What Are Your Political Roots?

***


In our central Texas city the street where my family lived, in one block, was the length of the streets on either side of it that were both two blocks long.  In other words, each of the parallel streets on either side of ours had perpendicular streets coming into them in mid-block, in T-shaped intersections, while there were no intersections in our block.

Behind our home was a big vacant lot (until I was about 14 years old, when a big house was built there).  Garrett Street ran into Justin Street right at that lot.  If Garrett had been extended a block further, our house would have been destroyed.  From school, I knew several children who lived on Garrett.  I would occasionally climb over the chain-link fence at the back of our yard and go visit them.

One girl whom I knew in junior high lured me over to her family's house about four blocks up Garrett so that I could help her canvass her neiborhood selling something like candy or maybe magazines in order to benefit some organization she belonged to.  They were nice homes along there, and the folks who answered the doorbell were nice people.

I was especially struck by one gentleman, who was not the dad of anyone we knew, but who wanted to chat for a while (and seemed to know my Dad).  He seemed to be wearing work or even dress slacks with an open-collar white long-sleeve dress shirt.  He was fun to talk to and bought some of whatever I was selling for "Marilyn" - maybe my only sale!

I tried to describe this man to my folks at the supper table that night.  They knew right away who I was talking about: U. S. Senator Ralph Yarborough.  This must have been around 1957.

*

I didn't know it that day - or for a considerable number of years after that, in fact - but Ralph Yarborough was a significant part of the political culture in Texas in which I was raised, which I drank up and absorbed through my very pores, and which still influences the way I think and feel about most public issues.  I'm proud of that fact too.

In the years of my early maturity, Yarborough was identified by the press as a "liberal Democrat."  All successful Texas politicians in those days were Democrats; it was a one-party state.  But there did tend to be two distinct wings of the party, one that was said to be represented by Lyndon Johnson - the senior Senator from Texas - and the other represented by Yarborough, the junior Senator.  It was widely believed that the reason John Kennedy was in Texas when he was assassinated was that he was working to shore up the rift between the Johnson and Yarborough wings of the Texas party.

Yarborough is recalled today as one of the last "New Deal Democrats" of Texas.  (Johnson himself could also be remembered this way, I think.)  I take this to mean Yarborough distrusted unrestrained big business, especially "speculators" who make their money not by providing goods and services but merely by turning over their money.  A New Deal Democrat like the junior senator from Texas would also believe that the federal government plays the key role of intervening in the economy either to stimulate growth when that is needed or to restrain unfair practices that block equal opportunity for all Americans. 

By the 1960s, a political leader influenced by the liberal policies of Franklin Roosevelt would also have been a strong supporter of public education, organized labor, and equal civil rights for all races and social groups, as Ralph Yarborough was, as I understand it.

Thus, he supported his colleague Lyndon Johnson on civil rights and other Great Society policies even though he criticized the whole-hog involvement of Johnson's government in the War in Viet Nam.

*

One would think that Senator Yarborough would be appalled today at the huge gap between the richest Americans and everyone else.  He would recognize immediately that his most treasured values are unattainable when the vast Many in the U. S. today are so completely dominated by the super-rich Few.

I suspect that, like any other reasonable person, the senator would feel uncomfortable at the degree to which Big Money dominates politics - the heart of a democracy - and distorts and emasculates the media.  But these are not issues he had to deal with in his own time.

On the other hand, he would have seen immediately that the vast inequity in the distribution of wealth we are experiencing directly prevents the realization of his most cherished values:  public schools that are available to all are bad and growing worse with every dollar pulled out, the legal system favors the big corporation and the wealthy person, and with every passing day the economic opportunity available to the illiterate, weak, and poor person shrinks in relation to better-positioned others.

He would be appalled at the absence of liberty, equality, and fairness in the U. S. today.  Senator Yarborough, that nice man from over the back fence and up the street, would be appalled.

And I am too.  Yes, Ralph, I'm appalled too.


***

"Mens Agitat Molem" (or Maybe, Vice Versa) [essay]

***

The 19th-century psychologist William James - brother of the novelist Henry James - is remembered for having said: "If you would make a man a warrior, have him make a fist."  In other words, as James had observed, one's internal state of being ready to fight which we might expect would be expressed in the outward gesture of a clinched fist might instead be created by making the outward gesture itself first.

He might just as well have said: "If you would be happy, smile!"

This must seem ridiculous.  But in my experience, it works.

*

For years my job consisted predominantly of contentious discussions with groups of articulate and intelligent persons who were predisposed to deny and resist anything I said to them about almost any topic.   Sometimes the conversations were respectful and reasoned, but they could also be irrational though friendly, or well-argued though nasty, or both illogical and unkind. 


I held my own in these quarrelsome exchanges, if I do say so, and I even succeeded in convincing myself that others would not do as well as I often did.  Also, I got used to this kind of thing and was surprised only rarely when things went more smoothly than I'd expected.  Still, in general these were not pleasant experiences.  I didn't dread them, but I certainly did not look forward to them.

