:40.
"This is REALLY irritating!"
I force myself to roll over and think boring stuff.
And I refuse to look at the ceiling.

Blackface

Several of our political leaders are, and have been in trouble because of blackface. "Cultural appropriation"?
Watching old movies, I sometimes find myself cringing at what was deemed "normal" behavior and attitude toward "people of color", most often negroes.
That was then. That's history. The fact it makes me, (and I hope others) uncomfortable? That's a good thing.

Canadian PM Justin Trudeau now finds himself in hot water.
He was attending an "Arabian Nights" costume party in full regalia... clothing AND darkened face, neck, and hands to fit the occasion.
Photos have emerged, and he's under political pressure from some.
And I'm questioning "WHY?"

I've long been an admirer of "Pastor, Civil Rights leader, and (now notorious) philanderer," Martin Luther King Jr, and I wonder...
If I was invited to a costume party celebrating the life and accomplishments of MLK Jr,
would I be chastised for getting out the brown shoe polish and time correct clothing?
I think in today's world, that answer is a given. And that's a shame.
I'd be honoring a great man. I fear we no longer have a sense of proportion... or a sense of humor.

And this is the reason I have fewer friends today than yesterday.

Tattoos

Yep.
I am "of a certain age".
And I try, always, to remember that.

We LOVE to watch the black and white movies from the late 30's through the 40's. And the thing we notice most about them now, (in addition to wondering if there really WERE that many coupe automobiles running around on the streets back then), is that EVERYONE... and I mean all the really cool folks... smoked.
If you wanted to be like the cool people, the only question you had to answer was whether you'd smoke Chesterfields or Camels.
My Mom and Dad both smoked. Back then cigarettes weren't almost prohibitively expensive, so I can't throw stones at them for hurting our family financially.
But my Father died of lung CA and I will always wonder how long he'd have lived if he had not allowed the fad... the desire to "be like Humphrey Bogart... (remind me how he died?), to influence him.

Fads.
They come and go.
One of 'em that irritates me now is this craze to permanently scar your own body.
Sara Jean and I walk four miles or so every evening. The other night, from about a football field's distance, I saw an attractive woman in short-shorts unloading groceries from her car.
Long-legged, I hoped she had more groceries to unload when we got closer. She did, and when we got close enough to say "Hello" I could she her legs were completely covered with tattoos.
I admit being disappointed. God gave her a wonderful gift. And in my opinion, she had willingly defaced God's artwork.

I know...
We have no indication (yet) of long-term unintended health consequences from defacing your body this way.
But it once was fact that you couldn't give blood within a certain time-frame after receiving one because of the possibility of infection.
So there's that.

I once heard a story of a Marine Enlisted Father advising his son not to get a tattoo because "you'll never be considered Officer material if you get one."
That Marine Dad was obviously "of a certain age" too.

Yeah, fads come and go.
I'll be happy when this one is gone.
(And I hope to live that long.)

The Man With No Name

I've never smoked.
Well, unless I was mocked and given a dare.
But, as a child, I was offended by and resented the air my parents forced my baby sister and I to breathe during Winters in our old automobiles. And I promised myself I would NEVER do that to my own children.
But I must admit to being tempted.

Images of Clint Eastwood with his Cheroots...
WOW! Was he cool or what?
And on the screen, when he slowly removed that cigar from his lips, the indentation was still there!
I wanted to be Clint.
I bought a pack of "HavaTampa Jewels".  And hated the taste.

A few friends smoked pipes...
Pipe smokers in the movies were smooth dudes... intellectual. Smart. Upper crust.
I wanted to be intellectual, smart, and maybe, "upper crust"... eventually.
I bought a pipe. I bought some tobacco I had smelled others smoking. Their "second hand" smoke smelled wonderful.
I hated the taste.

Now, "electronic cigarettes" are in the news.
I'm WAY BEYOND being influenced into trying them by movies and TV, but I fully understand how cool it looks to kids and folks wanting to be "in".
And I'm surprised at how many folks I see "vaping" around me.
It ain't cheap. The screen doors on your home are in disrepair.
How can you afford "strawberries and bananas with cream"  E-Juice?
(Yes, I see that it's cheaper than cigarettes, and agree it's probably not so unhealthy as smoking them.)

I can't help thinking, at some point in the future, thinking people will look back at things we've done to ourselves in wonder.
"Doctor, it hurts when I do THIS."

-"Don't do THAT!"

Bit By Bit

It's August.
It's HOT in Middle America.
It's EASY to sit in the Air Conditioning and push buttons on the remote control-
Made easier by the fact nothing I need to do around our property must be done NOW.

My neighbor across the street suggested-
"I get out early, while it's still cool, and do ONE constructive thing every day. That way I don't feel so guilty."
Good advice.
Today I trimmed a couple trees with the pole saw.

Now?
It's five O'Clock somewhere, right?

Heroes

He was in line behind me, wearing a ball cap that said "Viet Nam Veteran, 25th Infantry Division".
"25th, huh?" I asked. "Where was that?"
"Pleiku", was his response.
"Oh really? I was there too, at Camp Enari", says I.
He got a strange look on his face...
"Where was that?"
And at that point I knew I was dealing with a pretender.

A few other questions yielded "Facts"-
He was a LRRP, (a member of a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol).
His unit was absorbed by the 4th Infantry Division, (yet he's unaware of Camp Enari, the 4th's HUGE main base?)

I wish there was a fast and easy way to punish these liars.
I'm sure he, like me, gets the "Thank you for your service" comments, and maybe even discounts on meals, etc..

I hope my dead fellow Veterans haunt him.

As Time Marches On-

In this political environment I normally say, "I'm glad I'm old".  But...

Last week we watched archeologists exploring the caves around the Dead Sea, trying to find more scrolls in jars. Only 10% of those caves have been investigated. Now they have new technology that gives them ways to read the scrolls without opening and damaging them.

As death approaches, political me will say, "good riddance!"

Curious me will say, "WAIT... what's next?"

"By The Time We Got To Woodstock..."

"We were half a million strong!"

Like Apollo 11, we're approaching another 50th anniversary.
And just like Apollo 11, I viewed the event from half a world away in Viet Nam.
Enroute to Sydney, Australia for my R&R, I picked up the most recent "TIME" magazine in Cam Ranh Bay and saw the photo of the crowd.
WOW! What in the world was I missing back home?

We're watching a PBS produced documentary devoted to the event.
It is, at times, unintentional comedy.
"Peace. Love. And Music."
A HUGE crowd living in peace, doing what they wanted without interference.
Taking care of themselves.
(?)

They ran out of medical supplies the second day of the event.
New York's National Guard TO THE RESCUE in UH-1 Hueys. The Guard Hueys brought in supplies AND Doctors to take care of the drug overdoses, babies being born, and normal minor injuries that happen in a city of about 500,000 people.

The third day of peace, love, and music they ran out of food for the crowd.
People from the two nearest towns heard of the trouble and decided they had to do "the Christian thing" and feed the multitude. They raided their pantries, refrigerators, and freezers. Farmers donated what they could... one of 'em boiled thousands of eggs and had them transported, by civilian helicopter this time, to feed the, now mud covered, crowd.
"FREE FOOD!"

I can't help but laugh.
Good, responsible people are such wonderful suckers.
We never learn, do we?

To my readers:
Peace! LOVE! Happiness to you.

My Compound Ankle Fracture-

It has now been a little over a year since I watched my right ankle bone make a special appearance in Santorini, Greece. (Help! Part Two-, Pitchpull, 22May18. Look it up.)
I'd like to share my "healing" thoughts.

First, I knew the instant upon seeing the bone erupt that I was in real trouble.
We were halfway down the steps of a vertical cliff on a tiny island, in a non English speaking country, 2500 miles(?) from home. I stood up to see if I could hobble my way to the boat landing at the end of the steps; tried to put weight on my right foot. The ankle acted like a mechanic's "universal joint", and wobbled freely in all directions. Walking would be impossible. I was no longer in control of my own life.
I HAD to depend on the help of others. 
I am a control freak. I HATE being in that position.

