Autumn Flame

By

Leo de Natale

Red.  Or is it scarlet?  The wind blows, reveals a cascade of blinding color.  Acer rubrum is  performing its annual Show

Neighbors standing mouths agape in awe on sunny days.  It’s a thrill really.  For a week maybe two the backyard is ablaze with red maple Leaves nature in full celebration

Like a snowflake each leaf is a variation; some totally scarlet others with Black markings, faint yellow stripes

Slowly, predictably, time takes control; leaves fall to the ground and Laughing grandchildren make snow angels in a sea of red

Street maples can  muster only ho-hum yellow and orange leaves; none Compare to rubrum’s splendor

Alas in the blink of an eye the performance ends mottle leaves turning Brown/black

The naked tree thirty feet tall now laid bare; I cannot wait for spring to arrive when the Autumn Flame begins anew.

Why A  Hulihee?

By

Leo de Natale

Illustration by Vince Giovannucci

“To shave or not to shave. That is the question!”

By the time a young boy morphs into a teenager, the subject of facial hair, beards, mustaches and any combination of the two have bounced around in his head.  Most sons growing up watch their fathers exercise the daily ritual of removing the five o’clock shadow and facing another day. 

          “Daddy, can I watch you shave?” a 10-year-old son will ask as he becomes fixated on this rite of passage.

          “Yes, Johnny, you can,” the father replies. “And remember some day you’ll be doing the same thing.”

The boy watches his dad wash the face, apply the shaving cream  – that’s a favorite – and slowly, methodically stroke the cheeks,  neck, chin and  upper lips.  On a rushed day, the father will yelp- ouch! too close and another razor cut.  Out comes the coagulating styptic stick  that staunches the bleeding.  An astringent after shave is then applied with an accompanying “Ahh”.  The aroma lingers and the  boy files the smell in his olfactory memory bank. 

Once in a while adult  males will sniff Old Spice, Brut, English Leather, Drakkar Noir or other popular colognes and will be catapulted back to their youth. 

Beards and facial hair have existed since the man became homo erectus and lurched out of his cave.  Across the millennia – especially dating back to the Greeks and Romans- beards have been an integral part of society.  Anthropologists claim in ancient times the hairiness  had several purposes. 

The beards created evolutionary pressures among tribes to enforce dominance hierarchies.  Beards = testosterone and they affected mating habits- the iconic Neanderthal  man dragging his female mate by the hair and grunting “Me take you to cave”.  Also, it is proposed that among warring tribes, beards were actually useful in reducing the impact of blunt force during tribal battles.  Had they lived in that era Giuseppe Garibaldi or Beat poet Allen Ginsberg would have protected themselves well.

In  appearance early humans weren’t much different from the rest of the animal kingdom.    We were all hairy beasts and evolution shows some things don’t change, especially in various places in the world.  You wouldn’t confuse Swedes with Moroccans.

Throughout modern history men’s facial hair has varied as often as hemlines (when women more commonly wore skirts and dresses).  Egyptians shaved their faces and scalps although Pharaohs were often depicted with long, well-oiled chin beards.  Along came the  Greeks where hirsutism was the accepted norm. 

In fact, Socrates and his disciples purportedly would play games and watch fleas jump from one beard to another.  Simple pleasures for not so simple philosophers.  Beards grew and predominated during the Hellenic golden era.

The Romans succeeded the Greeks and theirs was a distinctly anti-beard empire.  The emperors were predominantly clean-shaven from Julius Caesar, Augustus, Caligula, Tiberius et al.   It is evident in the various sculptures that have been preserved through the ages.  The invading Barbarians liquidated the Roman Empire and men’s facial appearances reflected their conquerors’ preferences.   The grandeur of Rome morphed into a region of scruffy, bearded, smelly infidels lacking in hygiene and good taste.  During the Middle Ages, hirsutism was the European norm.  Then Protestantism erupted.  There was a clean-shaven Martin Luther and bearded Henry VIII and John Calvin.  These gentlemen created a tectonic upheaval in Western history, religion and facial hair.

Regarding beards, the Protestant Reformation created  the proverbial line in the sand.  During that period, Roman Catholic Church clergy were clean shaven.  As a matter of physically making an ecclesiastic statement, Protestants – with the exception of Luther- donned beards.  The religious battles with the Church were longstanding and the political positions of European states would follow a centuries-long conflict – rebellious England vs. Defender of the Faith France are a prime examples.  Both groups presumed a Michaelangelo-bearded Almighty God was on its side.

Politics and beards aside, many if not most men living between the 16^th and 19^th Centuries were unshaven.  A fundamental question persists regarding the decision:  to shave or not shave.  And that’s hygiene.  Men and women during those times were- shall we say- not terribly clean. European peasants reportedly bathed themselves about three times per year.   Washing and bathing were infrequent at best – remember Socrates and his flea-bitten disciples. If men weren’t washing their hair it’s safe to say the beards weren’t earning extra attention and were a safe haven for bacteria, vermin, dirt and last Thursday’s meat loaf.  During that era B.O. could mean either body or beard odor.

Facial hair history does have an historic timeline but today beards and mustaches provide an even more important contribution: Humor!  The laughter begins with the names.  Each style has a history and each generation seems to add various alterations.  There are more than twenty distinct beard styles with such names as The Garibaldi,  Monkey Tail,  Friendly Mutton Chops,   Verdi and, of course, the Van Dyke.

          Many famous men have sported beards that become eponymous or create visual memory lasting a lifetime.  For example, Transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau was known for his masterpiece book “Walden” and other essays.  Thoreau was photographed with a beard style called the “neck beard”. While spending his time building a log cabin on the shore of Walden Pond, Thoreau decided the grow a beard that included only his neck.  His face was clean shaven that highlighted his crystal blue eyes.  During the 19^th  Century many strange things occurred in Concord, Massachusetts and Thoreau’s facial hair was one of them.

          It’s uncertain if Thoreau was a trendsetter but it turns out New York publisher Horace Greeley also grew a neck beard.  German composer Richard “Die Meistersinger” Wagner also followed suit.  Henry David was in famous company.  Wagner’s contemporary Guiseppe Verdi sported a beard that became associated with the world’s most famous opera masterpieces.  From an historic standpoint, maverick Roman Emperor Nero purportedly wore a neck beard.

          Facial hair has always had a humorous aspect.  Beards and mustaches obviously alter a man’s physical appearance.  A white bearded Santa Claus evokes childhood memories of a fictitious character who represents mirth and holiday cheer.  Segue to a rock music Frank Zappa whose mustache/goatee combination was so well known that his style has become eponymous.  Seeing his facial hair evoke memories of Zappa’s record album Weasels Ripped My Flesh.

          One can’t help but laugh at some of the outrageous names attached to beards.  At the top of the list are the Mutton Chops and its offspring, the Hulihee and Friendly Hulihee.  Also included are the “Claus”, Shenendoah, Old Dutch, ZZ Top, Handlebar Chops, Friendly Chops, Anchor and the Full Spade. 

Not to be denied, there are numerous mustache styles, some visually descriptive: Chevron, Lampshade, Painter’s Brush, Pencil – and the Parted Pencil .  Others evoke chortles: Walrus (think Kansas City Chiefs coach Andy Reid), Handlebar, English, Hungarian, Dali, Fu Manchu and the Horseshoe.  There’s the arcane Imperial Kaiser Wilhelm mustache and a hybrid called the Beardstache.

There’s plenty of history with these names.  Civil War General Ambrose Burnside – considered the worst Union commander – carved a niche in facial hair history.  Gen. Burnside started his career by growing hair adjacent to the ear.  He popularized the look that eventually was named “sideburns”, a style contemporarily popularized by Elvis Presley.  Of course Burnside wasn’t finished.  His facial hair eventually morphed into another signature style: Friendly Mutton Chops.  No one ever took Gen. Burnside or his beard seriously.