After a year or two, as I was leaving for just such a meeting I happened to pass a mirror.  Noting the grim expression on my face, I grinned satirically at myself and may even have stuck out my tongue.  But then as I turned away I noted the look of satisfaction in my expression as I proceeded onward.

Eventually, I had a mirror placed on the inside of my office's closet door, which I usually left open.  I routinely gave myself a little smile on the way out the door to any of these meetings.  Just doing that made me feel more in control of the situation, and more confident about what was to come.

I have recommended this little stratagem to others.

*

How could this work?  How could artificially manufacturing the (outward) effect bring into being the (internal) cause?

Presumably it's the old "association of ideas" once again, a common 18th-century theme.  Wanting to fight is so often accompanied by one's making a fist, or one's success in a vitriolic debate is so often accompanied by a facial expression of calm satisfaction that... well, the cause and effect become so closely associated in the mind that if one willfully initiates the effect, the cause is called up (it seems) automatically.

Does that make sense?  (If it doesn't at first, start nodding your head and then read the question again!)

*

I have this shadowy memory, from my high school days.  Mr. Anderson, the principal, was ushering me and a good friend down a deserted school hallway.  Maybe it was late in the afternoon, after drama practice, for example), or maybe it was at night for some reason?  In any case, he was going to introduce us to someone or show us something and was trying to 'make nice' as we walked to his office

I knew at the time that he felt awkward around us, and that struck me as odd (HE was the big boss, after all) and a little touching too.  Anyway, he seemed to be searching for topics of conversation, as we walked by a high school seal on the wall.  He pointed it out, especially the Latin motto around the rim.

"'Byron,'" he said.  "You're taking Latin.  What does this motto say?"

To tell the truth, I don't think anyone ever noticed there was a Latin motto on the seal.  We always talked about our school "slogan," I guess you'd call it, in English.  "Not 'Loyal Forever,' is it?" I replied.

Mr. Anderson said No.  "'Mens Agiatat Molem,'" he said (butchering the pronunciation, I seem to recall): "Mind Over Matter."

I did know the verb "agito," which means "do" or "drive" and has the English cognate "agitate."  And, now that he'd mentioned it, the Latin "mens" (as in "mental" or "non compos mentis") could mean "mind."  And after all, that's a pretty good motto for a school.  So I learned something from the principal that day.

{Note: I believe the saying is attributed to the Roman poet Vergil, whose Aeneid our class was studying at that very time.]

*

"Mind over matter" means, of course, "mind over body" too.  But it's also possible, under the right circumstances, for bodily action to direct one's mental state too.  Wonder what Mr. Anderson would say to that?

***

"Illness Recollected in Tranquility," Part the Last (IV!)

***
 Note: Part I, 6/10/13; Part II, 6/11/13; Part III, 6/13/13.

IV...

There was another tube, too. 

Recognizing there was a lot of old blood in my stomach and I was not pooping it out very fast, Dr. R------- decided to put a tube down my nose into my stomach to drain the old blood out.  He must have noted the look of alarm on my face when he told me the plan because he quickly pointed out that this tube would be tiny, much smaller than the breathing tube in my lungs, and it would go down from my nose (not my mouth) so I could continue to talk and even move about pretty much as usual.

I didn’t even really feel it when the nurse stuck in this little red tube: yes, red.  I also didn't see it beforehand. 

Having this little tube installed made my nose drip clear fluid a little bit all the day and night I had it in, and the nurse assistant who took my vital signs every hour through the night must have bumped it every single time she came in (ouch!), but it really wasn’t half bad.  And the way it was doing me good was obvious. 

About 12 or 15 hours hours after it was inserted, no more blood was draining out, so Dr. R------- said to take the little tube out.

I think the sensation of its removal qualifies as an exquisite pain: not enough to make me want to cry out, but weird and most uncomfortable... qualified by the anticipation that I would in a minute be free of it altogether!  The nurse showed the tube to me after the extraction.  The part that had been inside me was about three feet long.

*

Closing day on our house had passed by this point, and since the movers had been there the day before, A----- had no natural place left to stay (some friends took her in for a day or two).  We started talking about getting me moved to a hospital in our new home city (that is, the city where our furniture would arrive any day).

The doctors all said the only way the transfer could be done was by medical jet... It took about one day to set that up.  So, on Friday of the second week, it happened.

A crew in snappy black uniforms came bustling in about noon, bundled me up, lifted me from the hospital bed onto their gurney, and whisked me away... with A----- trotting along behind.

The local ambulance took all of us to the airport; my gurney was transferred to this little private plane tricked out with medical dials and equipment of all types; I was hooked up again, and A----- was seated in front of me, although I couldn’t see her...

And we lifted off into bright sunlight at 1 p.m. Eastern time.  By 3 p.m. CST we were landing in our new home airport in the rain.  By 3:30, I was in my new hospital bed.

How slick is that!

*

I was not in Intensive Care in the new hospital, having somewhat recovered by then.  That part was good, of course; on the other hand, my range of activity was more constrained than it had been the last few days in the first hospital's Intensive Care Unit.

