The Carrot

(When I got out of the Army in 1973 and was looking to return to radio, Randy Jeffery took a chance and hired me.  At that time he had what was one of the best run and superb sounding stations in Florida.  WSIR was licensed to Winter Haven but sounded like it belonged in a major market.  Randy was the owner and general manager.  In a couple of years I moved on to Tampa and larger cities with Randy's blessing and continued support.  He later sold the station and became one of the most successful radio and television brokers in the country.  Eventually he and his wife, Kim, retired to Charleston, South Carolina to enjoy the good things of life.  Having recently completed treatment for cancer, Randy composed a note to family and friends that I found not only compelling and inspiring  but also just plain good medicine for those of us who have been touched by this disease.  He gave me the go ahead to share it here. Thanks Randy!  Save some oysters and lobsters for me.)

2 hours ago

Like many boys in the idyllic Norman Rockwellian 50's my performance always seemed better if there was a fantasy-like carrot attached, school grades being the exception.  In baseball at the plate, I was Ernie Banks and this at bat with a man on base could win it for the Chicago Cubs.  As an adult businessman fantasy gave way to reality, but each task carried more reward when it was attached to the achievement of an objective, either for a client, my company or my family.  A lifetime diet of carrots.

Most who know us are aware of the attachment we have to Dutch, our Sabre 48 boat and to coastal Maine.  For 13 years cruising has been an important part of our lives together and has taken us deep into the isolated wilderness of Canada's British Columbia on the West Coast to Nova Scotia on the right coast.  In between and early in the process we apprenticed for three summers in Northern Michigan on the Great Lakes, achieving USCG Master Captain status and for the next several years learned by doing the eastern seaboard of our country.  On very rare occasions piloting Dutch in angry seas has been like an Outward Bound experience, but at all times it is the shared experience of two people working together to achieve an objective and share in the maritime beauty our Creator has produced.

Shortly after the cancer diagnosis on March 15 and being only somewhat aware of the extent of the challenges ahead, I made getting to Maine, for at least part of the summer, the objective.  We consulted my doctors on the plan and all three concurred, but maybe with a discrete wink.  It could done, but only if all the pieces fell into the right place.  Maine became the latest carrot.

As Kim has often said, Dutch is our floating summer condo with a front and back yard view that changes every time we move to a new location.  But the real attraction is the deep, cold and clear waters of the Gulf of Maine and the many tributaries feeding it, also the craggy 3,478 miles of shoreline sculpted by nature and time and the endless collection of uninhabited islands.  Coastal Maine is unique, gorgeous, mysterious and a national treasure.  What could be a better carrot to help us remain positive, upbeat and diligent?

Something really remarkable and powerful occurred simultaneous with the diagnosis.  The prayers, love, cards, notes, food, visits and good wishes that we have been the beneficiaries of were overwhelming.  The kindness extended by so many has had an uplifting and sustained positive effect while adding to our strength and resolve.  Casual relationships have grown into meaningful friendships while deep friendships grew into a brother or sister type bond.  Most cancer patients would be hard pressed to find something positive to say about this miserable disease and its effective, but debilitating treatment..  Forming, growing or solidifying a friendship is definitely one of those benefits.

While the illness would delay our usual mid-June departure this year, in April I targeted a departure date of the second week of August.  Deep inside with all the variables associated with treatment and recovery, the unknowns and the fact any little bump in the road could derail progress and the departure by days to weeks.  There were serious private and unspoken concerns about seeing Maine this summer.

This was especially true when I was readmitted to the hospital for three days on June 25 with AFib and pneumonia.  It was a 72 hour psychedelic fog of medication induced hallucinations, confusion and fear.  It was to be the absolute worst period of my life, made better of course by Kim's presence only partially and uncomfortably asleep in the chair next to my hospital bed.