          Noted Harvard trained paleontologist Dr. Keith Vitalis has dedicated his life to tracing the long hairy history of man’s obsession with beards and mustaches.

          “Men have a schizoid approach to mustaches and beards,” he said. “We either love them or hate them, myself included.”

          Vitalis speaks from experience.  He long ago decided to adopt a Janus-like appearance: he shaves only the right side of his face.  The left side has a bearded appearance resembling the full beard Garibaldi!

          “I do it for effect,” he said. “Some men love their facial hair; others are psychologically confused. For example, young men regard beards and mustaches as a rite of passage. Growing facial hair states ‘I am a man!’”.

          According to Vitalis, facial hair has psychological associations.  Men with weak chins or who have poor self images while shaved will hide behind a curtain of hair.  Other men try to make a social statement.  Today’s rock musicians are often bearded and express a counter-culture appearance while becoming millionaires with their musical success.

          What about old men who often sport a white mustache and/or beard?

          “Some men think growing a graying mustache/beard gives them an avuncular or perhaps patriarchal appearance,” Vitalis said.  In reality many of these men are hiding behind a wizened mask. Older men with beards think the grey hair hides aging skin or a sagging gullet – the bain of all elderly men and women.  A 73-year-old man with a gray beard is simply calling attention to his chronological age.  Can you take any man seriously if he’s wearing a white Fu Manchu?, Vitalis asks.

          Hairy faces have been with mankind since the dawn of time.  In  this era of computers, software and apps there is still room for fun.  Two ingenious apps, Beardify and Stachify, allow a man to create virtual and instant beards and mustaches.  One moment you’re Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox or Moses parting the Red Sea.  All in the flick of a finger on a cell phone.  You can even transform women’s photos into a band of bearded ladies.  The laughter created by facial hair never ends.  It grows and grows and grows.

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This is my blog essay number 60.  What started out four years ago as a diversion from the Covid 19 nightmare became a reinvigorated passion to write.  I’ve had fun stringing together essays and poems.  I want to thank my wife Kathy who’s been supportive in my endeavors.  She’s also my editor extraordinaire.  Thanks also to my dear close friend, optometry school classmate and colleague  Vince Giovannucci whose artwork and cartoons have  added such zest and humor to my essays.

By Leo de Natale

Adonis On The Half Shell

By

Leo de Natale

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

An elbow injury had forced me to alter my thrice-weekly exercise routine at the local gymnasium.  Instead of upper body weight machines that were painful, I concentrated on calisthenics and  leg exercises.  The quadriceps machine required me to push a solid angular platform with my lower legs.  I rested between reps and looked around me.  And there he was.  Directly across from me was a paunchy middle-aged man.  He had just arrived at the exercise station.  An Adonis he was not.

He was about six feet tall, probably in his mid-to-late fifties. A rumpled, faded Guinness Stout tee shirt outlined his growing pot belly.  He was lifting dumbbells while performing the aerobic step exercises, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.  Mr. “A.”sported a three-day-old beard that revealed graying chin whiskers. The scruffy look seems  popular these days but in “A”’s case it drew attention to his aging.  A neck gullet was forming and he was a hairy bastard. 

As he turned his back to me I was astounded by his neck.  I’d never seen a man whose entire neck was camouflaged  by hair that belonged on his chest.  You physically could not see skin.  There was that much hair.  Very Neanderthal. I asked myself, how does his barber handle this hirsute challenge? A hedge trimmer or perhaps a Lady McCulloch mini-chainsaw?

What was really amusing was his particularly bad “sweep over” that was making a futile attempt to hide his baldness.  Most bald men using this method have too few hairs to attempt to conceal the “curse of alopecia”.  This gentleman had allowed a three-inch wide band of side hair to grow and cover the middle portion of his bare scalp.  I was convinced he had applied mousse to prevent any movement of the “sweep”.  Those suckers were gonna stay in place, goddammnit, and be able to withstand the wind tunnel test.

Of course anyone who was on the gym’s second floor or standing 40 feet from him could easily see the fore and aft bare skin.  Sweep overs were man’s feeble attempt at deception  and the quintessential example of self delusion. 

The piece de resistance was his face.  “A” was bespectacled with Geek grade eyeglasses. They weren’t Armani’s or Ralph Laurens.  Just a cheap pair of Walmart spectacles that exposed his strong,  nearsighted prescription with thick lenses.  The most glaring issue, however, is our friend’s bad case of disfiguring acne rosacea, a skin condition that afflicts many persons of Northern Europe origins – English,Irish, German, etc. His nose, cheeks and chin were scarlet and called attention to his unattractive visage. 

His cheeks  resembled an interstate roadmap.  He would never be considered a chick magnet.  He was wearing a grubby pair of Chuck Taylor high-cut sneakers but didn’t realize the Chucks had only recently become a faddist fashion items.  He’d worn that brand  since the 1970’s.

His  dorkiness was accentuated by a 1950’s-style wrist watch, complete with the  Speidel Twist-O-Flex expandable watch band; his timepiece was not a bespoke Rolex Oster Perpetual.  Few gym-worshipers wore watches because they were normally glued to their iPhones and constantly texting.  If wrist watches were worn they were either Apple iWatches or the black, macho, oversized G-Shocks that provided every conceivable function – day, date, moon phase, stop watch and, of course, the time of day.

“A” was among groups of older gym rats who are trying to attain physical fitness and weight loss, a process made difficult with ingrained eating habits and metabolism changes affecting body shape and change.   At the gym there are many sculpted younger men and women preening and strutting their stuff.  Young women tantalize the males with their skin tight leggings that would explode if they emitted a  combustible fart.  Adding to the titillation are the spandex v-neck jerseys that expose cleavage. 

Others wear gym tops that are basically bras-in-disguise with some extra fabric wrapping around the back.  Such displays cause much knuckle-biting among the strong, red-blooded American males!

American women seem to want it both ways.  They flaunt their sexuality with provocative gym attire yet want to obliterate toxic masculinity.  Can’t have it both ways, ladies.  Blame it on the spandex.

Of course the preening men, most of whom are denizens of the weight room, display their male equivalent of such exhibitionis.  Those who are fit and muscular wear the sleeveless muscle shirts  exposing well defined biceps, triceps and pectorals.  They stare at themselves in mirror-lined gym walls.  They flex, admire their images and take occasional selfies.

          The men’s gym shirts are available online and have different styles and amazing names: Racerback, Stringer, Drop Arm Tank, Crest Tank, Sleeveless, Legacy Stringer, the one with little fabric in the back or front.  Of course, there was also the classic wife-beater undershirt that always appear in gangster movies.   

As an ever-increasingly added feature, many – males and females -are sporting tattoos in all shapes and sizes.  One fellow sports a black, full beard and is wearing a black sweatshirt.  I refer to him as Mr. Blackie.  Most people keep their sleeves loose at the wrist.

 Blackie, however, pulls the sweatshirt sleeves to his elbows where he exposes “sleeve” tattoos on both arms.  The tats occupy enough space to hide visible skin.  “Hey look at my ink! Ain’t it impressive?”, such an exhibitionist seems to say.  Some women display sleeve tats or something behind the neck, thigh or ankle.  Pick a body part and you’ll see ink.

Modern society has the acceptance of body tattoos and many, if not most Gen Zers  under age thirty have at least one tattoo.  Wait until they discover how unappealing these  permanent body alterations appear when they reach age 55, 60 and beyond.  Collagen loss produces flaccid skin.  The tats become an undiscernible  blob of black ink.