You can read at my original May of 2018 posts how "others" came to our rescue...  our perilous donkey ride to the bottom of the cliff at Santorini; and the rest of our journey home.
But I want to share my thoughts from just over a year later:

There are wonderful people everywhere. When we were desperate, an American couple got off their donkeys, mounted Sara Jean and me, (her FIRST ride on a four-legged animal!) and walked alongside us to get us down that hill, asking me all along the way if I was "faint".
We don't know their names, but to us they certainly are heroes. I wish there was someway I could express my gratitude to them.

My Greek surgeon, when he came to visit me post-surgery, bragged about having attended a refresher course at Loyola University, and asked if we had ever been to Chicago. The U.S. Ortho expert that looked at his work when we got home expressed amazement at the wonderful job he had done.
When you hear some idiot Congresscritter from Minnesota put our country down, remember this:
People from EVERYWHERE in the world flock to the U.S. to suck up the BEST, because we are the BEST. And I thank God that Doctor Giannanopolis came to our country and paid attention to the training he received.

If this injury had happened to me 100 years ago, I'd have spent the rest of my life as an invalid. I'd have been a burden to my family. (See my out of control comment above.) I'd have been miserable, walking with a cane or crutch, and might have died early, with a bad attitude.
As it is, I am back to about 95% complete recovery. My beautiful bride and I walk 3-5 miles every evening. I don't limp. I feel a twinge of pain now and then, but I attribute that to the fact that I have a 72 year old model body that I'm trying to push in a way it does not like being pushed. My 72 year old belly looks better because of it. The 72-yr old belly and my 72 yr-old heart tell the 72-yr old ankle to kiss their 72-yr old hindquarters!


Being escorted via wheelchair through the airports in Athens, Rome, Copenhagen, Reykjavik, Boston, and here at home was wonderful... and terrible:
Going to the head of the line to get tickets, board the plane, and get baggage was great. Receiving the looks from those standing in line was uncomfortable. (Again, see "control" comment above".)  
During the trip home I COULD have fended for myself with the crutches I had been given. But again, I'd have been a burden to others.

Every day, we all get a day older.
For most of us, TODAY is the healthiest we are ever gonna be in our lives. Health-wise it probably won't get better than today.
We should be aware of that, and enjoy it to the fullest.
I have a newfound respect for old people, and people recovering from terrible injuries... some MUCH worse than mine. When you see them wheeled to the front of the line at the airport, be glad it ain't you, and don't resent them.

And take notice when our elected officials denigrate our wonderful country.
When you get to the ballot box, REMEMBER.
Who is leaving the country for somewhere better?
How many are risking their lives to come here?

Thank you for the reminder Lord.
I know how blessed I am.

Al Franken-

I despise Al Franken's politics, and I'm glad he's no longer a Senator, but...
As an affirmed "Boob LOVER", if I had a nickel for every time I wanted to act out the action he expressed in the photo that cost him his job?..
I could have retired a VERY young man.

Tough Decisons-

Our "Schnoodle" Lucy was 13 in June. If the 7-yr rule applies, she gets around mighty good for a 91 yr-old female... begs to go with us on our nightly 3-4 mile walks. We DO have to help her with tasks requiring the ability to jump... getting up on the bed or sofa. We happily help her to do that.
But she has begun to have some of the other "old dog" problems: Growths inside and outside her body.

Our Vet has identified two "squamous-cell carcinomas" on her chest. She also has MANY warts beginning to form on her body that the Vet says is normal for poodles. And she now has a fatty growth starting to expand on her flank that could be benign or malignant. At this point, I don't even want to know which.

Is it sane to spend a fortune on an old dog to correct problems like these? (We're by no means wealthy.) And if you do try to intervene to help, how long before a similar problem recurs?



This is a smart dog. She's the lowest-maintenance dog I've ever owned, and I've owned some mighty good dogs. We've often made trips in our car rather than fly just because we wanted to comfortably bring her along.

We're now realizing at some point in the not-too-distant future we'll have to make a horrible decision.
When does her quality of life degrade to the point where she'd want us to let her go?

Again, we all take on the responsibility of pet ownership knowing, in 10-15 years, (if we're lucky), we'll face a heartbreaking loss. And the loss is more crushing when you have to say, "Yes, let her go".

We're almost there.
And even the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.

Second Verse... Same As The First !

The new Taurus SHO is in our garage. It looks EXACTLY like the old one, except the new one has a moonroof.
It's weird. Turning the old car "out to pasture" after five years of faithful service actually made me sad. And there are just enough niggling little differences between the old and new to keep us on our toes for a little while.

It smells new.
What's that worth? :)

Electromotive?

The "24 Hours of LeMans" has just come to completion.
The fastest cars on the circuit were hybrids... Toyotas with gasoline engines supplemented with electric motors. They added electric power to their internal combustion engine to total about 1000 horsepower.

There is now a racing series similar to "Formula One" that features electric cars. The cars are VERY fast, but WOW is it weird to hear them race around the circuit, hearing almost no noise but drivetrain whine!
Completing the "Formula E" race requires the use of TWO cars. When battery power on car #1 is depleted, the driver switches over to car #2 to finish the course. And that's the problem STILL with total-electric cars isn't it? Range.
And it's why we see a predominance of hybrids in the electric realm.

But boy, they are really pushing the idea of hybrids during this race. And like "anthropomorphic climate change", I still have my doubts.

I've heard horror stories about the waste left behind in the process of manufacturing these lithium batteries. And when the batteries reach the end of their lifespan, will the cost of replacing them make the overall cost of owning a hybrid (or electric) car cheaper than owning a car powered with only an internal combustion engine?
Only time will tell. We'll get there eventually, I'm sure.

Pardon me while I look around for the cheapest price on gasoline.

Signs?

Long ago I promised myself I'd never be so comfortable that I'd pass up a penny on the ground.
In New York on the way to the subway to visit the 9-11 memorial, in light rain, I saw a penny on the wet sidewalk. I stooped and pocketed it.
Only later when I took a look did I see the date...
1947. The year of my birth.
It's a keeper.

And I'll share a ditty one of my former helo students shared with me...
"See a penny? Pick it up. All day long-
You'll have a penny!" 
:)

Before They Became Toasters...

Officer's Candidate School was hard.
I learned the secret early on. (And that knowledge also illuminated many of the secrets of life!)
Refuse to quit.
When someone tries to piss you off, smile and ask for more.
So I made it. I graduated and pinned on my "butter bars".

I promised myself early in the OCS program that if I graduated and started getting a regular, "almost livable" paycheck, I'd treat myself to a new car.
So in November of 1967 when I went shopping for a car, what did that 20-yr. old have to choose from?
400+ Cubic-inch engines in virtually any manufacturer's line...
426 Hemis in various Chrysler products.
427 Monsters in Chevrolets and Fords.
400's in Oldsmobiles, Pontiacs, and Buicks.
MUSCLE CARS. Cars with individual personalities.

I had long lusted for an Oldsmobile 442 owned by a friend in High School.
But when the new 1968 442's came out in November of '67, they had changed the body style from the squared-off, boxy '66 that I loved.
But I didn't HATE the way the new car looked, so I plunked down the cash, and took delivery of the car a month after ordering it.

I owned that car for 6 years and put 96,000 miles on the odometer.
During that time I replaced the water pump and the front wheel bearings.
That's all.
And I LOVED every moment of driving that car.

How things have changed.
In 1970 you could walk through a parking lot and identify EVERY make and model car by looking at its ass.
Try doing that today.
Gas mileage rules. And mileage is ruled by aerodynamics and the wind tunnel.
And that makes all these four-wheeled pieces of crap look like members of the same, inbred family!