Since I did not have one or even two nurse assistants hustling into my room whenever I pushed the little button – instead, a disembodied voice saying, “Yes?” – I couldn’t get away from the I. V. pole at all.   

That meant my frequent strolls with walker around the halls were no more.

Also, since the assistants were not at my beck and call, I couldn't make it to the toilet anymore.  Not on my own, since I was attached to the wall for oxygen and since I was attached to the I. V. pole for medecine and nourishment, and not with help since there wasn't any.  When I mentioned this little concern, I was given a strangely shaped plastic bottle, which staff called a urinal (though it didn't look like one).

*

Since all my food was still straight from the I. V. there was no need to worry about Number Two, and after once using the plastic thing, I thought I could get along with that method...  But all the bed-rest, the lack of movement generally, and the liquid going into me through my blood veins was causing my body to swell... and not just my ankles either.  My whole legs, including my thighs, my so-called "love handles," even my bottom were collecting fluid.

When A----- pointed this out to one of my new team of doctors, Dr. W------ got staff started giving me diarhetics, more than one I think.  For the next two nights and the day between, when the disembodied voice answered my Call button, I had to report that I was worried my urinal would overflow if someone didn't come by and empty it.

(They had to record how much I had produced, too, you understand.)

*

I had a long enough connector with my oxygen that I was able to set myself up in the one chair in my new room.  I could even stand up, do half knee bends, swing my shoulders side to side...

Late in the morning of the second day, a break-through.  The doctors had been weaning me off the oxygen feed: 4 liters per minute, 2 liters per minute, finally 1 liter per minute...  Dr. W------ (I later learned) was trying to get me to see if I could get through the night without any extra oxygen at all.  Since most of my physicians - not to mention nurses - thought lack of oxygen was the cause of my panic attacks in the nights at home, I was real reluctant to try that experiment.

But when Dre. W------ said I could take off the oxygen feed whenever I wanted to in order to go to the bathroom, the real complete room, OR to take a little walk out in the hall, I jumped at the chance.  I had to ask the Voice a couple of times, but a walker did finally materialize.

I was on my own out in the hallway, but I was off!

*

Twenty-four hours later, my son-in-law was driving A----- and me to our new home, where our furniture had been somewhat oddly dispersed but it was there, safe and sound.  "Sounder" than me, of course, but we were equally "safe."

I will be grateful not to have more such vivid experiences for a while as those I had in my 18 days in the hospital!

Note: Part I, 6/10/13; Part II, 6/11/13; Part III, 6/13/13.

***

"Illness Recollected in Tranquility," Part III

***
Note: Part I, 6/10/13; Part II, 6/11/13; Part IV, 6/14/13. 

III...

Other memorable moments during my recent illness had to do with the tubes going down my throat.

After three days (and two nights) immobilized, silenced, and strapped in, I was delighted to learn that I would be prepped for a visit to a procedure room downstairs where the Gastro-Enterologist would study my stomach again to see if the bleeding had stopped.  If it had, the tubes in my mouth could be removed. 

(Most people would have noted that the absence of new bleeding would mean that my life was safe, but I myself was focused on getting rid of the tubes.)

In my room, Dr. R------- installed a catheter in my groin through which he could make his investigations of my stomach, and a little while later I was whisked downstairs, anesthetized briefly, and then told when I came to that there was still a lot of old blood in the stomach but no new blood, so the tubes could indeed come out, so long as everyone else agreed – the Primary Care Physician, the Cardiologist, and the Pulmonologist.

By the time I was back in my tomb in the ICU, two of the three docs had already said thumbs up.  The Pulmonologist, Dr. E---, greeted me at the door and said, “Well, ‘Byron,’ they tell me you want those tubes taken out of your throat.”  I tried to nod vigorously and say “Uh huh!” loudly.  So he said to the assembled nurses with a flourish of his hand, “Well then, take 'em out.!

*

Before I could celebrate appropriately, however, Dr. R-------- reappeared and told me that, in order for the catheter incision to begin to heal properly, I had to remain immobile for another four hours!

In reality this was nothing compared to what I’d been going through.  After all I could talk!  I could even have a conversation.  But it was nonetheless a terrible surprise that I still couldn't move, since I’d had no inkling that I would not yet be able to sit up and maybe even stand.  Another round of rigorous self-discipline was required. 

Finally, the four hour delay was over too.

*

The nights were still a serious challenge. 

I probably slept a total on average of two and a half or three hours a night, 15 to 30 minutes at a time.  I had a Ross MacDonald mystery novel, a stack of crossword puzzles, a tablet and pen, and still the t.v.

One morning, I passed the time trying to write up an account of how I had spent the night.  My first night in the I.C.U. had been a Tuesday; the night I recounted was the following Monday... so by then I was much better off than I had been at first. 

Here’s what I wrote:

 Let’s see what I can remember [on Tuesday morning] about Monday night.  I was fully ensconced in my chair when A----- came to visit that evening.  I think that was between 7 and 8 pm.  Yes, I remember the time now.  [She probably left again about 9...]

1.    Watched Yankee game, switching once in a while to the Mets game.  Andy Petite was pitching against the Toronto Blue Jays.  The Mets were playing Philadelphia.