MUSC Doctors Eric Lentsch, John Kaczmar and Jennifer Harper, along with their team members, were sensational while their empathy was always on display.  All three have become friends and have earned a lifetime of respect.  We wouldn't have had them, or the warp speed fast track we were on, without the quarterbacking of our MUSC friend a fellow mariner, Dr. Claudio Schonholz.  Claudio instantly opened doors, getting us to all the right people, STAT!

When we were married nearly 40 years ago, we were mature adults with no tangible assets between us, but we had an unwaveringly strong belief in ourselves and our future.  I saw Kim as the kind, thoughtful, good hearted and strong willed, when required, person she is.  She has always been my inspiration and motivator to reach higher and try harder.  When it comes to recovery, there is no way my progress would be this advanced without her deep devotion, unwavering love, constant guidance, enforcement and reinforcement.

Under the command of Captain Eli Bliss, ten days ago Dutch made the voyage from Charleston to Portland, Maine where she now sits in the historic downtown Old Port Harbor.  First time she's gone anywhere when we weren't at her helm.

That brings us to this moment, 7:00am, Tuesday August 14th, exactly five months to the day since the diagnosis.  Kim has the window seat and 8 pound Lacey is asleep in her travel carrier under the seat in front of me.  Delta flight 2687 is taxiing to Charleston Airport's runway 33. We'll be in Portland before noon and on board Dutch by 12:30.

Thank you for bringing us to this moment to help make this carrot a reality.

Randy & Kim

Lacey

Dutch

For Posterity...

We don't write much anymore.  By "write" I mean longhand either cursive or print.  I'm reminded of this every time I need to add something to a grocery list, though even that's not necessary since Alexa moved in with me.  "Alexa add cheesy puffs and Mickey's Malt to my shopping list" is all that is required of me, though I have yet to figure out how to access the list when I'm actually shopping.  I'll have my eight year-old grandson explain it to me when he's here next week.  Until then I'll live with the usual challenge of deciphering my own illegible hand as I haphazardly navigate the supermarket like a desperate and hardly savvy Magellan.

Worse than marginally legible grocery lists is the near disappearance of real hand written letters.   I'm as guilty as the next person of this sad development.  My handwriting has gone from merely atrocious to downright appalling over the years.  Unless it's a Christmas card, the only way you'll hear from me is via email or a text.  It's, I guess, better for all of us with regard to clarity, though there is something cold and unemotional in typewritten print.  Who among us doesn't love to see a handwritten letter from an old friend in the mailbox?  When was the last time you received one of those?  If it weren't for grocery fliers, insurance company offers, various scams and form letters from the imbeciles in Congress, my mailbox would starve to death. How did this sneak up on us?  My guess is the Internet is the culprit.

My parents, both members of the Greatest Generation, had wonderful penmanship; they all did.  Handwriting was an important part of the school curriculum in the first half of the last century. However, like morals, geography and history, the Palmer Method of penmanship fell by the wayside beginning in the late 1950's.  To her great credit, my mom wrote a letter to me once a week from the time I left home in 1966 until dementia canceled her out in 2011.  She added my wife to her weekly missives once I married and was delighted that Linda promised to return the weekly favor of a letter to make up for my sporadic updates.  I have saved a great deal of this correspondence and will happily hand it over to my daughters before I tennis shoe the planet.  I think they'll appreciate reading them.

In looking over some of Mom's notes I'm struck by the positive spin she put on the ordinary stuff of life.  There are long paragraphs about how many loads of laundry she had done on a given day;  how hot the weather was, news of her golfing--she got a hole in one in her early 70's-- and how well she did playing bridge.  All of this of interest only to me and my family but I'm glad to have it for posterity in her hand.

Fishing through her letters I spied one from August of 2003 and in reading it found it resonated as she laments the hot Illinois weather.  (We're expecting a high of 104 today in North Idaho.)  Here's a small excerpt:

"The storms didn't come, thank heavens.  It's another cloudless, hot and sticky day.  I'll probably not venture out too much.  Good day to be lazy and just read.  Nothing HAS to be done but I'll probably call on a friend in a retirement home.  I usually take her a cookie or two when I go.
I hope this has been a good week for you."