Our Taurus SHO is faster, more comfortable, more luxurious, more reliable, and quieter than anything made back when I promised myself a new automobile.
It gets better gas mileage (on regular unleaded fuel) too.

But it's an appliance.
It's not exciting.
And I guess, for this old man, that's a GOOD thing, huh?
:)

Then I Saw Her Face...

Now I'm a believer.

How many times have you been in love?
One of the great things about becoming an old man is that I now know that seeing a beautiful face;
Loving what I see...
Will lead nowhere.
So I've learned to just enjoy God's artwork.

I've been in love several times in my life
And when you know it cannnot lead to a "happily ever after" ending, that's a special kind of pain.
But the saying "It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all" is true.
I'm glad to have experienced that pain.

Come sail away with me...

We are in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean as I write this, halfway 'twixt Hamilton, Bermuda and Horta, Azores. With the help of some amazing technology, we still have a decent (not perfect) internet connection and can watch "Fox News" on TV in our Stateroom. Our disembarkation point is Lisbon, Portugal. There, we pickup our rental car to drive to Gibraltar. "The Rock" has always been one of my must-see's. I've reserved quarters for two nights at Moron Air Base. With that name, we just hope our reservations there come off without complication!

Yes, it's been a while since I've blogged. I've discussed before how Facebook has made a dent in the urge many former avid bloggers have had to share their feelings on their blogs. But I do have an audience here that I don't have at FB, and I feel guilty when considerable time has passed since I've shared my doings and thoughts with you here.
(Some of you should be grateful you're not on my "Friends" list. 
I DO rant.)


This is Sara Jean's fifth cruise; my fourth. We're on the same ship we were kicked off when I compound-fractured my ankle in Santorini, Greece last year. We like the boat. It's big enough to provide lots of diversions. Alcohol is free, unless "top shelf" is a must for you. And with a capacity of 760 or so "guests", it's not so huge that it inundates small town ports when the ship docks.
And we're now taking a look at a cruise next October that sails out of Venice, Italy for 11 nights and includes many Mediterranean stops, including Santorini, and finishes at Athens, Greece. I want to go back so I can have GOOD memories of lovely Santorini!
If you'd be interested in cruising with us, let me know. I'll forward information to ya.

We are blessed. My family is healthy. I've got good neighbors taking care of our property back home, including one wonderful guy who picks up our mail daily and will mow our grass once while we're gone. Lucy is the guest of two wonderful people that love her as much as we do, and would kidnap her if they could figure out how to erase our memory of her.
Life is good, folks. When I can figure out how to painlessly burn these calories, life will be perfect.

Be safe and well everyone.

Ambition/Motivation

For almost thirty years I held down two full-time jobs.
For almost twenty of those years I worked two full-time and one part-time job.
I was exhausted much of the time. But I LOVED the work.
Yeah, my family time suffered somewhat. But my family is now reaping the benefit of my past efforts.

I know there is always a "Back in my day..." factor, but I don't see many young people striving to succeed as I did.
In Arizona, "Help Wanted" signs were EVERYWHERE, while many intersections were occupied by folks with "Homeless and hungry" placards.

I know... I'm a dinosaur.
But I'm a very confused dinosaur.
Have we simply lost the ability to derive Joy from work?

New Vehicle?

We've had a couple interesting encounters this week, both driven by our experience with our 2014 Yamaha Super Tenere.
If you come here often you know we had a problem with the bike. Just before we arrived here in Gilbert, Arizona, our son reported the bike wouldn't start. On 27 December we had the bike towed to the dealership/Service Center where we bought it. Staring New Year's Day in the face, we figured it might take a while for them to get around to fixing it. But after two weeks, when we still hadn't heard from them, we gave them a call.
"You need to come and see this."
(Our experience there is described in an earlier post here. See below.)
The intake valves had carbon caked onto their stems.

They were confused as to how to proceed.
Their confusion sent me scrambling online to do some research.
I don't much like what I've found.Turns out, all gasoline direct-fuel injected engines are susceptible to this problem.
That includes our car... a 2014 Taurus SHO.

The Yamaha has 30,000 miles on it. This is the earliest stage most people report beginning to have a problem with intake valves coking up with carbon.
Our Taurus has 30K miles on it. (VERY low mileage for a '14 model year car.) But the fix for intake valve problems on the Taurus?
Remove and replace the cylinder heads... obviously NOT under warranty.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$.

So I thought, "Why not trade it for a new Taurus SHO?"
Ford, in their infinite wisdom, has decided to focus on SUV's and will not make the Taurus in '20 so if we want one, we MUST buy it now.
There's a car nearly like ours at a local dealership. We went to try to negotiate a deal.

They want $46,000 for the new car. They want to give us $18,000 for our (like new) '14 model.
I won't repeat what I told them they could do with their offer.

I used to be able to fix most things ailing my car.
No longer.
Cars and motorcycles are now computers with engines and wheels.
And some of this technology is gonna bite us in the butt and require BIG BUCKS to fix when things go wrong.

We got the Yamaha back yesterday.
They STILL didn't fix everything that ails the bike, but it runs fine and we simply wanted to get it out from under their roof.
Total bill? $4200.00.
But they gave us a break on the parts and I paid $2400.00 to drive it away.
I'm angry, frustrated, and confused about the future.
How do we avoid this happening again in 30K miles?

Hyundai and Kia's 100,000 mile warranty looks mighty attractive right now!

Typing Paper

"Grab that restaurant coupon for me son",  I said.
"Where is it?", was his response.
"It's on that sheet of typing paper" I replied, pointing to it.

He had no idea what I was talking about.
I forgot... they call it "keyboarding" now, don't they?
Is it now "keyboarding paper"?

The Playboy Bunny

I learned early on the truth that "Faint heart ne'er won Fair Lady". 
She lived in my apartment complex. I had seen her coming and going from the parking lot. I heard she had formerly worked as a "Bunny" at the local Playboy Club.
She was petite, blonde, shapely, and confident.
I asked her out. She accepted.

On our way to dinner I asked, "My boss wants me to drop by the (Dog) Pound to verify he locked the kennel. Do you mind if we stop by?"
"No, not at all" was her response.

I parked in the lot, left the car running, and checked the lock... it was secure. But while I was there I figured I might as well walk around the kennel to check on the dogs and insure everything was okay. Doing so took me out of sight of the car. Walking down one side of the cages, then around the backside of the building I came to the gate that lead back to the parking lot. This gate was made of wood slats and was abeam where I had parked my car.
I peaked between the slats to surreptitiously get a glimpse of this gorgeous woman-
And got a glimpse of this beauty with the index finger of her right hand buried almost to the second knuckle up her right nostril.
Shocked, I waited to see what she would do with what she found there. I have this "thing" about booger eaters... had she stuck her finger in her mouth I would have feigned illness and taken her home. She picked up her purse, removed a tissue, and wiped her finger thoroughly.
Beauty. Confidence. Class.
And decent hygiene.

As I recall we had a fine, enjoyable dinner.

It's Girl Scout Cookie Time!

I began to hear better when my hearing aids were two rooms away on my bedroom nightstand. So I took 'em to the VA Clinic here in Gilbert, AZ to have the technician take a look.
As I walked through the entrance to the clinic I was confronted by a group of girls, maybe 15 in all with three adult supervisors, excitedly asking, "Would you like some cookies?"
As you may know, I've been on a diet and have lost 36 pounds in just under a year. I want to keep that fat off.
So my initial thought was "How do I say 'no thank you' to these beautiful faces?" 
And then they said, "They're FREE!"

I asked one of the chaperones, "How do you expect to make enough money to go on excursions if you give your cookies away?"
She answered, "Someone already bought all these and donated them to be given away here at the VA."
Wow.

I took two boxes.
And I gave the chaperone $10 with instructions to buy some more cookies to give to Veterans.

In a world that appears to be coming apart at the seams, sometimes there are events that nearly bring me to tears.
Nearly.