And then you have the geezer population.  Older men’s garb at the gym is usually comprised of baggy sweatpants and oversized sweatshirts emblazoned with a faded “Old Orchard Beach, Maine” emblem.  The really old guys eschew gym garb and wear chinos and a well worn plaid flannel shirt and/or polyester short sleeve dress shirt dating to the 1960’s.  This group is not interested in making a fashion statement.  Older women try to hide the sagging body parts with loose gym clothing.  But, hey, both the senior men and women are at least trying to remain physically active.  Points for the seniors.   It’s better exercising at a gym than morphing into a couch potato.

By the time a person reaches age 70, the body parts are wearing out.  A knee replacement here, a hip replacement there.  The human body changes appearance.  Most are moderately to severely overweight.   Everything sags.  Our faces start resembling a stone quarry.  Double chins suddenly appear; a gulletectomy is needed.  A man’s Adam’s apple disappears.  April is the cruelest month of the year, right, T.S. Eliot?

As for me, I’m included in the geezer group.  But I’ve tried to stay in shape – I’ve been regularly exercising for more than thirty years.  Although I’m happy to keep my weight down but some things change and there’s no controlling sagging, flaccid muscles, a slew of brown age spots, skin turning into crepe that create old man’s hands- just like my dad’s. 

Aging is a bitch, physically, medically and emotionally.   For such men as Mr. Adonis, the reality is premature.  I hope he turns things around.  For me and so many of my old brothers and sisters it is “One day at a time, one moment at a time, baby! Amen.

Made In China

By

Leo de Natale

Illustration by Vince Giovannucci

September, 2023

CPA Joe Di Nobili was in a foul mood. There was discord at his accounting office. Personality clashes had erupted and his job as Chief Executive Officer was to put out fires. There had been growing tension between two of his employees. It was a turf battle and he’d seen these tempests many times during his 30-year career. As in most offices, intramural friction created a lot of agita.

In his late forties, he was an attractive man. He was tall and fair skinned. His eyes were an unusual light green. His hair was brown and he had a slight cleft chin. He did not fit the description of a stereotypical Italian. He and his Irish Catholic wife Karen had two children, both of them were in college. Joe and Karen were presently empty nesters. They’d come to enjoy the quiet and solitude. They met at Tufts University. Joe received his MBA and CPA from the venerable business school, Babson College.

After the day’s squabbles at the office, he was glad to be in his suburban home in Arlington, Massachusetts where he could relax and have supper with his wife. After their meal the two sat in the living room. As a means of escaping the day’s hassles, Joe was reading another Scandinavian noir murder mystery. He rested his feet on a leather footstool and paused to admire the new tan opera slippers he’d purchased earlier that week.

       Good footwear was important to him but ever since childhood he dreaded buying new shoes, boots, sandals or slippers.  His feet were oddly shaped and sometimes difficult to fit.

       He had bought the slippers – the traditional brand L. J. Stoutfoot’s- at his favorite, longtime, old-fashioned shoe store in nearby Cambridge.  The footwear sold there were expensive but the salespeople were longtime employees who knew how to fit shoes.  Slippers and moccasins were an integral part of the inventory.  Customers knew they’d be paying top dollar but the service and customer relations were incomparable.  The slippers cost $90 and Joe didn’t mind the price although he discovered Amazon.com was selling the same shoes for $50.  No matter.  He preferred  buying something the old-fashion way.

After dinner Joe removed one slipper and admired his purchase. These slippers were incredibly comfortable and they looked good, too. But hold on, he saw something was wrong. The stitching inside the left slipper was unraveling and he discovered the lining wasn’t leather. It was vinyl-covered fabric. Fake leather. Curiously, he looked inside the slipper and suddenly it all made sense.

Underneath the manufacturer’s label was a second piece of fabric stating the country of origin. It bore all-too-familiar words: “Made In China”.

“God, everything is made in China, honey,” he bemoaned to Karen. “Look at this. I pay top dollar for a Stoutfoot slipper and it isn’t well made. It’s vinyl, not leather and is crap. That’s what it is!”

On Saturday, Joe traveled to the store and showed the defect to a salesman.

“I’m terribly sorry about this, Mr. Di Nobili,” he said. “I’ll just exchange this for a new pair.”

A new pair was inspected. There was no stitching defect. He left the shop followed by a storeful of apologies.

He returned home and went his usual weekend chores. Fall was fast approaching and he busied himself with grabbing some rakes that would be used after the leaves turned color and fell, leaving a carpet of red, yellow and orange.

He visited a local garden center and began purchasing the tulip bulbs that would be planted by mid-November. The days were still warm, the nights cool. Good planting weather, good sleeping weather.

That night, Joe opened the box containing his new slippers. He put them on but, wait a second, something felt funny in the left slipper. Removing it he was in disbelief. The insole pad covering the slipper bottom was loose and flapped open near the heel area. What is going on here? Yet another example of shoddy workmanship.

“Can you believe this, Karen?” he yelled. “These shoes are so damned comfortable but they’re merda!”

He’d been searching for good looking slippers that also provided comfort. He decided he’d give these suckers another chance and instead of returning yet another pair, he drove Monday to his cobbler John Gillooly who applied glue to the insert.

“Boy, the footwear they’re selling to us Americans is shitty,” John said. “Like they say, things ain’t the way they used to be. Don’t use the slippers until nighttime. Glue should be dry by then.”

Three months passed and Joe was indeed enjoying his slippers. They were very comfortable and he laughed because the style was very similar to the slippers old Italian men, his father included, wore around the house or working in their gardens. He remembered his paternal grandfather Joseph, “Nonnu” who’d emigrated from Messina, Sicily in the early 20^th Century. Joe always joked about Nonnus being from central casting. A proud man, the father was short in stature but retained the Sicilian preoccupation with “respect”. That also accompanied the legendary Sicilian temper. Joe possessed a diluted version of Nonnu’s quick trigger. Things such as the office imbroglio would quickly summon the family trait.

Vinny De Vito, Joe’s best friend and college classmate, was a first generation American whose parents were born in Italy’s Abruzzo region. Vinny jokingly referred to the slipper style as “Scampies”, a name used by Italian men from Abruzzi. Vinny described the stereotypical appearance.

“You’d have these old Italian guys wearing their uniforms,” Vinny said. “The wife-beater t-shirts, the pot belly, the Italian cigars, and the Scampies. They’d shuffle around looking for that last glass of red wine before supper.”

Vinny spoke the truth. He recalled Grampa Joe sitting in the living room and the image was a photocopy of what Vinny had just described. Of course the sofa was typical Italian: clear plastic covers and arm rests draped with white doily antimacassars. During the winter, his grandparent’s house reeked of moth balls, a common scent in immigrant homes.

The nostalgic daydream had wafted over him on a fall weekend. One day in October, Joe was noodling around the house. He was wearing the slippers and suddenly his left ankle buckled. No pain, no injury but the incident was odd. Until he inspected the slipper and gasped.

“I don’t goddamn believe this!” he bellowed.

       What Joe had observed was the left heel.  After three months it was worn down and the cheap fabric was exposed.  The heel and sole were completely worn away.  Joe was livid.  After a mere three months, the slippers were coming apart.  Jeez, you pay good money for  products that used to be made in the United States and the companies now manufacture them in some hellhole factory in China or other Asian countries.

       The following day Joe made a beeline to the shoe store and once again approached the manager.

       “I’ve had these slippers for three months and look at them,” he said while suppressing his volatile Sicilian anger. “Selling a product that is substandard and poorly made is not a good look for the business.”

The manager sheepishly looked at the disintegrating left heel and was embarrassed. His facial expression was a Jackie Gleason hamana, hamana, hamana.

“Gee I apologize again, Mr. Di Nobili,” he said. “I can give you a new pair. Is that okay?”