2.   When the Yankees fell behind 8 – 0, I gave up and started switching between the Mets and Florida, and the ESPN Monday night game between Atlanta and... oh yes, Washington.  They were both close games.

3.  Around 10 , I walked around the ICU (with my walker that had the oxygen tank on it blowing into my nose, and with one attendant pushing along my i.v. pole, since I was down to only one by then).  One full lap, and I went to the toilet (It’s good for the staff that I’ve not been pooping because I’ve had no solid food), and got set up in bed. 

4.  I started with the Mets game again and stopped switching to the other game.  After 30 minutes or so I had a good nap, lying flatter than I have been doing.  But when I woke up the Mets were just completing their half of the ninth inning.  Sure enough, the Marlins came back in their half to tie the game at 3, so I kept it playing.

 5.  I fell deeply asleep, not waking until almost 2 am (the t.v. was reporting that the Mets had lost in the bottom of the 15^th inning.)

6.  At that time, I had one of those icky episodes [of irrational, intense dread].  I wanted to just get up again.  I tried lying flatter, then less flat... No change.

So I gave in and rang for help.  The two women [assistants] were very gracious.  With their help I got up and walked a half-lap, ending up in the chair, covered all over with blankets, with the lights on low and the t.v. accessible.  I thought I was leading a charmed life when “Numb3rs” came on, about 3 a.m.

7.  I fell asleep – I can only guess for a half-hour or so – after which there was a religious info-mercial playing.  I’d thought I could just leave that channel on all night.   But with some effort I did find “That Bletchely Circle”  om PBS. I watched it all and enjoyed it a lot.

8.  About 4:45 I called the staff again, who took me for another, full-lap walk.

9.   I was ensconced in the chair about 5:15, with the bright overhead lights on, while I wrote this.

 10.  Time now, 6 a.m.  I’m going to check in on Ross MacDonald.”

Note: Part I, 6/10/13; Part II, 6/11/13; Part IV, 6/14/13. 

***

Illness Recollected in Tranquility, Part II

***
Note: Part I, 6/10/13; Part III, 6/13; Part IV, 6/14. 

 II...

The next morning, with me still immobilized on my back, tubes down my throat, hands bound at my sides, A----- came in early.  She herself was fighting through a tough time with a significant gastric affliction and had figured she’d be safer eating only yogurt and drinking skim milk (for two or three days). 

She said something to me, and then I couldn’t see her anymore because she sat down next to my bed.  Of course, I couldn’t respond.  I heard the nurses asking her if she was all right.  Our Primary Care Physician was there too.  I heard A-----’s voice saying she felt weak.  The doctor asked if she had been eating and drinking properly.  A----- started to answer…

But then I heard her fall to the floor.  She came to right away but was embarrassed, not only for having fainted but also for having made a big mess.  Not only was her doctor right there but there were several nurses too, who had her all sorted out in just a couple of minutes, or that’s the way it seemed to the silent witness lying motionless on the big bed.

A----- was whisked away to Emergency, and she spent the rest of the day and that night in her own hospital room upstairs.

I got the sense all this made quite a big impression on the hospital staff.  If it were possible, I think they felt even more empathy for poor ole me than they had before, and every time A------ visited from then on, she was greeted as a hero.

*

I neglected to say earlier that as our moving day approached, a rather disconcerting development had been occurring to me.  For my whole life I’ve been known for a couple of distinctive features: a strong appetite and an ability to sleep soundly.  Both of these inveterate traits were significantly disturbed in early 2013; looking back, that seems significant. 

By the end of February, I’d pretty well lost my enjoyment of eating, altogether; I ate only to be polite and because I knew I needed nourishment to stay healthy.  Also, I couldn’t sleep at night.  It got so bad I was having actual panic attacks; I knew I was all right and everything was fine, but I had a deep sense of dread and couldn’t let myself go, to be vulnerable as one is when sleeping.  It was weird, awful.

Later, in Intensive Care it didn’t matter how I felt about eating.  With my tubes, I wasn’t getting any food, only nourishment through the I. V.  But not being able to sleep and having a deep sense of dread did matter.  Big time!

At home before, when I couldn’t sleep, I just got up and did something – read, did a crossword, went to the bathroom, walked around a little, listened to classical music on the radio – and then tried to sleep again. 

In the ICR, though, I could change the t.v. channel and I could make the top of my bed go up or down… That was about it.  The rest - while I was immobilized - was rigorous self-discipline and mind games (there were seven large squares of ceiling tiles from my left to my right, each with four smaller squares inside, and there were nine large squares from in front of me to behind me).

So getting through the night was a painful struggle.  When the sunlight began to peek into the corner of my I. C. room about 5:30 a.m. I experienced such release, such a feeling of accomplishment: the night was over!  (I usually nodded off at about that time and had my best hour or so of sleep in the 24 hours beforehand… before staff came in to take my blood pressure and draw blood for the lab).