Lots of Love,
Mom

Nothing big here except the fact that she wrote it and I received the message in her hand and her letters live on for her granddaughters and maybe many more generations to enjoy.  Perhaps we all should strive to pick up a pen or pencil from time to time to write a letter to a friend or relative.  Maybe a diary?  Life is too short and sweet for regret.  Write it down.  Your pen may offer future generations a look back through the window of time.

That Dog Is Crazy, But She Has Company

A blonde woman I know has two dogs, a male and a female.  Both are rescues living a dog's Life of Riley in her care.  She's an animal lover who is never spare with her affection or willingness to spend whatever it takes to insure the health of these two privileged pooches.  Were I of the canine persuasion there is no doubt in my mind that my fondest wish would be to get my kibble at her house.  In fact several of her friends dearly hope there is such a thing as reincarnation allowing them a shot to return as one of her rescues.  She is the patron saint of dogs.

I, on the other hand, though I love dogs, have always been "in need of improvement" when it came to canine care.  Our family always had dogs when I was a kid and, though my brother and I enjoyed playing with the mutts when we felt like it, we were often neglectful when it came to maintenance.  Mom took over the feeding and grooming when she tired of nagging and shaming us to do our doggy duty.  (Hey Steve, I said DUTY right here in the blog!)  As adults my brother became a much better dog owner.  He has two completely undisciplined Boston Terriers  that he loves and dotes on diligently, whereas I had a rescue dog during the years my daughters were young, whom I never  replaced once the girls were off to college and she off to bow wow heaven.  Terri, like most dogs, was the world's worst piggy bank.  A never ending pile of money went into her care which returned nothing but crap perpetually in need of being picked up (whenever the neighbors were looking).  In other words, if you're thinking reincarnation, it's wise to hope for something other than being a dog in my care.  It would be doggy hell.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, the blonde lady and her two dogs...

Davis, the Mr. Cool of dogs.  No barking, no b.s.

The male, Davis, (a very cool name indeed) is the Perry Como or Bing Crosby of dogs. (If you're under 50, Google those guys or maybe think Fonzie.)  Nothing phases the calm, cool and collected border collie.  He's friendly,  unflappable and--best of all--is not a barker.  The female, Dory, is his polar opposite.  She is the Lindsey Lohan of dogs, a bat shit crazy redhead who needs constant supervision and a jumbo prescription of Valium.  She barks, jumps, races around chasing anything that moves, both real and imaginary.  She belongs in puppy prison without possibility of parole.  That being said, I kind of dig her.  She's my kind of gal, sort of a Caril Ann Fugate to my Charlie Starkweather.  (It's history kids.  Look it up!)  We make a good team, though I confess she has me beat when it comes to chasing squirrels.

Helter Skelter eyes = Lindsey Lohan behavior

As of this writing the blonde lady is attempting to keep us both in line with strong discipline and rewards for good behavior.  So far neither of us has earned a gold star.  She's considering Prozac for both of us and a shock collar for me, the dunce cap and naughty chair having been resounding flops.  Hey, I can't live by her rules!

Well, it's nearly time to chase the neighbors' dog or maybe some dust motes or imaginary intruders.  Anything will do.  Perhaps we'll get a dog treat if we stay off the furniture.

Come on Dory, let's stir up a whole kettle of crazy.  This mutt is down to clown and, since genes will out, so am I.  Woof! Woof Woof Woof!

One dizzy bitch

Don't fall for the innocent look.  She's plotting her next move.

A Good Time At 7000 Feet

My family is small.  Two daughters and their husbands, a grandson, a brother, his wife and son, two first cousins and a second cousin comprise the entire posse.  My late wife's family is, by most measures, a considerable collection of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins numerous enough to require name tags to keep things straight.  It's a jolly clan in spite of political and geographical differences.  They genuinely care for each other and it works.  Luckily the Buckinghams continue to consider me a part of the clan and include me in their family celebrations,  for which I am grateful.  