“No, it’s not,” De Nobili replied. “Because you know what’s going to happen? I’ll be back in another three months with the same problem. I tell you what I’ll do. I’m going back to my cobbler and, I’ll have them re-heel this poor excuse for ‘well-made’ slippers. If the work is too expensive, I’ll ask for my money back.

“Well, I got to be honest with you,” the manager replied. “All of our slippers, regardless of the company, are Chinese manufactured. My boss says there’s nothing we can do. The ones made in Europe, for example, are too expensive. Retailers are between a rock and a hard place.”

Once again, Joe returned to John the cobbler who assured he could replace the heels with rubber and the cost would be minimal. Five days and $35 later the slippers had been repaired. John was a craftsman. Hopefully, they would now last. Joe was angry. A $90 product had now cost him more than $130. What a rip off he said to himself.

That evening, he started searching the internet regarding the China/United States trade deficit. Many people talked about it but it was an exercise in frustration. The statistics were frightening. He traced the trade patterns from 1985 to 2022. In 1985 China exported goods – electronics, cell phones and clothing – totaled $3.86 billion. In 2022, the total exports were $535 billion while the United States exports to China was a measly $110 billion – a three-to-one drag on American economy. Joe’s slippers were part of that.

He grew up during the death throes of the 20^th Century’s Cold War. Russia’s Soviet Union had imploded and the Western World sighed with relief. Through his education and experiences running a business, Joe realized one monster was replaced with another. From 1990 to 2000 the world had experienced a brief respite from turmoil. Then came 9/11, an event that continued to fester.

Concurrent with that event was a different Cold War and the new bogeyman, Red China. Joe long realized this. He worried over his children. What type of world will they lived through? It was a depressing question.

February, 2024

Joe and Karen decided they would approach life with the eat, drink and be merry attitude. The Serenity Prayer’s, One Day At A Time, became their mantra. Joe’s Sicilian blood made that decision easy. Italians usually find a glass half full.

As for the disintegrating Scampies, the soles began to split. He unceremoniously tossed them in the trash can. The same day he drove into Boston’s financial district and purchased a pair $400 genuine leather Bally slippers made in Switzerland. There’d be no more ersatz footwear. He smiled while driving home. Salut!

Presbycusis

By

Leo de Natale

Illustration by Vince Giovannucci

“What didya say?” yelled Margaret O’Brien to dog trainer Kit Hayes as she approached the front door of a modest single family home. “I don’t have my hearing aids in. Just a sec.”

Margaret was referred to Kit, a trainer with 30 years experience, and hoped she could solve her problems with an irascible five-month-old male Labradoodle Seamus who was constantly nipping and biting his owner. He also was not housebroken as evidenced by doggy pee pads scattered throughout the disheveled living room, dining room and kitchen. Kit was gagging from the stench of canine urine and feces. I should have brought a mask she thought. Margaret was not a woman of means.

Kit had seen it all and this particular situation did not loom well for Margaret, a deaf septuagenarian and a poorly controlled diabetic. She was a large woman, gray-haired, overweight and wore thick eyeglasses from which she squinted.

Due to Margaret’s hearing loss, the conversation started by the two women yelling at each other. Margaret’s sentences were punctuated with a barrage of “What?”, “I can’t hear you” and can you speak loudah?!” She also spoke with an incredibly thick Boston accent.

Kit was familiar with presbycusis, age-related hearing loss. Her husband, age 65, had hearing deficit – it ran in his family- and reluctantly with her urging was fitted to hearing aids. He admitted it was a wise decision because he no longer asked her to repeat herself.

Regarding Margaret and Seamus, Kit’s preliminary assessment was one she’d seen with so many dogs and their owners. Margaret didn’t have a clue on the fundamentals of housebreaking. And the nipping and biting, common for dogs Seamus’ age, were problems needing fixing. Margaret would begin explaining what was going wrong but suddenly switch to an unrelated subject.

“I almost died two years ago – passed out in the living room,” she bellowed while veering from the her problems with Seamus. “My blood sugar was 1,000 and my neighbor found me. Saved my life.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kit replied with her voice level approaching 90 decibels. “But let’s talk about the biting. Puppies are still teething before six months of age and they nip. Biting is an entirely different behavior problem.”

“That Seamus is a little devil,” Margaret yelled. “My children bought him for me as a companion.  Of course he ‘bahks’ but that’s one of the few benefits of deafness.  I can’t hear him a’tall!”

The one hour consultation dragged, mostly due to Kit’s frustration of having to repeat information. Seamus unfortunately wasn’t provided with the usual rubrics of today’s puppy training.

Kit started her career more than 30 years ago.

Her clientele were mostly from cities and towns in Boston’s Metrowest.   In 1989 she popularized the concept of “puppy kindergarten” where puppies from ages two-to- six months learn to socialize.   Puppies go through a “critical period” where learned behavior can be absorbed. The kindergarten was the brainchild of Dr. Ian Dunbar, a British veterinarian and  psychologist living in California.  At that time,  kindergarten was a relatively new technique in dog training.

The sessions were useful in creating bite inhibition  and proper interaction with their fellow canines.  Supervised socialization tended to eliminate dog aggression, a problem that frequently occurs among dogs who grow up isolated from other their canine brethren.

Kit told Margaret Seamus was on the cusp but there was still time for him to learn not to bite her, other humans and dogs.  There was a sadness in this situation.  Well intentioned family members buy a puppy for an older relative whose age or physical limitations create a daunting, nay impossible task.

The puppy gets no training, no direction and becomes pest or biting machine.   He doesn’t  receive housebreaking rules and a dirty dog, an uncontrollable monster can be created.   In the end a now older puppy is untrained and is transferred to a dog shelter.                          

 The damage is done.  No one wants the dog and he is eventually euthanized.  During her long career,  Kit had repeatedly witnessed this scenario.  The unhappy ending was usually inevitable. Kit gave her Margaret her final instructions.

“Get Seamus into a group class,” Kit yelled as the session thankfully ended.

“What?” she responded.  “I couldn’t hear you, honey.”

As a last resort, Kit wrote her recommendations on  two sheets of legal paper.

“Call me if you have any questions, Margaret,” she screamed while leaving the home.  Her mouth was parched from the 60-minute ordeal.  I’ll probably have laryngitis tomorrow she mused.

On her way home she felt emotionally spent.   Working with a person whose age and medical deficits was exhausting.  She deeply cared about her clients – human and canine- and  over the years the sadness takes its toll.

Several weeks later, Kit received a telephone call from Margaret’s daughter.

“I know you tried to help Mom, Ms. Hayes, and the family appreciated your time,” she said. “But Mom unfortunately tripped over Seamus and broke her hip.  She’s in a rehab facility for an extended period.   The family decided to return Seamus to the breeder.  It was best for him and my mom.  We are all heartbroken.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Kit replied. “I know your Mom was having problems. It was the right thing to do for everyone, Seamus included.”

Kit could sense relief in the daughter’s voice.  It was a predictable ending, one she had witnessed too many times.

As she hung up the telephone, she was overcome by a touch of melancholy.  During her career she’s witnessed many dog situations where, despite good intentions, the owners don’t listen or follow training instructions.  Some choose to keep ill-behaved dogs for many years.  Owners alter their lifestyles to accommodate a four-legged bête noire who eventually rules the roost.

Of course the alternate scenario is surrendering the dog who will probably be bounced from several succeeding families, none of whom can cope with an untrained canine.  Eventually the dog meets a predictable death by lethal injection.

For Kit, foreseeing that scenario was always an incredibly depressing aspect of dog training.

Eldorado Redux

By

Leo de Natale

Leonard “Len” Shaker is a veteran freelance writer who spent most of his career covering stories for regional newspapers and national publications. He usually wrote articles for the Boston Globe, New York Magazine and the New York Times. He avoided political news – he’d become jaded as the years flew by. Politics and politicians eventually became an anathema. He had always leaned towards the more fun topics, the so-called human interest stories.