*

When I finally got my hands unbound, I could help pass the time writing.  One of the things I constructed was this:

Grandmother used to say that during a rough time, you should find one particular thing about what was going on that was good.  (Saying “It could be worse” was a cheap cop-out, by the way.)

Well , one good thing about being in the hospital is that everyone always knows what is the most appropriate topic of conversation.  You could say it was sunny or stormy, pale or dark, nice or unpleasant, dreary or invigorating… But you did know, from the get-go, what you were saying this about!

Right now, for instance, I’d say I’m fair and only partly cloudy.”

(I realized later that I’d intended to point out that this most appropriate topic of conversation in the hospital was my very favorite one for people to talk about too... that being ME!)

Note: Part I, 6/10/13; Part III, 6/13/13; Part IV, 6/14/13. 

*

Illness Recollected in Tranquility, Part I

***
Note: Part II, 6/11/13; Part III, 6/13; Part IV, 6/14.

Now that I’m about 75% or so back toward normal after my recent health crisis, I realize looking back that several particularly memorable experiences stand out from the rest.

 *

The crisis began with my going to sleep (under anesthesia) for a simple outpatient procedure and waking up with two tubes down my throat, oxygen being blown up my nose, lying flat on my back of course, and finding both hands bound to the sides of my hospital bed.  Thank goodness A----- was there to explain that something had gone wrong in the “simple” procedure, and I had stopped breathing.  The tubes went down my throat into my lungs.

*

Quite a lot of solicitous people were around, looking after me when I awoke in my Intensive Care room, and the whole emergency was described to me clearly enough.  I’d already had several transfusions by then and was still receiving blood through one of my many I. V. lines.  (Altogether, I eventually got 14 pints of blood plus some plasma.)

Hovering over me during the crisis itself had been the doctor who’d done the procedure I went in for – which, I was assured, was a success – as well as my regular Cardiologist, my Physical Care Physician (I still want to say “G. P.”), my regular Pulmonologist, and a gastro-enterologist whom they’d called in when all the blood was found in my lungs.

Maybe this all sounds alarming.  What my own mind was focused on was that I could not talk, could barely make any sounds at all.  I couldn’t make gestures since my hands were tied down.  Obviously I couldn’t write.  I lay there as peacefully as I could.  Eventually it was just A----- and a nurse with me.  But I still had no way to communicate with them.  With my right hand, I was able to control the lights above the bed, the t.v. at the ceiling across the room, and the Call button if I needed something.

And this was how I remained for the better part of three days.

*

I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t be sedated, with the breathing problems I’d had.  I could see the clock across the room, which did seem to be moving…

On the second morning, when A----- returned, I gestured as best I could that I wanted to write something.  The very worst part of this torture was still that I could not communicate.  I thought no one realized how awful this situation was for me.  Maybe just a tiny change or two would help, at least a little; and besides, any change at all would have been something for me to think about…

A----- got the nurses to provide a marking pen and a big laminated sheet that was big enough to stretch from my one bound hand to the other, and – without being able to see what I was doing – I tried to write something like, “I am being well cared for, but this is still a pretty bad situation.  Perhaps the nurses can think of a little change here and there that might make it more comfortable, do you think?”

After I had moved my pen over the page a few seconds, A----- started trying her best to make out my words.  The process wasn’t working at all. 

After several minutes of trying and failing to be understood, I knew I had to start using large print and to simplify my message.  Simplify.  To this day, A----- remembers the one word she could make out clearly in what I wrote then: “A-g-o-n-y.”

 We abandoned the attempt for me to write.  The fifteen minutes we had spent in the effort was by far the most interesting thing I’d had to think about for the past twelve hours or so, which was some consolation.

Note: Part II, 6/11/13; Part III, 6/13; Part IV, 6/14.

***

Why? a health story (reminiscence)

***
Here’s an account of a very recent health experience.  I'm finally on the mend now, but I had a scary and unpleasant time of it.

1

The context is that my wife and I had bought a new home in a Midwestern city, and without even listing it we'd sold our outstate New York home, with the closing set for May 2.  The moving van was scheduled to come take all our stuff away on Thursday April 26.

Packing had gone well; we had just enough time left to put away the things we'd been living with right up until the end.  Also, about three weeks before, I'd started a new, potent osteoporosis drug.   Looking back it’s clear that it wasn't just coincidental that I started having insomnia and irregular heartbeats shortly after starting the new drug.   

Finally, from all the packing dust, I had also become quite congested, wheezing, short of breath at times, and that sort of thing.

2

The heart arrhythmia wasn't debilitating, but it was a little disconcerting... especially when I confirmed that it had been caused by my response to the new drug.  So on Monday April 22 we went to consult with my cardiologist. He got me scheduled for a little procedure to realign the heart rhythm late Tuesday: cardioversion, it’s called.  I'd done it before; it takes about an hour, even including getting over the anesthesia.

However, this time it did not go simply.

I stopped breathing! but the heart was strong, so putting an oxygen tube down my throat into my lungs worked well enough to restore my breathing.  I had tubes down my mouth and nose: I. V.’s into me hanging all over two metal poles.  I had no sedation for two days this way, with my hands tied down so that I wouldn't unconsciously mess with the tubes.