This past week three of my nephews hosted a celebration of life for their parents at Sylvan Lake Lodge in the Black Hills of South Dakota and most of the family made it.  It was an unforgettable few days of laughter, great food, water sports, hiking and sightseeing in one of America's best locations.  If you haven't been, put it on your list of places to see before it's too late.  At least see Mount Rushmore.  It will make you proud to be an American.

Here are a few pictures...

George and the boys.

Getting around in the Black Hills is often interesting.

Fun at Sylvan Lake

Daughter, Katie, and her family

These guys like me because I gave each their first illegal drink.

Have you noticed how much younger pilots are these days?

Buckingham, party of thirty, your table is ready.

Raise The Drawbridge! Just Say NO To Hollywood North...

Hard to beat this.

Uh oh, there goes another one.
Cars with California plates have begun circling the neighborhood and it's getting a little scary.  Denizens of the once Golden State, apparently weary of insane taxes and the endless frustration of one party liberal lunatic rule, are in the process of discovering North Idaho and Coeur D' Alene in particular.  They have checkbooks at the ready and aren't afraid to use them.  TMZ has taken to calling our little slice of paradise "Hollywood North" because of all the celebrity ex-pats who've discovered the area.  Kanye and Kim anyone?

When I fled San Diego county four years ago for the shores of Lake Coeur D' Alene I thought it would be years before others discovered this dandy hideout but, according to the latest statistics, I now live in the fastest growing county in the fastest growing state in the union.  Crap!  Houses and condos all around me are selling at an amazing rate and price doesn't seem to matter.  All the gold in California gives every impression of no longer being in a vault in Beverly Hills in somebody else's name but northbound in a great big hurry.

So long peace and quiet.

Just last week two of my nearest neighbors sold their home to a couple from Santa Monica and yesterday my next-door neighbor, Cool Rick, a successful local real estate tycoon called to let me know that he just sold his place for a crazy amount of money and said he had several out of town jaspers ready to buy mine should I care to cash in.  It's not often you get the chance to double your money in four years.  Maybe it's worth thinking about?  I wonder what the market is like in Alaska?  I do have to live somewhere and could maybe get used to wearing a parka in June while dining on smoked moose and whale blubber.  Texas has some appeal, the only drawback being that it's full of Texans. The Black Hills of South Dakota are beautiful and still relatively undiscovered.  Deadwood has gambling too!  North Dakota?  Twenty million acres of cow toilet has little appeal.  Back to Florida?  Nah, it's full to overflowing with New Yorkers and assorted East Coasters looking to dodge ridiculous state tax bites.

What is a retired dilettante to do?!  Californians are on the way to Idaho towing their lifestyle behind them.  The 'hood could soon be gnarly.  I wonder if they know about our winters, or the bears?  We do have bears...and they're HUNGRY.  Bring cash and food.

Cool Rick: "I got their cash and I'm NOT going to Disney World!"

Bloody Mary? Bloody Crime!

A bloody crime!

Nothing exceeds like excess and there is excessive mischief going on in the world of adult beverages.  With stealth and a persistent effort to top each other, bartenders nationwide have taken to turning the most dependable and heretofore delightful eyeopener, the Bloody Mary, and created something very close to brunch at Caesar's Palace.  Whole chickens, hamburgers, skewers of shrimp,  assorted vegetables and scotched eggs are being jammed into perfectly good and, until now,  wonderfully simple tomato juice and vodka combinations.  These $50 and $60 abominations sport cutesy names like: Monster Mary and Chubby Mary.  Spot on monikers but lousy cocktails!

Where's the dog?

Why do some people feel it necessary to mess with perfection?  A Bloody Mary should be easy enough for shaky hands recovering from the previous night's debauch to prepare with ease.  As a public service this blog is ready to demonstrate proper Bloody Mary making simple enough for even the most intellectually challenged of us to master.  Don't mess this up!