At age 72, he’d finally retired from the writing profession but he learned story telling never dies. It merely transmorgrifies. On a warm sunny day in June, he had his snazzy red Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce detailed at the Perfection Auto Services in Watertown, Massachusetts. He was friendly with Mike, the owner, who was a craftsman at auto body repair and painting. He was also a successful entrepreneur. His business now included a fleet of tow trucks. Cars with minor to severe body damage were skillfully repaired – and at reasonable prices.

While walking towards Mike’s office, Len stopped, then rubber-necked towards a car that was eerily familiar.

It was a 1960 white Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz convertible. He walked closer to the vehicle whose paint was flaking and definitely showing its age. It was a top-of-the-line Cadillac from an era when “Caddies” ruled supreme. The car represented the prestige and luxury found only in General Motors’s elite and elegant motor cars. The model’s name, Biarritz, evoked images of the famous and exclusive French Riviera resort town. The 1960 Cadillac is considered one of the most beautiful models designed by General Motors.

Len circled the dusty car. Peering through dirty windows, he noticed the red tufted leather seats were in remarkably good condition. Hmm. I wonder, he thought. Is this the car I think it is? The answer appeared before him. An 8×11 note paper was taped to one window and bore the name “Millian” and contained a telephone number. Len quickly entered Mike’s office.

          “Is this Bob Millian’s car, Mike?!,” he asked excitedly.

          “Yeah, his son brought it over last week,” Mike responded. “He wants it completely reconditioned.”

“I can’t believe it,” Len said. “I wrote a Boston Globe story about Bob and this car forty years ago! The Biarritz is finally showing its age.”

Local car buffs knew about Millian, an eccentric extraordinaire, whose obsession with Cadillacs – particularly this white Eldorado- was legendary. Len stumbled upon this man as he was standing at a nearby gasoline service station and was surrounded by a sea of 1959 and 1960 Cadillacs. Len parked his car on the street and introduced himself. Bob Millian would become one of the most amusing characters Len met during his freelancing career.

When Len interviewed Millian, he was struck by his physical appearance. Short, thin and middle-aged, Millian was a bundle of nervous energy – Len referred to him as “an exposed nerve”. His aquiline nose was a prominent facial feature but was overshadowed by his eyes. When he talked excitedly – and that was often- his eyes would bulge as did the pulsating carotid arteries that appeared as if they would burst at any moment. He was a latter day Rodney Dangerfield. He smoked cigarettes and he’d stab the air, the smoke curls forming a cloud around him.

According to Len, Millian, like so many youths growing up in post World War II, was infatuated with automobiles, especially Cadillacs. He’d bicycle five miles at night to a local dealership and literally press his nose against the windows. The Cadillacs shone under bright spotlights. The cars were parked on carousels and slowly spun in circles, the chrome grilles and trim sparkling like diamonds.

“I said to myself, some day I’m gonna own one of these beauties,” he told Len, pointing the twenty Cadillacs on his parking lot.“And as you can see, my dream came true.”

According to Len, Bob Millian was a “blue collar Renaissance Man”. An accomplished master automobile mechanic, Millian was a U.S. Air Force pilot and throughout his life frequently flew his personal Piper Cub airplane.

He was also an accomplished piano player and would delight his customers by playing on a spinet piano located in the garage (Honky Tonk was his favorite music). Financially, he did well and lived in Weston, Massachusetts, a tony metro west suburb outside of Boston. He built a large garage for the Eldorado and a second structure that stored extra Cadillac auto parts.

He told Len he purchased the Cadillac in 1965 from a retired banker. The car had been driven less than 10,000 miles; in essence a practically new automobile and for the rest of his life, Millian kept it in a specially heated garage. The Biarritz was a bird in a chrome-plated cage. He never drove it as a pleasure vehicle- he was paranoid over the Cadillac being damaged in an accident. The car was driven only to and from local classic car shows. It would promptly be returned to its concrete cocoon.

“I drove it to the shows but the weather had to be perfect, no rain allowed,” Millian would boastfully say “And the Biarritz always won the blue ribbon!”

As a mechanic, Millian knew replacement parts would eventually become difficult to obtain. That explained the numerous Cadillacs in his parking lot. He began buying used 1959 and 1960 models and cannibalized them for spare parts (mechanically the ’59 and ’60 were identical). Most cars were dissembled and stored in a separate garage Millian built for that purpose. Many cars, however, were sold to discerning clientele wanting vintage Caddies.

He was quirky about maintaining the car’s pristine condition and was a stickler for detail.

“My dad was obsessive compulsive when it came to the Caddy,” his son Bob, Jr. told Len. “Two of the red leather upholstery buttons went missing -this was the days before the internet. He found a parts dealer in Pennsylvania that had original buttons. He flew his plane down there and wound up buying a dozen more buttons! He always wanted to have parts in reserve.”

Young Millian said his father eventually sold the service station and spent the rest of his life in adoration of a piece of steel and glass . During his later years he fulfilled another dream by installing a rotating carousel that was identical to how Cadillac dealerships displayed their inventory during the 1950’s and 60’s.

“He’d just sit there watching and enjoying the Eldorado spinning and spinning around,” his son said. “Like I said, Dad was obsessive over that car.”

That was then, this is now. Millian died in 2009 and his son vowed he’d continue the car’s legacy. The Eldorado remained parked in his dad’s garage. The family home was sold and the car was stored in his son’s modest garage. Young Bob would violate his father’s creed, however, and drive along the quiet nearby streets. The car’s engine needed to be used to prevent malfunction.

“You have to drive it to keep the antifreeze, battery and motor oil in good shape,” he said. “One of the problems is the engines of all those cars needed leaded gasoline. Unleaded gas fouls up the engine. I found a garage thirty miles away that still sells leaded gas. A real pain in the butt. The car has only 35,000 miles on it.

After 63 years, the car unfortunately began showing its age. The ravages of time revealed white lacquer paint that was cracking and peeling. Some fender parts were rusty. It was time for a makeover.

Enter Arthur D’Amico, a seasoned “body man” at Perfection. Owner Mike chose him to oversee the reconditioning and painting. Entering the vast garage, Len was overpowered by the acrid smell of auto paint and the cacophonous banging of dented cars being repaired.

“All this car really needs is a new paint job,” he yelled to Len over the deafening, grinding sounds of cars being sanded. “This is the most well preserved antique auto I’ve seen. There’s nothing wrong with it. Everything is solid. It makes restoration a breeze and a lot easier.”

He opened the hood and showed Len the powerful V-8 engine. Closing it, D’Amico commented on the solid “thunk” sound.

“Hear that sound?” he asked. “You don’t hear that today. This car is made of thick, high grade steel. Cars today are tinny. The sheet metal is thinner and cheaper.”

D’Amico has been painting and finishing cars for nearly fifty years. He enjoys working on the older vehicles as they represent what the American automobile industry once was. Restoring the Eldorado is actually a pleasure because there aren’t mechanical issues, difficult-to-find parts or accessories to replace.

“The Caddy looks bad because of the old lacquer paint,” he said. “The chrome is in fantastic shape and the leather seats look like high grade cowhide. We will, though, have to replace the carpeting.”

He said today’s paints are urethane, maintain their luster much longer and won’t fade and crack. According to D’Amico, Young Bob Millian was in no hurry for the job completion. D’Amico works on the car on a part time basis and predicts the Caddy will be ready by spring.

          “Bobby’s in no rush,” he said.  “He’s not hyper like his dad was.”

D’Amico personally knew Bob Sr. and especially his behavior at car shows.