Of course, I couldn't talk.  Couldn't move.  Frankly, I don't know how I got through it. On the third day, the radiologist had a look into my stomach through a catheter in my groin. Since he couldn't find evidence of fresh bleeding in my stomach, the pulmonologist was authorized to decide whether or not to pull out the breathing tube. What a blessing it was to be able to talk and move my upper body again.

On the other hand, I was still immobilized for five hours more so that the catheterization could heal up. I knew I had a lot of self-discipline, but lordy, it was put to the test in those long days.

3

I still was getting my only nourishment via I.V.  I could talk and read and control the tv.  Finally although I still was receiving oxygen - not to mention lots of meds by I.V. - I could get up enough to sit in the chair beside my bed. That was surprisingly delicious.

Eventually the I. V.'s dwindled enough that I could use a walker and shuffle around the I C U. I might wake up at 3 a.m. and announce I wanted to go for a walk, and two staff (at first) would accompany me pushing the I. V. poles beside me. This movement sped my recovery quite a bit.

4

I was making good progress until the stomach specialist had a look down my throat into the stomach and discovered I still had a lot of fluid there - including blood - so a new tube was installed (through my nose this time) to drain it away. That was a little set-back, but a day later that was finished so I went back to getting better.

By Friday morning, May 3, the day after the rescheduled moving van in fact cleaned out our NYS home, the doctors said I was stable enough to be transferred to the hospital in the Midwest.   My wife and I were carried to the airport in an ambulance, where we were placed in a small medical jet and flown to our new home city.

5

Three hours after lift-off, another ambulance took us to the new hospital... not to ICU but to a regular room. I was getting oxygen and was limited to eating (drinking) clear fluids. I could sit in a chair but could not move around other than that.

After a couple of days, though, I was issued a walker and taught how to release myself from the oxygen feed, so I was back on the move again. Everything was pretty stable, but I could not be weaned off the oxygen altogether. Finally on the third day I achieved that milestone. On Tuesday, May 7, I was released and joined my wife in our new home.

 6

Since then – a week ago - I have continued to get stronger. I have three home care providers coming to visit twice a week: a nurse, a physical therapist, and an occupational therapist. Tomorrow (May 15) I will meet the man who will probably become my new heart guy, and on May 28 I will be linked up with a new Personal Care Physician. After that point I will probably be left to continue to recover on my own.

Why did all this happen to me?  How did I get through it?

Some questions just cannot be answered, I guess.

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Davy Crockett in Paris (Reminiscence)

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A small thing.

In the 1960s - perhaps having begun in the late 1950s - one of the most watched American t. v. shows was "The Adventures of Davy Crockett" starring the Texan Fess Parker.  My Dad, who followed the theatrical careers of a considerable number of UT graduates who went on to fame and fortune in acting (from such as Walter Cronkite and Eli Wallach to such as Do-Do McQueen or "L. Q. Jones" and Katherine Grandstaff or "Kathy Grant") had at least a vague recollection of Fess Parker's career on the University of Texas stage.

(He has subsequently made a name for himself as a wine-maker, I understand.)

The t.v. show was so popular, for so long, it must have been inevitable it would eventually be the basis of a full-length feature film in movie houses.

*

In 1962 I was caught up - not to say overwhelmed - in mastering the French language well enough so that I could take full advantage of spending an academic year in Paris.

As much as anything I was learning from bits of conversation I heard "on the streets" and from old movies.  So I came to know that there was a French equivalent for the way Americans used the word "ass."  Not the animal, you know, but a rather impolite way to refer to one's bottom, backside, derriere, posterior.

And, like the American word, the French one also had enough emotional power that it could be used for rhetorical impact: very much as we might have said something like "'Brilliant cinematic art' my ass!" about some pretentious new movie.  "'Billiant' ma fesse," one could say in French with the same level of rudeness, perhaps slapping one's backside to emphasize the point.

*

So I guess it should not have suprised and amused me late in the 1961-62 academic year to see on the marquee on the Champs-Elysees film theater that specialized in bringing the latest American film epics to the starving French public, boasting about "Now Showing" the much-anticipated "The Adventures of Davy Crockett, starring Frank Parker."

And one has to admit that it just wouldn't do to have said this popular box-office smash starred someone called Ass Parker, now would it?

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"The Deadly Sins": What Can We Learn From Them? (essay)

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The Seven Deadly Sins: remember that? Following my custom of starting a thought process by discussing first the broad foundational concepts involved and then wondering about their application to us today, I thought I'd scan these familiar "sins" a moment or two: what do you think? (...Not that these, essential Roman Catholic principles ever seemed really important to me personally, you understand...)