"New And Improved", When It Ain't:

I've had an education.
You might need one too. This post is about internal combustion.
If you have no interest about what gets you to work or the grocery, skip this one.

Review:
Our Yamaha Super Tenere has now been at the dealership for repair almost two months.
One morning it would not start. We had it transported to the dealership where we bought it new and told them to "make it run".
We've love the bike. We've had a good relationship with the service the dealer has provided, (routine stuff like tire replacement, although the cost of same has been $omewhat eye-opening.)
But this event has been nothing short of extraordinary. 
I really feel at this point that they're searching for a needle in a haystack.
They can't get the bike to run.

The intake valves had obvious, SERIOUS carbon deposits. After breaking the engine down they got after those deposits like a Dentist attacking plaque on your teeth and removed them. They re-assembled the engine.
It still wouldn't start.

Much head scratching followed.
They actually had commented how clean the engine internals looked. We've paid "religious" attention to changing the oil and filter.
Only the valves look funky.

This is a "direct injection" gasoline engine, meaning the fuel is introduced directly into the combustion chamber. Fuel DOES NOT pass by the intake valves on the way to being burned.
So no amount of "Sea Foam" or "Chevron Techron" or "BG44" will improve this situation because none of that stuff will touch the intake valves. It CANNOT clean them. In the pursuit of improved fuel efficiency we may now be facing ugly "unintended consequences"...
Carbon buildup on intake valves, starting at about the 30,000 mile mark.

I'm now worried about our Taurus SHO, the engine in which has a similar design to the Yamaha, and seems to suffer a similar fate according to forums on that "Ecoboost" engine.
(And adding chemicals to the fuel to attempt to remedy the problem there overheats the turbochargers causing them to fail... $$$$$.)

This situation has a lot of people baffled.
And it makes carburetors look like wonderful, "Old Faithful" devices.

Any helpful comments would be GREATLY appreciated!
I'm sure experts would be grateful.

Chunky-

I was about 13. One of my friend's Fathers, comparing me to one of his friends,  said I was "Chunky", like that guy.
He may as well have slapped me upside the head with a 2X4.
Chunky?!
But just as we are sometimes surprised when looking at a candid photograph, it made me take a close look at myself.
My Mother was 5'2" tall. During my early teen years she weighed 190 lbs.. At that point she saw a photograph I had taken of her and had her own "2X4" moment.
But she continually had problems with her weight because she had virtually NO discipline. She always seemed to be on the "see food" diet.
She was also diabetic.

From my Mother I inherited my lifelong battle with "chunkiness". I have never been "sloppy fat", but that too is a problem. My body stores fat in my trunk and that fat does not feel like sponge.
It feels solid. And research I have done indicates that's the most dangerous kind. Solid fat is stored around vital organs and can lead to infarction, stroke, and other interesting health difficulties.
At my annual VA checkup in April I weighed in at 235 pounds. My A1C indicated I was diabetic. My eye check was a relief; no damage SO FAR. I'd like to continue to pass eye exams and flight physicals, so I realized it was time to get serious.

We've been here in Gilbert, AZ two months, and have been walking from 3 to 6 miles daily depending on mood.
The dog enjoys it. Us? Ehh... At times it's hard to get in the mood.
But this is no longer a game.
This morning I got on my scale.
It read 199.

And my blood glucose reading is back in the normal range.
I feel great. My stomach has flattened. Sara Jean is pleased.
But WOW... I want pizza, ice cream, mashed potatoes, wine/beer!

My intent is for my scale to say 185.
When I get there I'll have to take a hard look at a maintenance diet.

Life ain't fair, is it?
And as you've no doubt heard, getting old(er) sux.

Radio Ga-Ga

I come from the age of vacuum operated windshield wipers, balloon-tire bicycles, and TV Repairmen.
Our family had one TV. I'm afraid my memory is faulty, but I remember the set was so small it had a handle on top so it could be carried from one room to another... (12-inch?).
It had vacuum tubes. 
You'd turn the thing on and initially there'd be a tiny dot appear on the center of the screen. Then when the tubes warmed up, which took about 30 seconds, the black and white(!) picture would appear.
The integral speaker was probably five inches or so in diameter.
We knew nothing different. We thought it was great.
I LOVED "The Steve Allen Show"!

Vacuum tubes wore out.
Local hardware and drug stores had machines that could test 'em, and had replacement tubes for sale.
When the set failed you'd remove all the tubes and carry them in a brown paper sack for testing.
If the tubes all tested "normal" your heart sank 'cause there was one recourse-
You called the TV Repairman.

This guy was always covered up with work. It would inevitably take him DAYS to work on your set.
We knew nothing different...
Grit your teeth and tolerate the denial of stimulation.
And resort to the next-best-thing-
The radio.
AM radio.

In my adolescence, Soap Operas were still being played during mid-day.
I can remember my babysitter listening to "Guiding Light" at Noon.
Mornings were devoted to Ruth Lyon's breakfast show broadcast out of Cincinnati.
Evenings, DJ's would spin records.
During summertime we listened to the broadcast of White Sox games out of Chicago.
With no TV, we accepted what was broadcast and were glad to have it.

It's very odd now how the memories of those "No TV" periods are some of my fondest.
I think of 'em every time I hear-
"G'night John-Boy.
G'night Grandpa!"

Give Me Sanctuary!

Analogy-

Mom and Dad owned lakefront property.
A breeding pair of Canada Geese started feeding on their land. Mom and Dad, (wildlife lovers), thought they were beautiful, and bought a 
50-lb bag of cracked corn to entice the geese to stick around. It worked. The breeding pair hatched a brood of 8 goslings and Mom and Dad enjoyed watching the family thrive and grow.
Winter came, and all the geese flew to warmer climes.

Next Spring, Mama and Papa goose came back. The eight goslings also returned, bringing their mates with them... eighteen birds in total.
Mom and Dad bought more cracked corn. By mid-summer they, retired and on a limited budget, became pretty vocal about the cost of feeding their adopted, feathered friends.
Mama and Papa goose and all the other gooses had broods of 6-8 goslings. Dad watched as an adult from one family attacked and drowned one of the little ones from another family.
What uncivilized behavior! This, and the fact that their waterfront was now covered in goose excrement, began to give them concern.
Winter came. Geese departed. Spring returned.
And so did ALL the geese.
It was impossible to count them all.
Mom and Dad called the State Department of Natural Resources.
No one knows how they did it or what they did, but the geese disappeared.
And Mom and Dad's retirement funds were no longer spent on cracked corn.

Psychology and Sociology 101:
You get MORE of what you reward.
We must insure that we reward behavior that makes the world a better place.

Our Carbon Footprint

Five years ago I bought a Yamaha "Super Tenere" adventure bike to leave behind here in Phoenix for my son to use, and for us to use while we're here during Winter. Until now the bike has given us 30,00 trouble-free miles and has been a pleasure to ride.
When our son went out to ride just before Christmas, the bike failed to start. The starter would spin the motor and the bike would cough as if a cylinder was firing now and then, but that was as close as it would come to running. Holidays approaching, we postponed taking the bike to the shop thinking they'd probably be working with a skeleton crew 'til after New Year's. Still, we delivered the bike to them on the 30th of December.

Nearly two weeks later we hadn't heard from them. We called.
"We'd like you to come see this!"
Uh-Oh.

In the shop, the bike looks like a bomb hit it...
Side covers off. Gas tank off. Air cleaner system off. Radiators (two of 'em) detached and laid off and out of the way. Both throttle bodies- ditto.
It looks sad.

But all this work exposes the intake system, and allows us to look at the intake valves.
And they are a MESS. There's a half inch of carbon caked around the stem, extending outward almost a quarter inch. An accumulation of gunk like this HAD to have had an effect on the gas/fuel mixture entering the bike's combustion chamber!
What would cause such a phenomenon?

"How do you ride this bike?"