“It’s true, “ he said “The old man would have friends driving to shows in a convoy. He didn’t want any cars near the Caddy. At the show he’d holler at anyone who tried touching the Eldorado Nice guy but he had no problem telling you he didn’t like you!”

As for the restoration, the procedure is lengthy and time consuming. After removing the chrome moldings, the car’s body must be sanded to bare metal. Two primer coats will be applied and the final coats of white urethane paints follow. Interior refurbishing will be the final task.

“This job is a labor of love,” D’Amico said. “Personally knowing the car and Bob Millian’s legacy, I can hardly wait until it’s finished.”

Sometime next spring, the 1960 Cadillac Biarritz, serial number 6EO52078, will be driven away from its six month hiatus. And young Bob Millian, Jr. will be perpetuating the dream his father turned into reality sixty years ago.

Len Shaker intends to write yet another human interest story and plans to be present at the celebration hosted by Bob Jr. And somewhere Bob Sr., cigarette in hand and bulging eyes, will be smiling.

A Remembrance of Mosquitos Past

By

Leo de Natale

There have been so many movies where  a nostalgic protagonist sits someplace and time travels into the past.  The scene is displayed as waves drifting back and forth, then and now. Memories ebb and flow. The Rosebud scene in Citizen Kane.  Childhood play in a playground. Awkward teenage years.  A first love and a first heartbreak.  The thoughts become a movie reel and suddenly the memories accelerate with speed.  While sitting in a train seat the scenery moves so fast it becomes a blur.

          The train jolts to an abrupt halt and you sit pondering where  time has gone.  Suddenly you are an older person and your life has become a repository of events, some important, others trivial or forgettable.

          And so it happened to me the other day.  I was walking to my car after completing a new endeavor: yoga classes for beginners aka “Seniors”. The studio was located in downtown Waltham, Massachusetts, a very familiar area. 

I sat in the car and that wave of nostalgia engulfed me.  On these streets, I drove to and from a college summertime job that, in retrospect, had a seminal influence.  As important, it was a blast.

Muscle memory navigated me through a route in the city’s blue collar neighborhoods. The majority of businesses were auto repair shops, sheet metal businesses and warehouses. Along the streets were rundown triple-decker homes that housed yet another generation of immigrant workers and their families. Little was different in this section of the city.

          At the end of one of main streets was a narrow, semi-paved road, Fern Street. I turned left ,  took a sharp right and there it was: a garage and free standing office: The East Middlesex & Suffolk County Mosquito Control Project.  The building, once yellow, was now painted white. Otherwise, its appearance hadn’t changed.  I had returned to the 1960’s.  The memory was still a reality.

On a whim, I knocked on a closed door. A grey-bearded, middle-aged man appeared. He was dressed in a cotton tee shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals.

          “Hi, I’m Brian Farless,” he said in a friendly tone.  “How can I help you?”

          “Well, you  might say I’m Morley’s ghost,” I replied chuckling.  “I worked here in the 1960’s.  I was one of the Project’s Hell’s Angels.”

          “You’re kidding!,” Farless exclaimed. “I knew about the Project’s motorcycles but never saw one.”

          Farless was referring to a fleet of three-wheeled tomato red Harley Davidson Servi Car motorcycles used during summers to spray catch basins in the eleven communities comprising the Project.

           The chance visit became a forty-five minute chat that fleshed out the history of state-funded consortium that began in 1948 under the Project’s first superintendent, Robert Armstrong.

The congenial Farless offered me coffee and I relayed my story. As a kid growing up, I used the see the motorcycles traveling through my hometown of Belmont. My friends and I would say, “Boy those bikes are cool!” Little did I realize I would become one of the ‘skeeter killers during the summer of my sophomore year.

That was 1966. I had previously asked one of the bikers how to apply for the job. He suggested I contact Mr. Armstrong. I called him that day and he invited me to the garage.

          I was in the proverbial right place at the right time.  Another student who’d applied for the motorcycle job had been in a serious automobile accident.   Armstrong hired me that day.  There were two qualifications: I had to obtain a state license for pesticide applications and change my driver’s license to include motorcycle operations.  I quickly obtained the two documents and was ready to work.

          Armstrong was an imposing figure, the quintessential Yankee : tall, ramrod thin and patrician.

          A graduate of  Amherst College, Armstrong became fascinated with entomology.  In 1947 he jumped at the opportunity to manage the fledgling organization. 

          I told Farless the most ironic thing about Armstrong’s physical appearance was his long nose.

          “I often remarked that Armstrong, – or ‘Army as he was called-  in profile actually resembled his quarry, “ I said. “He had a mosquito nose!”

          Farless pulled a Danny Thomas and sprayed his coffee while laughing.

THEN

          The crew consisted of five full time employees and the summertime bikers.  Armstrong was the entomologist and he divided his time between administrative work and trapping and identifying mosquito species in the field. Much of the Project’s work involved detecting areas of stagnant waters – marshes, estuaries and low lying swamps– and improving drainage, thus ensuing elimination of mosquito breeding areas.  Basically,  it was a bunch of guys ditch digging in remote wooded areas. Metro west Boston had numerous affluent communities where open spaces were a hotbed of mosquito breeding.  On rainy days, the bikers would join the crews.

          The motorcycle team, usually three bikers, had the more envious job.  We cruised the streets and road on the Servi Cars.  Armstrong, an astute innovator, discovered mosquitos also bred in catch basin along all roadways.  His genetically primed Yankee ingenuity determined the Servi Car would be the perfect vehicle to deliver insecticide into the basins. 

There was storage area behind the bike.  He installed a 20 gallon oblong tank inside the vehicle and then attached a pressurized valve and  nozzle  atop the drum. 

Using a compression hose, he attached a six-foot rubber pipe and a pressure trigger similar to spring-loaded garden hose nozzles.  At the end of the pipe, Armstrong attached a dispensing tip that would spray liquid in a  360 degree pattern.

          Armstrong filled the drum with water and environmentally safe insecticide and inflated it to  100 pounds per square inch of pressure.  He squeezed the trigger.  A perfectly symmetrical  spray burst through the end nozzle.  Success.

          For decades the Project’s motorcycle crews became a summertime fixture in Metro West.  I had a ball during my three summers.  It was a fun job.  Every rider developed a great tan –from the waist up.  Riding through the various communities was educational.  When spraying in Cambridge, I always lunched inside the historic Mt. Auburn Cemetery.  A sandwich shared with literary greats.  We used road atlas maps to navigate through the communities.  I learned many short cuts that I came to use even after my employment there ended.

          To this day I’ll take routes that perplex my wife.

          “Let me guess, we’re taking this shortcut because of the Mosquito Control, right?” she’ll exclaim.

One part of the job was tough: the heat.  For seven hours, riders sat astride a 300 pound air-cooled motorcycle engine.  Dog-Day August sun plus the engine heat required my drinking a half gallon of water daily.  But that was  part of the job description. You got used to it.  The greatest joy was spraying a basin and watching as a swarm of mosquitos escaped, a certain death awaiting them.  Many residents would thank me or give a thumb’s up as I drove along side streets while smoking an Italian cigar. It was satisfying to do part of an effective public health  “project”.

Armstrong often lectured the importance of the ongoing battle with mosquitos. And he was correct. Until I’d worked for him I didn’t realize malaria was only one of the dangerous diseases mosquitos transmit (there are about 3,500 species worldwide). This included Dengue Fever and Yellow Fever. West Nile Fever appeared in America after Armstrong retired.

NOW

Bob Armstrong retired in 1977. Brian Farless is the Project’s fourth superintendent. A native Virginian, he majored in environmental studies in college and held such jobs as studying the death of bats in Wyoming and turtle migrations in Colorado. He eventually became interested in insect-borne disease control. He has supervised the Project since 2017.