1

The seven possible, "deadly" human traits are these:

1. Sloth

This feature of the individual is more extreme and more permanent than simple inactivity or laziness. A truly slothful person is incapacited by his or her nature, prevented from action. Sloth is one sin I find it hard to imagine, frankly. I wonder if it has any relation to Despair...? (We might say "depression")

2. Envy

"I wish I could be as good-looking as he is," or "Why couldn't it have been me who won the lottery?" or " He didn't deserve that promotion as much as I do." Most of us have passing thoughts like this from time to time; it's only human nature. The deadly sin of Envy, on the other hand, is a permanent disposition to resent the good fortune, of any kind, of anyone else. Jealousy, the green-eyed montster, is also not Envy; instead of directing one's ill-will at the person enjoying the benefit you are not experiencing yourself, Jealousy at least primarily directs the ill-will at the individual - a loved one, presumably - providing the other person's pleasure. (Jealousy is related to a sense of betrayal and to one's lack of control over one's beloved. Envy, on the other hand, is an ineradicable sense that one's superiority to others is not recognized or rewarded.)

Envy is an expression of one's self, stimulated by a permanent sense of injustice. It prevents contentedness or good will towards any other.

3. Gluttony

This human trait is not merely feeling intense hunger even if it happens all day long, and is not eating too much, even if the overindulgence is often repeated. It is not the simple desire of more of some food you are enjoying. It is a driving force in the individual's whole life. Gluttony is insatiable and does not even provide pleasure, which is why gluttons are portrayed as demanding more and more spices and complicated preparations of their food.

A Glutton neither enjoys vicarious pleasure at seeing someone else taking pleasure from eating, nor can she or he share his delicacies with anyone else.

4. Greed

This is not a momentary desire for more of something. It's a lasting or even permanent feature of the sinner's character, which makes it impossible for her or him to ever be satisfied, no matter how much she or he has already. Such a person of course could never feel generous or benevolent toward someone else.

5. Lust

This is an all-encompassing craving of sexual passion and pleasure. It is easily distinguished from both the simple, passing desire for sexual gratification (from anyone) and from love, since the lustful person has no regard for anyone but himself or herself.

6. Wrath

This is apparently not just anger, which is not in itself a sin; but anger in the extreme, a lasting and passionate rage; this emotion is so great and of such a nature that the wrathful individual is incapable of happiness, or love. The wrathful person is always outraged; when one provocation disappears, another is found simultaneously.  For in point of fact, the angry passion comes from within.

7. Pride

If the best human trait is Love, Pride may be the worst - or the "deadliest" - of the sins. We're not talking here about the kind of self-satisfaction that naturally follows a particular accomplishment; or simple self-esteem, or personal vanity even if that is a permanent trait. Pride in this sense involves one's always feeling that one is better than someone - anyone - else, not in looks or possessions or accomplishments, but in one's very nature. Morally, constitutionally, existentially superior.

In ordinary experience, we often propose that someone who behaves in a haughty manner, scornfully, or with apparent arrogance is actually "over-compensating" for secret or unperceived fears of inadequacy. I wonder if that folk wisdom is relevant in this discussion of the sin of Pride...?

2



One observation we should make is that these seven deadly sins are not actions or kinds of action. They are traits of one's character, elements of one's nature; constituents of one's soul (do we know what that is?). These sins are not overt behaviors but spiritual qualities. Lust is not sex without marriage or with someone else's spouse. Wrath is not punching someone in the nose or beating a hated rival to death. Gluttony is not eating a third banana split.

If not actions in themselves, are the deadly sins emotions that motivate immoral actions or that impel one to criminal, inhumane, or anti-social behavior? Well, while they may be related to each other in our experience, emotions - so close to the senses and even the muscles - are considered distinct from spiritual qualities. So, no, we should not think of them as emotions.

But it is significant, I expect, that the worst elements of human nature in the Christian world are not actions but spiritual qualities. Is this related to the mind-body duality in the western world?

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After all, it wasn't a foregone conclusion that (a) these basic elements would be negative - not exhortations to do or be something good but prohibition of forbidden character traits - and (b) not forbidden actions but unacceptable spiritual qualities. Not all formative religious dogma are phrased this way.

Here are the "Ten Commandments" from Judaism, for instance, paraphrased somewhat freely:

1-2. Treat no other gods as more important than me,
and bow down to no pictures or statues of other gods.


3. Don't claim that our god backs or values something "he" doesn't.

4. Worship our one god every seventh day.

5. Honor your parents.

6 - 8. Don't kill
or commit adultery
or steal.

9 - 10. Don't testify falsely against another of us ("us" being those who worship this one god),
and don't wish for yourself anything that belongs to someone else among us.

These basic religious principles, unlike the deadly sins, are not traits of character but actions; however, like the seven sins, the Judaic principles are also phrased negatively: they tell us what NOT to do instead of what we should (or must) DO.

4

The "Five Pillars of Islam" - on the other hand - are all actions, and are all actions we should do instead of avoiding doing them. In addition, we might observe that they seem primarily related to rituals rather than to life:

1. Declare your faith in Islam, not in any other religion.

2. Pray in certain ways at certain times.

3. Provide money to help the poor (I wonder why this one differs from the others in the sense that it
does relate to life in the world...).

4. Deny yourself certain pleasures of food and drink.

5. Make a long, hard journey to the holiest of places.


The Christian sins disparage character traits that isolate the individual from others, while the Jewish and Islamic basic principles include an emphasis on how distinctive from others in the world around them each group is.