My son has used to bike mostly to commute to/from work. He rides city streets 10 minutes to the freeway, then spends another 20 minutes riding 65+- mph there. At this speed the bike is turning about 2,000 RPM.
And there, apparently, is the problem-
He should be putting more stress on this engine!

Our parents used to talk about "blowing the engine out" now and then by taking the car onto the open road and "opening her up".
Turns out that's true.

And this is why it was a good idea for Granny to take her "Brand-new, shiny red, Super Stock Dodge" to the drags. (Thanks, Jan and Dean!)

And our behavior on the bike will have to change.

A Baby Is Born!

I've always been one to listen to lyrics. If you suffer from this same affliction and, like me, enjoy a "seasonal boost", I hope you enjoy this one as much as I did: 

Shade-Tree Mechanics, R.I.P.

Points. Plugs. Condensor.
Change the oil and filter.
I grew up twisting wrenches on my own car and these were tasks I did myself, with SOME frequency.
Now?
I lift the hood on our Ford Taurus and the entire engine is covered with a big piece of plastic.
You cannot SEE the engine. (And even if ya could, there are no points and condensor... They've been replaced by electronic ignition.)
There is no carburetor to adjust...
Instead, fuel injection feeds the engine and the whole shebang is controlled by something called the "Engine Control Module".
There ARE still sparkplugs buried under that cover somewhere... 
and I DO mean buried, with their own individual "coils"... another thing that once sat on top of the engine in plain sight and also needed changing "back when", if only once in a Blue Moon.

The Yamaha Super Tenere I left here in Phoenix for my son to ride now has 25,000+ miles on its bones. Last week it failed to start when called upon. We were three days away from arriving in Phoenix for Winter, so I advised him I'd have a look when I got here.
Like the Taurus, the bike is fuel-injected and has electronic ignition. So I knew there'd be precious little I could check in hopes of making it spring to life.
But I did figure maybe the spark plugs were the problem, and since it only has a two-cylinder engine how hard could it possibly be to remove and replace the spark plugs on the beast?

Ha.
First, you must remove the plastic covers that inevitably hide all the workings of all machines these days.
Having done that, I found you CANNOT see the spark plugs. 
So I resorted to "YouTube" for an education.
Remove the plastics. Remove the 6-gallon gas tank and the big air cleaner it covers. Then, there beneath lots of wiring and plumbing reside the plugs, (FOUR of 'em!)  with their special whats-it attachments (?) on top, (and don't those 'cause they're VERY expensive.)

I surrendered.
The bike is at the Yamaha dealership for repair.
Of course, since I can't do it myself, the bill will be $$$$$$$$$$.

Entertainment Overload

Growing up in the mesozoic era we were forced to adjust the "Rabbit Ears" antenna to receive channels 4, 6, 8, and 13. 
I can remember turning on the TV early in the morning when the only signal being broadcast was a "test pattern". If we weren't particularly interested in programming being offered at a certain time we'd watch anyway... something was better than nothing, right?

Fast forward to today.
Here in our Winter quarters we have "Dish Network" satellite TV.
We get 40 or so channels snatched from the air via our attached  "Terk" antenna, (although about 18 of 'em speak in a tongue I no habla.)
Via our Roku, we get Hulu, Sling, Newsmax, CRTV, Blaze TV, (those last two have merged now), Netflix, Prime Video, and a number of others.
It's overwhelming.

And the most ironic thing of all?
Sometimes I flip through all of it and can't find anything I'm really interested in watching.
So I read a book or magazine.

Obama Legacy

Losing the Black Panther polling place case by default.
World apology tour.
"The cops acted stupidly."
IRS/Lois Lerner scandal.
Using govt. assets to pursue the Associated Press and James Rosen.
Withdrawing troops from Iraq against the advice of military leadership, then having to return.
"If I had a son, he'd look like Trayvon Martin."
"Al Qaeda is dead."
"ISIS is the Junior Varsity."
Ft. Hood massacre- "Workplace violence", not terrorism.
The idea of a "Calliphate" coming to fruition is ridiculous.
"Our Southern border is more secure than it has ever been."
"Russia is no threat."
"Tell Vladimir I'll have more flexibility after the election."
"You didn't build that!"

I'm sure my list is incomplete.
Can you add to it?

The Jaguar

It was so beautiful, I was thunderstruck the first time I saw one...
The Jaguar XKE.
Compared to this rolling work of art, everything else looked like a cardboard box.
Of course, I couldn't afford it.

Years pass.
In early 1968 I'm in primary flight school at Ft. Wolters, TX. One of my classmates owns a '66 Corvette convertible. He likes his car but itches for a change. That's when, in a parking lot, we saw the '64 Jaguar XKE.
Then we saw the owner...
A cute secretary working on the base. The Jag gave him a perfect way to approach her.
"How do you like your Jag?"

She liked the car just fine, but the maintenance and parts situation for the car were a constant hassle.
"I own a Corvette. Would you be interested in working a trade?"
She was. They did.
During the negotiations he started dating her.
Before we departed Ft. Wolters, they married.
And he got his 'Vette back.

Have you looked at the price of XKE's lately?
WOW!

Pick-em-ups

In my mid-teens my best friend's Dad had a '53 Ford F-100 pickup truck. It was all black and had a 239 cubic inch Flathead V-8 engine and a "three on the tree" standard transmission. It was simple and sorta elegantly classic.
I lusted after it.

We are in Destin. A couple we have met here for several years showed up again last week in their new Chevy Silverado pickup. It's beautiful. It's all bling and chrome.
It is NOT simple, or elegantly classic. What it IS, is HUGE.

My mind went back to friend Steve's Dad's sweet '53 F-100...
Parked next to this Silverado it would look like a compact.
And, I think, in most circumstances it would draw more admirers.
Is bigger ALWAYS better?

Email

Several months back I made the mistake of completely resetting my computer.
In doing so, I lost many of the tools I use because I didn't record passwords. I was able to recover many of them, but my old Juno email account wanted $$$$ to send me my password, and I had been toying with the idea of letting that account die anyway because they charged an annual fee.
IF you were someone I used to correspond with via email, I have lost your address.
Please establish a new pathway with me by emailing me at Olddad65athotmail.com.
I'll delete this post after a short period of time.

Getting Home, 2018

We boarded the taxi at Ciampino airport to make our way to our evening quarters near the "Leonardo Da Vinci" airport without first insuring the driver accepted credit cards. She had informed us the ride would take about 45 minutes and would cost us about 80 Euros (!).
Ten minutes into the ride we realized we should first have asked about the payment options.
She wanted cash. We had 20 Euros between us.
"I can take you to an ATM" she said. Sara Jean had never used an ATM. And ME? That's me sitting just behind the driver, pained look on my face, with the cast on my right leg and crutches at my side.
I was proud of my wife when she emerged from the strange location with enough cash in hand to get us to our destination.

The Bed and Breakfast was clean, more than adequate, and the lady running it was wonderful. We paused for a moment to drink a bottle of water, then Big Bubba wanted to show us a place he had eaten at before during an earlier visit to Rome. He called an Uber and we soon found ourselves eating REAL Italian food in the shadow of the Coliseum. We returned to the B&B tired to the bone, chatted for a few minutes, then went to bed knowing we had to be up and headed to the airport by 0400.

Having a broken ankle when flying is amazing.
They bring you a wheelchair. You go to the head of the line for boarding passes; to go through security, and then they load you onto a "lift truck" to get you aboard the airplane.
We felt like Royalty... with a broken leg.
Rome to Copenhagen... Copenhagen to Reykavik.
A three hour layover for our flight home gave us time to get a bite and be entertained, watching Icelanders and tourists scurry around. From Iceland we flew with "WOW" Airlines... never heard of 'em, but the flight was comfortable and the crew was attentive to my special needs. The flight on WOW got us home in 7 hours... exhausted again.