“They eliminated the motorcycles in 1982,”he said while finishing his coffee. “My predecessors decided to find more environmentally safe insecticides. They also felt the motorcycles were too expensive, too much overhead. We’ve gone from Harley-Davidsons to Schwinn bicycles that were introduced in 2001. The age of the real bikers are gone!”

The Project still hires college students for summertime work.  It has a fleet of bicycles.  Instead of a spray, they drop synthetic  bacteria  pellets – called BTI- into the basins that are carried in baskets.  They also mark that basins with spray paint to certify the earth-friendly insecticide has been applied.

“One other thing is different,” Farwell said. “The motorcycles were painted bright red. You could really see them and they had lettering on them. Our bicycles have drab colors with no identification. We’ve had too many stolen so we keep as inconspicuous as possible.”

The Project itself is different.  In the 1960’s there were eleven participating communities.  The number has increased to twenty-seven and now incorporates cities and towns in Suffolk County.  In fact, there are now eleven Projects across Massachusetts.

Farwell said another change was the method of distributing insecticide sprays that would cover larger areas.  The machines were called “fogging machines” and the process was conducted at night after temperatures cooled.   The foggers were extremely loud  and produced a fog like cloud.  They were effective but noisy.  Today the Project uses a mist.

“Yeah, just like the old foggers, the mist machines make a lot of noise,” Farwell said. “But that’s to let neighborhoods know our vehicles are out there.”

As an adjunct to the misting, the Project contracts with a helicopter company that in spring “dusts” the communities with an environmentally friendly insecticide.  Farwell said the aerial application covers 1,800 acres.

He said he really enjoys supervising the Project.  Although his job is primarily administrative, he, like his predecessor Armstrong, occasionally joins the crew in their wet, swampy “office”.

“One of the occupational hazards is Lyme Tick infestation,” he said. “ Guys leave their work areas and a covered with ticks.  It’s a problem.”

Our pleasant conversation ended and I exited from the old, familiar building. I hopped into my car and driving away, the memories of an oh-so-long-ago adventure stayed with me. It pleased me that the continuum was there. The Project was fighting the good fight. The world has changed but mosquitos haven’t. I smiled as I took yet another short cut home. Yes, honey, the Project is still with me.

Bruits

By

Leo de Natale

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

Ed “Boo-Boo” Clipner was a pleasant sort and stereotypical construction worker. In his late 50’s, he was 5’10 with a thick, short hairy neck. He weighed nearly 300 pounds. Often unshaven, “Boo” as his co-workers called him, was popular among his mates. A longtime cigarette smoker, he was obese and consumed anything on a McDonald’s or Big Burger menu. He had the classic beer belly and the predictable plumber’s crack. His wardrobe consisted of size XXXL flannel Carhart shirts, Dickies work pants with suspenders and scuffed Timberland work boots. Boo was always reeking of tobacco, smiling with nicotine-stained teeth and wheezing. That’s usually the telltale sign of someone COPD-bound. The oxygen pack was perhaps a few years away.

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

Boo was oblivious to his self-destructive lifestyle. There are many psychological reasons why the Boos of the world choose to let their bodies dissipate.  The psychopathology usually involves insecurity leading to poor self-image.   Blue collar workers often display such traits.  Their work is physically demanding and often hazardous.

 Like many of his brethren, Boo accepted the risks.  The money was always good and there was a satisfaction  in pointing to a skyscraper and saying,  “I built that!”

The construction company for which he worked did, however, offer annual wellness examinations . Predictably, Boo neglected his health care benefits and in four years hadn’t been examined by his longtime primary care physician (PCP), Dr. Charlie O’Hara who’d recently retired. O’Hara’s office was at Bon Homme Hospital, a small regional hospital standing well in the shadow of Boston’s world class Massachusetts General and Brigham and Women’s Hospitals. It was considered average at best, its clientele tended to tradesmen and their families and the ever-increasing influx of illegal aliens. Bon Homme was not known for attracting the best and brightest MDs. His new PCP was Dr. Vishwa Mishra.

There’ve been numerous news stories about a physician shortage creating the need for many hospitals to hire foreign MDs who are graduates of third or fourth tier medical schools: New Dehli University, Zagreb College, the University of Naples. None of these medical schools could be compared to American Universities. In today’s world, however, these graduates were hired if they passed medical board standardized examinations. And this is how Boo and Dr. Mishra (University of Bombay) crossed paths.

Bon Homme was where the beloved Dr. O’Hara had practiced and Boo felt a certain loyalty. Along came Dr. Mishra whose English was impeccable although his speech had that patois that was clearly Indian. He was tall, thin and swarthy. He sported a van Dyck beard hidden behind the ubiquitous Covid mask and was impeccably dressed with shirt and tie. The subtle aroma of sandalwood soap enveloped him. Dr. Mishra exuded the appearance of a well-trained foreign physician. Before seeing his new doctor, Boo underwent the usual protocol.

“How ya doin’?, Dee Dee,” Boo said as he was greeted by the chubby veteran intake nurse Diane Diggins who usually took his vital health signs. The blood  pressure the pressure cuff was difficult to attach due his meaty biceps.

“Oh, Boo, you always give me a hard time with these tests,” she teased.  “Now let’s hop on the scale.”

“Ooooh, 315 pounds today,  Boo,” she said. “That’s really pushing the envelope. It was 280 last time you were here.   I’ll also test your cholesterol levels.  Your  pressure today is 185 systolic, 95 diastolic.  That’s too high, Boo.  Have you been taking your medications?”

“I’m trying Dee, I’m trying,” he said.

Dee Dee made no further editorial comments and entered the information into the electronic records computer.  She told Boo to return to the office waiting room. 

As is the custom today, there was a sea of patients awaiting their visits. Boo figured this was going to be at least a one-hour wait. And, yep, after two hours, Boo was ushered into an examination room.

He liked what he saw in Dr. Mishra but he didn’t like the foreigner’s report.  He ran down the laundry list of conditions.

“Your blood pressure and obesity are concerning, Mr. Clipner,” he said with his clipped, distinct accent. “These are troubling numbers. I must ask you if you’ve been noncompliant with your daily drugs.”

“Well, like I told Dee-Dee, I try, Doc, but sometimes it’s hard,” Boo replied. “But’s what’s been really bugging me are my eyes.  Sometimes I can’t see, even with my “cheaters”.  He was referring to the cheap  drug store reading eyeglasses.  “They’re made in China and I think they’re crap. Can’t see good.”

 “Well, when was the last time you had an eye examination?” Mishra asked as he conducted a perfunctory eye evaluation with an ophthalmoscope.

“Oh, maybe four, five years ago,” Boo answered. “I go to Dr. Megna here in town.”

“Well, I think it’s a good idea to see him,” Mishra replied.  “I’m sure your health insurance will cover the examination.”

Mishra was gagging after Boo left.  The smell of tobacco permeated the small examining room.  He grabbed a can of maple/cherry room refresher  to eliminate the foul smell of smoke, halitosis and body odor.  Patel was extremely fastidious.

Four weeks later, Boo was sitting in Dr. Megna’s office. The waiting room was small. It was an old-time optometry practice. Steven Megna was in his fifties and was second generation professional. Boo and his family had gone to old Dr. Megna, the father. It was a generational relationship.

“So Boo, we haven’t seen you in some time,” Megna said.  “Are over-the-counter eyeglasses not working? Don’t forget, I’m not just checking your vision.  Your general health is important.  I haven’t received any information from your new doctor.  Charlie O’Hara was good about that.”

“I can see pretty good with my cheaters but it’s another problem I’m having, Doc,” Boo said.  “The vision sometimes fades to black and then comes back real quick.”

Megna’s diagnostic antennae  quivered upon hearing that.  Following his usual protocol, Megna began with a case history—changes to his medications, any flashes or floaters, problems with night vision etc.  Boo’s distance vision hadn’t changed much but he did need an change in his reading prescription. 