And in Islam, making oneself suffer seems to be a positive goal. (Does doing so create the illusion that suffering is not entirely out of control, or even bad - as it seems?)

4

The formative principles of both Buddhuism and Hinduism seem designed to help their followers reach a certain kind of "happiness," rather than to avoid going to hell after death, or in order to avoid the wrath of god, or in order to be a welcome member of one's group.

For Buddhists (as I understand it), the eight steps or stages on the path to happiness, which is the cessation of suffering, are these (enormously paraphrased):

1. View reality clearly, not seeing appearances only.

2. Hope and seek to do no harm to others and to be free and unselfish rather than greedy.

3. Speak truthfully and not hurtfully.

4. Avoid harming others.

5. Pursue a livelihood that does no harm.

6. Strive to improve.

7. Perceive yourself honestly and accurately.

8. Meditate in order to concentrate the mind on your enduring inner self within the wider reality.

Compared to not killing somebody or being free of inordinate desire of food seems kind of "easy" compared to these eight Buddhist ideals, don't they? They are things to "do" rather than "not-do," though these are primarily spiritual "actions."

Hinduism (I believe) is also primarily aimed at reaching a high level of spiritual insight, and doing so for the Hindu seems beyond ordinary effort.

5

How really significant does any or all of this - critically important in much human history - seem to us today?

We might agree that it is wrong - or even "sinful" - to be greedy, as the Super-Rich certainly seem to be in our time. We might agree that no one should steal someone else's property and even that we all should show respect for our parents, perhaps even to all our elders. Some of us might feel it is vital to be an active part of a religious community, regularly following their rituals, and we might all understand that finding, not an escape from suffering, but a status in which one sees suffering as unreal or insignificant is a valuable goal...

Any of that may happen, but... it equally may not, and I dare say that most of us wouldn't particularly notice. If the Jews and the Muslims did not think the most significant thing about a person is whether or not she or he is part of their particular group or tradition, the whole world might actually be better off, right?  (Maybe they could work toward becoming Buddhists, seeking to do no harm and to avoid speaking hurtfully of others...)

Do these foundational principles of the world's great religions seem to provide as much guidance to us in life as - say - our Declaration of Independence, that says all people are equal in their right to live, to act freely (and responsibly too), and to seek their worldly well-being?

...Or the Preamble of our Constitution, that says our government - which in a democracy is "we the people" ourselves - should ...

1. Provide for the nation’s defense  
2. Keep peace within the nation
3. Maintain a just system of laws and government
4. Promote the people's general wellbeing, and
5. Guarantee freedom to ourselves and our descendants.

How useful are the foundational teachings of the world's great religions compared to these foundational documents in American history?

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Especially since utility may itself not be the fundamental aim of religious principles - so much as helping the individual achieve a certain spiritual state beyond social order and justice and beneficial personal behavior - maybe we should take a different perspective.

Do the negative spiritual states named as the seven deadly sins tend to prevent the individual from exercising the moral values expressed in the Declaration and the Preamble? 

Well, Sloth tends to prevent any action at all, moral or immoral; so, yes, one could say that Sloth tends to impede one from following the principles in our foundational documents.

A sinner possessed by Envy cannot feel any satisfaction from the prosperity of anyone besides herself (or himself); so, Envy does tend to prevent the sinner from valuing all others' equal rights to "the pursuit of happiness," for example.  Again, basic American values are threatened by this "deadly" sin.

A Glutton would be pretty indifferent to any of our basic principles, since her or his desire to eat is the only matter of concern... On the other hand, such an all-encompassing passion to consume seems likely to come into conflict with our moral and political obligation to promote others' general well-being and not merely one's own.  Preoccupation with eating in fact for the Glutton would seem to overcome any responsibility to others at all...

Greed would be similar to Gluttony in that only the preoccupation with having money matters to the Greedy.   Whether or not other's have an equal opportunity to make money would either be a matter of not concern or a direct threat to one's own opportunity.

Lust is also similar; sexual gratification is all that matters. Defending the nation and - well, maintaining justice, for instance - couldn't be of any importance to the Lustful.

The Wrathful would seem an active threat to our efforts to keep the peace or maintain a system of laws and justice.

Pride is a direct challenge to the most fundamental principle of all that everyone is politically (and morally) equal to everyone else.  The Proud believes no such thing, since he or she is superior to everyone else.

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So at least we could say that identifying, criticising, and fighting the seven deadly sins would not do harm to our nation's professed values, and in some cases may even do some good.  Identifying a greedy corporation or CEO or financier as a "sinner" of the worst sort may help us get together on how to restrain such individuals.  Naming a racist or sexist or plutocrat - a Proud person who feels superior to others - as someone who should be shunned by those of us who try to be virtuous could do some good socially and politically.  And so on.

The test of whether or not such formative principles support or threaten our public values - peace and prosperity, equal opportunity, freedom and justice for all - is what should matter the most when we are thinking of not only ourselves and our own spiritual state (significant as that may be) but the good of all humankind.

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