So, wrapping up, what can we share with ya?
When we booked the cruise I was hesitant to buy the travel insurance. $532 seemed pretty steep for something I'd probably not need. My agent cautioned me... "You'll be a long way from home, dealing with many things you can't imagine." I told her to add it to the bill. That 5 hundred dollar expenditure has now saved us almost $25,000. Buy the insurance!

Greece is exotic. The food and people are wonderful. But in Athens, there is graffiti on every available surface. In places there is graffiti on graffiti.
There are almost as many mopeds, scooters, and motorcycles as there are cars. Traffic can be heart-stopping.
When I fell in Santorini and realized I'd need medical care I was naturally concerned. I should not have been... my care there was "top drawer". Only after I thought about it a while did I remember that Hippocrates was Greek.

We want to go back.
But I hate the idea of being trapped on a piece of pipe with attached wings for more than five hours.
We may take a boat next time.
And I'll not hesitate to buy the travel insurance.

When in Rome-

Rehash-
Our cruise of the Greek islands was interrupted when I compound-fractured my right ankle.
Because of this, I spent a week in a hospital in Athens, and got WONDERFUL care there. But we were instantly kicked off the cruise ship when I was injured, halfway through the planned cruise.
Our son, once the dust settled and he realized I was gonna be okay, figured, "I'm in Europe. I'm gonna go see some stuff I've always wanted to see here." So off he went to Malta, then to Zurich where he rented a car and toured the Alps.
Before I broke my ankle our plan was to disembark the boat in Rome, spend a few days in Italy, then fly home from there. My hospital stay used up all the time Sara Jean and I had hoped to spend in Northern Italy. But we still needed to get to Rome to use the flight reservations we had made to use after the cruise ended.

We landed at Rome's Ciampino airport two hours before our son's pending arrival, so with me still hobbling awkwardly on crutches when I wasn't being pushed around in an airport wheelchair, we went to the restaurant to get a bite to eat while we waited on his arrival.

When Big Bubba called to say he had arrived we gave him instructions to meet us in the restaurant and waited. And waited. And waited.
He called again to make sure he had gotten correct directions.
And we waited to see him. And waited.

It turns out, Rome has TWO airports...
Ciampino and Leonardo Da Vinci.
We were separated by an hour's drive.

While we hired a taxi to meet him, Big Bubba went to the Bed and Breakfast he had reserved for us near the Leonardo Da Vinci airport.

And I found out being on crutches makes ALL movement a pain in the butt.

Dr. George

My Greek Surgeon's name was George Papagiandopolous.
Dr. George was proud of his skills. He asked where we were from, then related that he comes to the U.S. every two years to attend Ortho refresher courses.
"I've been to San Diego, San Antonio, and Chicago", he said proudly.

We were sorta in a pinch. In order to use the reservations we had originally made for getting home from our cruise we needed to depart Athens for Rome on Thursday. Dr. George was concerned about flying with my fresh injury.
His worry was that I'd form an air bubble that would travel through my bloodstream and cause problems. With my EMS experience I knew this to be a valid fear...
Anytime we had embolism patients on board my helicopter, we tried to transport the patient at the lowest safe altitude. 
Doc George came into our room and said he'd allow the flight, but he wanted to be sure we were aware of the risks. He discussed what we should do if I had serious breathing problems in flight, then gave us warfarin (blood thinner) tablets, and four syringes of blood thinning liquid in case the worst happened. To Sara Jean he said in Greek accented but perfectly understandable English-
"If he begins to have difficulty breathing, inject him with one of the syringes and call me IMMEDIATELY, no matter what!"
Then he said "Let's take a group photo!", and gave his camera to one of the technicians to take a photo of he, Sara Jean, one of my Nurses, and me. 
I now wish I had asked him for a copy of that photo!

 The gal from Accounts Receivable came in to discuss payment of our bill.
"You cannot be discharged until your bill is paid in FULL."
Wow. Could I be held prisoner in this Athens hospital?
"How much do we owe?"
"22,000 Euros" she said with a smile.

Zowie.
I called my Credit Card issuer and checked on my available credit. I explained the situation and said, "I need to extend that if possible".
And, thank Goodness, we could.

Thursday morning I was wheeled to the front door. We hailed a cab and I awkwardly "crutched" my way into it. We then drove to the hotel Sara Jean had been staying in while I was recovering. We ate a great meal at the rooftop restaurant which also had a view of the Acropolis, and watched as a Thunderstorm crackled its way over the city dumping quite a bit of rain. The motorscooters and cycles continued to ply the streets as if weather was fine.

The flight Thursday morn to Rome was uneventful, except I was moved everywhere in a wheelchair by an airport employee and we went to the head of the line for everything... tickets, security, and after the flight, baggage claim. I'll have more to say about this in a later post.

We landed at Rome's Ciampino airport two hours before our son's scheduled arrival, so we went to the airport restaurant for lunch while we waited.
And at this point, we begin another adventure.

Help! Part VII

My two friends from Physical Therapy showed up every day for the rest of my stay at the "Central Clinic of Athens". A guy and a gal, neither was a fluent English speaker, so trying to tell me how to coordinate my movements and use correct posture to keep me from busting my butt was almost laughable.
But practice makes perfect and I got better with the crutches on a daily basis.

My private balcony with the view of the Acropolis beckoned. But there was an obstacle-
There was a four-inch elevated sill at the bottom of the sliding door that I had to negotiate in order to get onto the patio.
It's hard to describe the scenario now. I'd been flat on my back for almost a week. My right foot is painfully swollen; traumatically injured. The leg I now must depend on is NOT my dominant leg, and it is weak from a week of inactivity.
The first time I attempted the trip to the patio my 
Physical Therapy friends suggested it. They knew how hard this short journey would be for me. To accomplish the task 
I hobble over to, and open the sliding door. Now comes the hard part... coordinating what really amounts to a "hop" while putting almost no weight on my damaged ankle. The sill is about four inches wide. I'm advised to put my damaged right foot on the sill, then, supporting my weight on my crutches, use the damaged foot as a stabilizer while I use my arms/crutches to lift my left foot onto the sill and balance there. (Shaky!)
From there I place my aching right foot out onto the balcony and repeat the process to finish the trip. It's amazing how hard and scary it was.
But I did it. And each day it got easier and my confidence level improved.

Pain is a funny thing. Different folks experience it differently. When asked, I describe my pain as "more of an irritation" than real pain. At this point I'm still at about a 3 on a scale of ten. The liquid Tylenol continues to control my pain level well, but, trying to sleep, the irritation, coupled with the bulk of my new almost to the knee cast, keeps me from sleeping comfortably.

We had made reservations to fly out of Rome where we would have disembarked the ship had we completed our cruise. The Ortho Surgeon came in to discuss how I'm doing. He speaks nearly perfect English and wants to know where we're from. He brags about coming to the States to attend Ortho refresher courses every two years... San Antonio. Chicago. San Diego.
We like the guy. He's a little loud; confident.
My care in Greece has been wonderful, and I'm hopeful this guy has been good with his hands. He's concerned about me flying. "When do you need to leave?
Oooooh." (Lifts hand to chin and displays a worried look.) He's worried about my still-open wound throwing an embolism as possible gases there expand during our flight. "We'll talk about this later", he says.
We've been planning to fly to Rome at our scheduled time, reunite with Big Bubba, spend the evening, then fly home the next day.
Now we're worried that things might get complicated.

Help! Part VI

"Painkiller", she announced as she approached the IV pole on my left. Four seconds after the fluid started dripping I could feel the coolness of it as it entered my bloodstream.
I was being fed, hydrated, sedated, through this line. My pain had been minimal. I wondered what medicine they were giving me for pain and the answer was "Paracetamol".
"Huh?" Whazzat?
Later when I could use my laptop I found out it was liquid acetaminophen... Tylenol.
When they asked I would rate my pain at "about a two or three" from a scale of ten. The Tylenol was working just fine.