All American Bloody Mary!

cocktail prep

If you have chicken, hamburgers, shrimp and other foods carefully prepared, put them on a plate and give them to the dog.  All you'll need for a perfect Bloody Mary is booze and some form of tomato.
For this demonstration I found myself without tomato juice and found that it really didn't matter.  A couple of tomatoes or maybe a splash of ketchup should do the trick.

Any vodka, tequila or gin will suffice as your basic cocktail building block. (NEVER RUM!)  A couple of ice cubes will give the drink a bit of a chill but always beware of using too much ice as it can promote choking.  Fewer ice cubes also promotes safer drinking and walking as the beverage will have a "see through" patina to it.  (Safety first!)

I hope you have been taking good notes as the weekend is here and it's time to put on your party pants.  If you've followed my directions correctly, you have the perfect tall and frosty Bloody Mary containing all the essentials of sloth, envy, greed and delusions of grandeur needed for the perfect weekend drink.  I give you, the"See Through Mary".

Cheers! See you in re-hab!

All Those Young Faces...

 I went in search of nostalgia when I made my way from my house to the local 4th of July  parade on Wednesday.  Coeur D' Alene, Idaho, my home for the past four years, now sports a population topping fifty-thousand but is still a small town in many ways.  We all know our neighbors, say "good morning" to people we meet on an early walk, pitch in to support local charities, all essential  elements of small town life .  In many ways it's reminiscent of the tiny Midwestern towns I called home in the 1950's and 60's.  

The parade route was packed with young and old alike and the weather was a perfect 72 degrees with clear skies, a welcome respite from what has been a too chilly Spring and early Summer.  Fire trucks, scouts, the VFW and the American Legion were well represented and it was good to see that there was at least one World War II vet still around to be honored.  The audience applauded and cheered the marchers, most now long past squeezing into uniforms that fit combat versions of themselves.  The crowd was there to celebrate being alive, free and living in a country blessed like no other.

 Then it happened.  Coming down the street six or seven abreast I saw what appeared to be marchers with placards nearly as large as they were.  At first it was impossible to see what message they bore but soon it hit me.  Each held a large picture of either a young man or woman in uniform with the dates of their births and subsequent deaths.  In every case the date of death was recorded in this new century.  Bright young faces normally looking forward to families, careers, and all the good stuff of life passed before me baring  2013, 2016,  even 2018 as the date the dream stopped.  There seemed to be so many, though I didn't count.  One small city and all of those names.  I began to multiply it by all the other cities and towns and felt ashamed that the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq had largely fallen off my radar.  It was surprising and disappointing.

As I walked home those faces filled my mind with questions.  The war of my era, Vietnam, was front and center in the daily news cycle.  The front page of most major papers had at least one or two stories with a Southeast Asia dateline and a continuing tally of casualties and fatalities often led television's evening newscasts.  In twenty years (1955-75) our country lost 58,220 young men and women only to find ourselves in 2018 still arguing over what exactly the mission was and where we went wrong.  One thing certain, most all of us were paying attention and were more than a little concerned about the loss of all those lives.  Was it because so many were draftees instead of volunteers?

I am embarrassed to admit that before seeing this assembly of way too many youthful faces now gone forever I had given little, if any, thought to the war in Afghanistan.  Why is that?  Why has the press ceased to provide full coverage of a war to which we have now given nearly 2000 young lives  and seventeen years of our time?   According to information I found on the net, the United States still has 14,000 troops in that dismal sand trap and our expenditures thus far stand at nearly three trillion dollars.  THREE TRILLION!  That's not counting the dollars spent in Iraq where we lost close to 5000 troops and still maintain a military presence.  I'm no dove and have always believed in a strong defense but at some point we have to wonder if slowly losing some of our best and brightest to a war so few of us appear to understand or care about should continue unexamined.  Maybe it's time to starting asking some questions of our politicians and the media.
Why so long?  What is the mission? How much longer will it last and at what expense?  Why is there so little news coverage?

Let's start asking for the kids who no longer can.

"A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to the United States of America for an amount up to and including their life."