He, however, was more concerned with Boo’s report of fleeting blindness.  After arriving at a new eyeglass prescription,  Megna tested Boo for glaucoma and then instilled eye drops to dilate Boo’s eyes.

 Many patients disliked the dilation- it blurs their vision for several hours and creates temporary light sensitivity.

About twenty minutes later, Boo returned to the examination room, his pupils were wide enough that his irises were nearly invisible. Dr. Megna shone bright lights into the eyes. Megna worked quickly and inspected the four quadrants of the retina. He repeatedly looked at areas of the retina and noticed a yellow fleck situated at the intersection at two vessels in his right eye. Observation of such anomalies was now easier since the addition of sophisticated retinal cameras providing panoramic views. Megna had already made a preliminary diagnosis. He printed the camera photographs.

Saying nothing, Megna opened a desk drawer and grabbed a stethoscope. He gently placed the ‘scope on Boo’s right side of the neck and quietly listened. He repeated this on the left. He slowly removed the instrument and waited several moments.

“Well, Boo, I’m afraid I have some alarming news,” he calmly said. “There is a medical term called ‘bruits’ – that’s a French word meaning whispers – and what I’m hearing is a whooshing sound in both carotid arteries. That usually means you have significant cholesterol blockage in both vessels.”

“Did you say ‘broo-ees, Doc,” Boo asked.

“Yes but the spelling ‘b-r-u-i-t-s’ make some people said ‘brutes’”, Megna responded. “In any case it’s pronounced broo-ees.”

“Gee, the word looks like it should be ‘bruits’, you know like fruits,” Boo said.

“It doesn’t work that way with French words, Boo” Megna responded. “Trust me.”

He also explained the meaning of the incidents of temporary vision loss.

“In your right eye I can see a yellow deposit – it’s called a ‘Hollenhurst Plaque’” Megna explained while showing Boo the camera images. “It is cholesterol plaque breaking off from your arteries and causing temporary blindness. If the plaques become larger, you can go blind. We’ve got a serious situation. I’m being candid.”

In a calm, reassuring voice, Megna told Boo there’s a surgical procedure where surgeons delicately cut open the carotid arteries and remove  plaque buildup.  It’s risky surgery but the only method of reducing this type of stroke.

This dire situation quickly affected Boo.  Going blind!! he said to himself.  Holy shit!  All those Big Macs  and greasy food have taken a toll.

“I’m going to refer you back to Dr. Patel with a computerized report,” Megna said.  “I really think you should schedule surgery ASAP.  This is something you don’t want to mess around with.”

A visibly shaken Boo-Boo Clipner left the office and said to himself, I’ll call first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, Megna was saying to himself Patel didn’t perform more than a cursory check of Boo’s eyes and, for God’s sake, did not check for bruits! I did and I’m “just an optometrist”.

One week later, Boo returned to pick up his new eyeglasses.   The vision was much better.  Megna ushered him into the examination room.  He asked Boo about the surgery.

“I’m having the operation next week at Bon Homme,” Boo said. “Yeah,  the doc was concerned.  He’s recommending the surgeon operate on both eyes the same day.”

Megna’s jaw dropped. The procedure is called an endarterectomy. The carotid artery is quickly clamped off by the surgeon who basically roto-rooters the cholesterol plaques that are clogging the blood vessel. The technique has to be quick. The carotid artery is a main blood source to the brain and the cleaning must be thorough. A stray plaque can be escape upstream and cause a major coronary block that leads to strokes or death.

Dr. Megna had major concerns.  Most surgeons will perform one surgery and then wait a week.  More important, this delicate surgery requires top notch surgeons to perform the procedure at world class hospitals.  Bon Homme was a local hospital and Megna doubted many carotid surgeries were performed there.

“Boo, I want to give you some advice,” Megna said bluntly. “I really think you should consider a bigger hospital for this surgery.  But it’s your choice.”

“Naw, Doc, I been going to Bon Homme for years,” he replied. “I don’t like going into big hospitals. Of course, Dr. Patel ain’t doin’ the surgery. I’m seein’ a specialist.”

“Well, good luck but I wish you’d reconsider,” Megna replied while shaking Boo’s hand. Damned fool, he said to himself.

It was the last handshake.

 Two weeks passed.  Dee Dee Higgins, who was also a patient, arrived at Megna’s office with a sad expression on her face.

“Oh, Dr. Megna, did you hear?” she asked. “Boo Clipner died last night at Bon Homme. He had that surgery and died! He stroked out post-op. Just can’t believe it. He was such a character.”

Megna’s worst fears had been realized. People don’t listen and when they do it’s too late. Boo unfortunately had paid the price. RIP my friend as he stared at the stethoscope on his desk.

P.T. Barnum Was Right

By Leo de Natale

The problem with sending money to various charitable organizations is the metastasis that occurs after you’ve sent a contribution. Day in, day out, there’s a barrage of junk mail from these beggars. Example One: My wife and I are dog lovers. We sent a $100 check to the ASPCA after they mailed a predictable tear-jerker letter describing the depressingly sad story of an abused, emaciated mongrel that nearly died from inhumane conditions. The accompanying photographs were devastating. One of the predictable “gifts” – mailing labels containing pictures of the woebegotten critters.

Sending the money was a BIG mistake. We were placed on a patsy mailing list. That’s what these non-profit groups do. They prey on the sympathy gene and then sell your name to other organizations that redistribute your name, address, telephone number, or email address.

          Soon we began receiving similar solicitations from the Humane Society,  Save The Horses and innumerable animal rescue groups.  They, too, enclosed return address labels and an occasional cheesy shopping bag made from “100% recycled materials”.

Example Two: Many people receive mail from veterans and military groups that also play upon our sympathy. Wounded Warriors and disabled veterans group behave the same way. Send $50 to one veterans and an avalanche of other groups are no different. Following soon are police organizations seeking donations for K-9 police dogs. Photographs of sad-eyed German Shepherd Dogs are enclosed.

There are organizations that gather information pertaining to specific interest groups. The tipoff is the addressee.  They often misspell the given or surname.  That’s a dead giveaway as to who sold your identity.  Your name  is sold near and far.  They often enclose “gifts” that are used to increase the guilt factor.

Everyone has his hand out.The most egregious – and insulting—example was yet another veterans group that sent a tee-shirt, Size Large, with a Bald Eagle emblazoned with the phrase, “Land of the free, Home of the Brave”. You would think an non-profit that’s appealing to patriotism and love of country would not make a fundamental and insulting mistake. Upon inspection of the tee shirt, its label has the all-to-familiar imprint: “Made in China”.

I called the organization’s toll free telephone number. A woman answered.

“Wanting my money to support Americans and distributing a garment from the country that’s economically crushing us is very bad optics, madame,” I said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.  Yes you’re right,” she replied.  “But you gotta understand we’re trying to keep our costs down.”

“Let me ask you this: how do you think the veterans feel?” I said. “You’ll not be receiving a penny from me.  Supporting China’s economy is very uncool.”

It’s well known that a modicum of money received from these  solicitations  goes to the stated goal.  It is estimated  up to 80%  of the contributions is dedicated to salaries.  That’s a pretty big overhead. Just ask the United Way.   In 1992 the organization’s disgraced former president William Aramondy was terminated after an embezzlement scandal. He squandered contributions totaling $600,000 that covered European junkets and high style living. Between 2002 through 2018 there were four additional scandals involving United Way executives.

You start wondering how much money is going to the veterans and all charitable groups. There’s never a disclosure statement of who gets what and how much money.

It reminds us of the P.T. Barnum adage: there’s  a sucker born every minute, especially those who receive a Chinese tee shirt in the mail.