My first night in the ICU after surgery I actually turned onto my right side comfortably. Pressing my head solidly against the bed I heard the whirring sound of an electric motor.
What the heck is that?
A day later I figured it out on my own... I was lying on an air mattress that automatically inflated and deflated different chambers to prevent bed sores. I was hearing the compressor whirring, doing its job, and doing it VERY well.

After two full days in the ICU I was moved upstairs to a private room. It had a regular hospital bed with IV pole alongside, and a mobile dinner platform from which I could eat regular solid food!
My room was on the sixth floor. The TV mounted to the far wall had about 15 channels, two of which were English, so we could understand what was being said. Local Greek TV carried LOTS of game shows like "Wheel of Fortune". It was fun to watch contestants get excited in Greek. Local news was interesting, but indecipherable. Later at night, a couple American action shows were broadcast in English... with Greek subtitles!
My adjacent bathroom had a toilet, sink, and shower, and against the wall had a desk and chair. Since I was forbidden to walk unassisted, this room went unused except for my sponge baths. Outside a sliding glass door from my bed was a great view of the Acropolis from about a half mile or so. At night those ruins were well lit... absolutely gorgeous!

Breakfast was toast with real butter, a boiled egg, juice, and tea or coffee. Simply being able to finally chew my food seemed wonderful. Lunch was normally soup, some sort of meat or chicken, more toast, and a couple slices of some sort of white cheese.
AND... a glass of wine. The first day Sara Jean watched me eat lunch, to my server she feigned regret that she too wasn't served wine. My attendant went immediately and got her a glass!

Every morning my foot felt better by a tiny fraction.
The third day a guy and gal came in and said, "We're from therapy. We teach you to use these..." and showed me the crutches that come halfway up your arms, ending around the elbow.
They assisted me in walking about ten feet, then turned me around. I wobbled.
Getting back into bed, I felt tired.
This is gonna be a long journey.

Help! Part V

"Mr. David! Mr. David!"
A hand on my left shoulder gently shakes me.
I wake and through bleery eyes look at the big clock on the wall. It is 0530 hours. I've been asleep four and a half hours.
"We must clean you for surgery."

Off go the bedclothes. Off go my shirt, cargo shorts, and underwear.
Administering my "cleaning" are a man and woman that were working around the ICU when I first arrived.
I'm a modest guy. This is the first time I have been naked in the presence of a female involuntarily.
I am embarrassed. (I'll soon learn to get over it.)

They apparently have NO washcloths in all of Europe. They use a damp sponge with mild soap to cleanse my body, then wipe me down with a clean towel. I'm embarrassed to be nude, but being clean is still quite pleasant. When I am King of the world, I'll have nubile young women to bathe me all the time!

They bring in a gurney and I struggle to shift my body over onto it. I am wheeled to the O.R..
There are eight or so technicians bustling, (and I DO mean bustling. All were working efficiently, and obviously had specific jobs they were intent on doing.)
One of them produces a magic marker and, on my right leg, scribes an arrow point toward my ankle, the total length of my right thigh. I know WHY they do this, but still wonder about the intelligence of a professional that needs this kind of guidance to properly do this surgery.

A technician appears over my head with an oxygen mask. He informs me, "This is only oxygen", and puts the mask over my mouth and nose. Another technician on my right side, puts a syringe in my IV port. From previous colonoscopies I assume it is Propofol.
The next thing I hear is, "Mr. David! Mr. David! Wake up. It's over."
Amazing.

I feel no pain.
I am back in the ICU.
The big clock on the wall says it is 1100 hours.

Yes, I am relieved.

Help! Part IV

My leg is throbbing, but I'm grateful I feel almost no pain... just discomfort.
I can see the "Azamara Journey" at anchor in the distance, but I'm not going there.
I'm awaiting some sort of boat to take me to another landing on the Island where an ambulance will meet me and take me to get the medical care I need.

One of the Tinders shows up and I am assisted aboard, Sara Jean at my side.
We motor close to shore for about 15 minutes, then I'm again assisted off the boat by the boat and ambulance crew. The ambulance crew seats me in a chair and literally lifts me into the ambulance, then secures the chair to the ambulance floor.

We start the uphill climb in the ambulance.
Similar to the stairs at Fira, only on a scale large enough for cars and trucks, the roadway zigzags back and forth up the cliff. From the landing to the top of the hill seems to take forever, although the total time lapsed was probably five minutes or so.
We arrive at the Clinic in Thira, Santorini, and I'm lifted out of the ambulance and wheeled in for a pretty thorough lookover after they have cleaned the wound...
X-rays of my leg from several angles. Blood samples. Chest X-ray.
Two Doctors here both speak decent English, thank God. 
This is just the beginning of what we can only call WONDERFUL medical care we received in Greece.

Big Bubba shows up at the Clinic with our luggage. When he went back to the ship they told him to pack all our bags and disembark. Our cabin attendant assisted him in this task. How he handled four fairly LARGE bags is beyond me!

The Clinic shows me the X-rays and tells me what I already know... I am seriously injured and will need surgery. Surgery is scheduled for 0700 hours the next morning.
They make reservations on Aegean Airlines on the next flight out for the three of us.
We get hugs and "Good Luck" wishes in English with heavy Greek accent from Doctors and technicians as we leave for the airport.

At the airport I am transferred into a regular wheelchair. My entire family gets priority treatment through security. A "High Lift" truck arrives and I am loaded aboard. The size of a small room, it lifts me and my wheelchair to the back door of the Airbus 320. The three of us are the last people to board the airplane and we occupy the last row of seats on the starboard side.

The flight to Athens takes 45 minutes. Another High Lift truck awaits us there. We are the last to disembark the airplane, and are once again given priority handling to pick up our bags.
I'm beginning to realize I might want to break a leg before I ever fly in another airliner...
Other than the "looks" I get from other passengers as we go "to the head of the line", this priority handling business is pretty neat!

I'm again lifted and secured in an ambulance and we motor half an hour to the "Central Clinic of Athens". The hospital is clean and bright. I'm taken to the ICU where they transfer me to a bed and establish an IV port on the backside of my hand through which to administer drugs.
Sara Jean and Big Bubba are allowed to come in individually to hug me, then depart for a hotel nearby.

They administer painkiller and, I'm certain, something to help me sleep.
It is 0100 hours.
And... I sleep better than I would have imagined.

To be continued.

Help! Part III

"Are you okay?"
Some of these questions are asked by passersby who obviously don't speak English as a primary language.
I'm holding a napkin one of them offered against the wound. That napkin, and my right tennis shoe are rapidly filling with dark, burgundy-wine colored blood.
"No... I have no doubt I have broken my ankle."

One of the donkey teams passes by; the leader of the pack shouting at the animals to motivate them further down the cliff.
"Are you okay sir?", in heavily Greek accented English. I reply that I'm hurt.
"We will send someone to help", he says.

Another team of donkeys passes. A couple in that team stops, dismounts, and insists Sara Jean and I mount their animals. I'm worried about this...
One good leg. Probably, (almost certainly), in a mild state of shock. How safe can I be on this animal? How ironic would it be to mount up trying to head to safety, only to fall off the donkey's back and crash to the hard walkway below and further hurt myself?

We have sent Big Bubba ahead for help. I make the decision to mount up, and hope to meet litter carriers on their way up to fetch me. At least this donkey ride may help cut the rescue time somewhat.
The guy and his wife that originally rented the donkeys help Sara Jean and I climb aboard. I'm pleasantly surprised I can get on the animal's back. SJ has never ridden a horse, or a donkey, and she's no doubt more worried than me about this downhill trek.
My newfound rescuer stays alongside me, continually asking, "Do you feel faint? If you get light-headed you LET ME KNOW!" He's smart enough to know what a risk we're taking.
Sara Jean continues to make sounds like she's not at all happy to be aboard an animal that is just as unhappy to be headed downhill, away from its stable, food, and water.

We go downhill, turn, go downhill, turn, go downhill, turn...
I'm hanging on for dear life to a saddle that has no horn like I'm accustomed to on a horse. On this saddle there is a hole big enough to put both hands into to hold on. My strength is suspect.
I'm doin' the best I can.

Downhill, turn. Downhill, turn.
Finally we reach the water's edge. Thank Goodness there's a wall wide enough for me to dismount the animal. An argument ensues between the donkey leader and the folks that originally rented the animals... he wants to be paid again for his trouble. They refuse, telling him they already paid for the ride and they are NOT gonna pay again. Much shouting goes on for awhile, but my new American friends stand fast.
With help from two strong guys, I hop to a chair and sit down, just glad to be off the cliff.
A man introduces himself as "An agent of the boat". He says he'll help us to get the help we need.
Our luggage is still on the ship. We assume our son is headed back from the boat, having informed them of our situation. The "boat agent" informs us we are NOT going back to the ship; we are to be transported to a clinic in Santorini, then airlifted to a hospital in Athens.
Bummer.
Our wonderful cruise is over. They're throwing us off the ship.
(To be continued.)

Help! Part Two-

(If you have not read part 1, scroll down and read the post below first.)

We had been sitting in the small, poorly ventilated cable car about half an hour. We'd hear a warning buzzer and the door would close, then almost immediately reopen. It was obvious something was wrong with the apparatus... not a confidence inspiring situation when your life depends on man-made stuff to work exactly as advertised.
Finally, an attendant came and said, "The lift is broken. You can wait for it to be fixed, or you can get a refund and choose another way down."
A special buffet dinner was set up for the evening on the ship and we had an hour to get back for it. The walk downhill on the steps would take 30 minutes. It was time to get going. So we got going.

The steps are wide. They consist of softball-sized stones embedded in concrete and are worn and slick in some places, but I felt no danger walking them. The view? Incredible. Our destination, the "Azamara Journey", lay peacefully anchored in the water  before us, looking like a toy ship from our perspective.
With the lift inoperable, lots of people were doing the same thing we were... hiking down. So there were lots of individuals on the steps combined with the up and down traffic of the donkey teams also carrying folks back to the tenders. It was busy, but still not worrisome. I couldn't keep my eyes off the view below. THIS experience was the entire reason we had scheduled this $$$$$ cruise!

There are places in the steps where repairs have been made and the edges of the steps have been rounded into slopes, rather than 90-degree edge steps.
I was an idiot. I was gawking at the beautiful sight below. I was NOT paying close attention to where my feet fell. I stepped on one of the "repairs" and felt my leg slip. My dominant (right) leg immediately got deployed to break my fall. What happened then seemed to unfold in slow motion-
I looked down at my right ankle just in time to see it turn to an angle no ankle should ever reach. At that point the skin separated enough I could see the ball exposed on the inside of the ankle, and a jagged piece of bone tearing the skin. Absolutely NO question... it was broken.
Still, you don't want to believe this is happening to you.
I tried to get to my feet. The right foot wobbled like a mechanic's universal joint.

I'm halfway down the long, long steps at Santorini with pedestrian and donkey traffic moving all around me. I cannot get down on my own. What happens now?
Will the ship or someone at the landing send a stretcher up to fetch me?
Will they send a donkey for me to ride down... with a bum foot and probably in a state of shock?
I'm angry about putting myself and my family in this situation.
I HATE being out of control.

But here I am... out of control.
(To be continued.)

Help! I've Fallen And I Can't Get Up!

Just getting to the Mediterranean is difficult. We spent the better part of a full day in airplanes and airports just to get to Athens, Greece. We arrived feeling like Zombies, and taxi'ed to our hotel.

Athens is a puzzle. It is OLD, but it has modern facilities. Traffic is horrible... lots of small cars and a nearly equal number of motorcycles and motorscooters, ridden by helmetless riders zipping in and out between cars and buses and lane-splitting. I feared for their lives more than they did!

At the hotel our room had single beds for the three of us, a TV with six or so channels... all in Greek with the exception of CNN and MSNBS. Ugh.
It had ONE power outlet... marked 240V. Luckily, this ain't Big Bubba's first European rodeo, and he brought along an adapter/converter.

Following morning we ate a (free with room) breakfast buffet, then departed for the Acropolis on foot... 8-tenths of a mile... uphill, through very narrow streets lined with shops and streetside cafes.
The Acropolis was PACKED with people. Most of these people were consumed by stopping in the middle of walkways in order to take "selfies". Trying to navigate the grounds was irritating, to say the least. I wondered... "Is there a season to come with fewer self-absorbed people here?"

Walking back to the hotel we depended on Big Bubba's GPS to direct there safely. We stopped at a cafe we had passed on the way up and had a very nice lunch, with people, dogs and cats literally walking through the narrow street that ran through the middle of the restaurant. There are lots and lots of cats around. I assume they are tolerated by residents to keep the rodent population under control.

We boarded the cruise ship, the "Azamara Journey" Sunday. It's amazing to watch how these cruise businesses efficiently handle people and baggage to get them aboard. The whole process took less than half an hour.

Our Stateroom was small, but adequate, with a queen-size bed and a chair that made into a single for BB. Our TV had many channels to choose from, including Fox News! Hooray!
This is a small ship, with only 700 passengers. The other cruises we have taken had ships containing 3000 guests. We've decided we MUCH prefer the smaller ships.

We woke Monday anchored in the harbor at Mykonos. After breakfast we tendered to the Island and walked around. It is clean, bright, (whitewashed structures, like many of the islands), and safe feeling.

Tuesday morning found us at the pier in Kusadasi, Turkey. Again, after breakfast, we made our way to buses for the 30-minute ride to Ephesus. It is impossible to describe what is happening there.
It was a city of 240,000 people until earthquakes and the adjacent river showed us that Mother Nature is ALWAYS in charge. We took a two-hour walking tour and were surrounded by ancient relics the entire time. Ephesus, (and virtually ALL the Mediterranean), makes us reflect how "shiny and new" our country still is.

Wednesday morning we woke in Rhodes, Greece. Old, old, old fortifications on the pier and in sight just off the bow of the ship indicate this was an important place that needed to be protected. Although we stayed in town, relatively close to the ship, there were available tours to be taken to many ancient, beautiful sites. One day, we intend to return and see them when we can do it more leisurely.

Thursday we opened our curtain to a breathtaking sight.
We were anchored in the harbor at Santorini, really the reason for booking the entire cruise. The whitewashed town at the top of the hill was Fira, accessible by cable lift cars, up 500 steps via walking, or by donkey. The cruise director warned we should ONLY take the cable cars... the steps are slippery and treacherous! We went up via the lift... about $7.
From there we walked to a scooter rental place and rented ATV's to ride to another town on the island... Oia. The views along the way were simply SPECTACULAR. It's unfair really for the driver, because you must concentrate on the road and not the great views. Run off the road in certain places and it'll be a long time before you say "oof" and are injured or killed.

We arrived in Oia, parked the 4-wheelers, and started walking the walkways. For my FaceBook friends, many photos and videos will be posted there to show how magnificent this place is... I'm guessing almost 2000 feet above the water.
We stopped at a restaurant for refreshments and a bite to eat, then returned to the ATV's for the ride back to Fira.

We returned the machines and made our way back to the lift, bought our tickets to ride back down the hill, and entered our little car.
And sat. And sat. And sat.
We sat for 30 minutes in 90-degree heat before someone finally came to tell us the lift was out of service. We could either wait to see if it was fixed, or they would refund our money and we could walk or ride donkeys down.

And that, dear friends, begins the REST of the story, (to be continued).

Bank of (Part of) America-

Yesterday I closed two accounts with Bank of America... one of which had been active for over 35 years.
"Can I ask why you are closing these accounts?"
"Certainly. I'm a retired ARMY Viet Nam Veteran and I still support and defend the Constitution."
... Puzzled look on her face...
"I don't understand."
So I educated her.

Our country is in more trouble than I imagined.
And even reasonably intelligent people have NO idea.